The Proceedings of the Old Bailey

 

451.   AMELIA ELIZABETH DYER (57) was indicied for the wilful murder of   Doris Marmon.

MESSRS. LAWRENCE and HORACE AVORY prosecuted, and MR. KAPADIA

Defended.

  EVALINA EDITH MARMAON . I live a Cheltenham—in January, this year, I was confined of female child—in March I saw an advertisement in a Bristol paper, of which this (produced) is a copy: "Couple with no child, want care of or would adopt one: terms £10. Care of Ship Exchange, Bristol"—I wrote 20th: "Kensington Road, Oxford Road, Reading, Berks. To Mrs. Scott. Dear Madam,—In reference to your letter of adoption of a child, I beg to say I shall be glad to have a little baby

girl, one that I can bring up and call my own. First, I must tell you, we are plain, homely people, in lairly good circumstances. We live in our own house, and have a good and comtortable home. We are out in the country, and sometimes I am alone a great deal. I don't want the child for money's sake, but for company and home comfort. Myself and husband are dearly fond of children. None of my own. A child with me would have a good home, and a mother's love and care. We belong to the Church of England. I would not mind the mother or any friend coming to see the child at any time, and know the child is going on all right. I only hope we may come to terms. I should like to have the baby as soon as you can arrange it. If I can come for her, I don't mind paying for one way. I could break my journey at Gloucester; I have a friend in the Asylum there I should be so glad to call and see. It'you will let me have an early reply I can give you some references.—Yours, MARY HARDING."—I replied to that letter, and received this, dated March 22nd, in the same handwriting, dated "45, Kensington Road, Reading. To Mrs. Scott. Dear Madam,—Many thanks for your letter this morning. I shall not answer anyone else till I hear from you again. I assure you I will do iny duty to the dear child I will be a mother as far as possible in my power. If you like to corns and stay a few days, or a week, later on I shall be pleased to make you welcome—it, is just lovely here in the summer. Tnere is an orchard opposite our front door. You will say H is healthy and pleasant. I think Doris a very pretty name; I am sure she ought to be a pretty child."—I answeied that, and in reply received this letter of March 24th, in the same handwriting: "My dear Madam,—Your letter just to hand, and I shall only be too pleased for yourself and any friends to come to us; we don't have many visitors out here in the country. I assure you it would be as great a treat to us as to you. I shall feel comfortable to know that the dear child has some one to care for her. I will do a mother's duty by her, and I will bring her up entirely, just the same as my own child. Every care shall be taken of her, and when you come you will see I do my duty by her, dear child. I shall only be too glad to have her; and I will take her entirely at the sum of £10. She shall be no further expense to her family. I will come on Monday next. I will let you know later on what time train. I have not a time-table, but I will find out, and let you know.—Yours faithfully, HARDING." "If Tuesday will suit you better, kindly let me know, as either day will suit me.—HARDING"—I received another letter, dated Friday morning, in the same handwriting: "My Dear Mrs. Scott,—Just a letter to say I have not heard from you to say I must not come on Monday, so I take it for granted I shall come on Monday next. I shall leave here at nine, and get to Gloucester about twelve; and go straight to Woottou Asylum; then I will take the next train to Cheltenham. I fancy I can be at Manchester Street not later than two. I hope it will be a fine day.—Faithfully yours, HARDING." "My husband says, if the mother would like an agreement, would you kindly draw one out, and we will sign it?"—I replied to that, and then received this, of Sunday, the 29th, in the same hand-writing: "My Dear Madam,—Your letter came this morning, so I will come on Tuesday next, by the 9.50. Bring a warm shawl to wrap round baby an the train. Fearfully cold here to-day.—Yours, HARDING."—On

Tuesday, March 31st, the prisoner came to my address at Cheltenham about mid-day—she said she was Mrs. Harding, and had come for the baby—before she came I had prepared this agreement—I put it before her, and she read it, and signed it—(Read: "dated March, 1896." "I, Ann Harding, of 45, Kensington Road, Oxford Road, Reading, in consideration of £10 paid to me by E. E. Marmon, agree to adopt the child, and to bring up the same as my own, without any further compensation over and above the £10.—Signed by ANN HARDING, E. E. MARMON, witnessed by MAKTHA POCKETT."—that was my landlady—I paid the prisoner the £10, and she signed the receipt at the back of the agreement—she left Cheltenham with the baby by the 5.20 train—I went with her as far as Gloucester—I took with me a cardboard box containing baby clothes; handed that to the prisoner at Gloucester—the baby was dressed in a ✗fawn-coloured pelisse and a white bonnet—this (produced) is it; it went away in that—these are the actual things it went away in—the child was quite well when it left me—she said she was going to take it to Reading—she promised to write to me the same evening—at Cheltenham she fetched a carpet bag from the cloak room, and took it with her in the train to Gloucester—this is like the bag; I could not say it is thesame; it is the same style of bag—I next received this letter from her on April 2nd—it is in the same handwriting—(Read: "Pervis Road, Kensal Rise. Dear Mrs. Scott,—When I got home last night, a wire was waiting for me—my sister dangerously ill; so this morning I came up. My dear little girl is a traveller, and no mistake. She was so good; did not mind the journey; she slept all the way. I shall stop now till Saturday. Sunday I will write again, if not before. In great haute.—I am, Yours, A. HARDING. A long letter next time.") I heard no more from the prisoner—I wrote to her on April 4th—on April 7th a police constable called on me at Cheltenham, and on the 11th I went to the mortuary at Reading at the request of the police, and there saw the body of my child—it was ten weeks old—this powder box is one of the things I sent with the child, and the cardboard box is like the one she had—it has some of the clothes still in it—there were a number of diapers in it when it went away; this is one of them; it was found round the body.

Cross-examined. I did not make any inquiries about the prisoner before the 31st—I did not ask her anything about the asylum at Gloucester; she told me it was her sister-in-law that she wes going to see there—I did not ask her for any references; I did not think it necessary—I did not take the trouble to inquire whether the statements in her letters were true—I did not go and sew her—she was not excited when I met her on the 31st—I asked her if she was Mrs. Harding, and she said she was—I noticed nothing strange in her conduct or behaviour—she did not tell me that she herself was in any asylum—I did not ask her about her previous history, she told me a lot of things—she told me about her husband and about her circumstances, that was all—she said she was fond of children—she appeared to be an affectionate woman, from her appearance and her conversation I parted with my baby; I was satisfied with her looks—I should not have thought she was capable of committing such a crime as she is charged with—she told me that the carpet bag contained eggs and clothing.

Re-examined. She arrived about half-past twelve; I was in her company

from that time till the train left Gloucester—left Cheltenham about 5 20—we were talking together—she did not seem at all excitable or irrational, but quite sensible.

  CHARLES JEFFREY . I am chief clerk in the office of the Bristo Times a daily paper—prior to March 18th, I think about the 11th, we received this order for six insertions in that paper.

  MARY ANN BEATTIE . I am the wife of William Beattie of Myo Road Harlesden—on Tuesday night, March 31st, about ten or a little past, I was returning home from Kilburn in an omnibus—in the omnibus I saw the prisoner with a bag, a parcel, and a child—she got out at the corner of Mayo Road—the conductor carried the bag and parcel and put them on the pavement—I got out and walked a little way across the road; turning round, I saw her hesitating, and I asked where Mayo Road she had to go—she said, "76"—I said, "If you don't mind, it is just across the road. I will carry that bag for you"—she said, "Thank you;" and I carried the bag down the Mayo Road, and she followed at my side with the baby and the parcel—at the door of 76 a young woman was standing—I put the bag down on the dooratep, and left it and the prisoner there.

Cross-examined. She did not look at all flurried or excited—I did not notice anything about her.

  MARY ANN PALMER . I am the wife of Arthur Ernest Palmer, and am a daughter of the prisoner—since the middle of January this year I have been living with my husband, at 76, Mayo Road, Willesden—last year I was living with my mother, the prisoner, at Caversham—in December she was living at 45, Kensington Road, Oxford Road, Reading—on the night of March 31st, about half-past ten my mother, came to 76 Mayo Road—I occupied a room on the ground floor—I expected her—She knocked at the door; I opened it, and saw a stranger at the door, and then saw my mother—I got the carpet bag from the stranger, Mrs. Beattie but I did not recognise her—mother was carrying the child—I did not notice the parcel—I asked her to come in—she said, "No; she would not come in; she was waiting for someone coming behind"—I asked her, "Is that a child you have there?—behind—I could not see it properly, she had a shawl thrown over it—she asked me if I knew Harris of Pigots Road—that was an address that I had lived at with her—I asked her if it was Mrs. Marmon's child—she said, "Yes;" and asked if I knew Mrs. Harris, of Piggott Road, Reading; that was a road I had lived at with her—I said, "I do not know"—she told me that she was holding it for her, as she had, been to a grocer's shop on business on the other side of the way—I went into the house and into the back-yard, leaving my me her on the doorstep; I may have been there ten minutes—I then went to the sitting-room my mother was there, sitting at the table and putting a carpet-bag under the couch—I did not notice whether there was anything in it—I saw a parcel on the couch which she had undone; it was a cardboard box like this, and she gave me some child's clothes out of it; a little white frock and some shirts—this is one (produced)—she did not give me all the things in the box; but she left the box with me, and the things in it—she gave me this little vest and this fawn-coloured pelisse with the case—I had not seen her take anything out of the carpet bag—she also gave me a gammon

of bacon wrapped in paper, from a paper parcel which she had, and which was on the couch when I went in—there was something in the carpet bag when I took it into the house—before I went to bed that evening my mother told me she was going to the station next day to see a person about a child she was going to take to nurse fora month, and asked me if I would go with her at 11.30—she slept on the couch that night—my bedroom was across the passage, and I slept there with my husband—she had two rooms—up to the time of going to bed I heard no sound, and saw no sign of the child who had been in my mother's arms—I had seen her carrying something, and asked her what it was, and she had told me it was a baby, and about Mrs. Harris—when I saw her afterwards she told me Mrs. Harris had got comfortable, and I saw no more of it—the next day, April lst, I went with my mother to Paddington Station, taking an oinui'ius from Harlesden—Harold, a little boy I adopted last October, when I was living with my mother at Caversham, went with us—I have adopted him for as long as he lives—when we took him to Paddington he was dressed in this fawn-coloured pelisse—the prisoner gave me the pelisse the night before, about eleven o'clock, after she came in—Harold will be two years old on June 12th—I did not; see how the child my mother brought in the night before was dressed, I did not see it undressed—my mother did not say how she had got the cardboard box with a little baby's things in, only that she had made the dress and skirts lor my little boy, Harold—little boys and girls are dressed alike up to a certain age, the dress and skirts were long enough for Harold; they all fitted him—I tried on the fawn-coloured dress, not before she gave it to me—she had not taken nny measurement of Harold that I know of—I had plenty of clothes with Harold, and had plenty still for his use; I did not want any more—it was a surprise when she gave me these little shirts and dress for Harold, which she said she had made for him—I have no children of my own—I advertised for one to adopt, and in consequence of it I got Harold—I got £12 with him—I did not calculate how much the child would cost me—the £12 is goue—I knew it would not keep him for many years—I did not merely want the ready money, I wanted the baby to adopt and keep—my husband is a commercial traveller—at Paddington, on April 1st, about twelve o'clock, we met a lady and gentleman (whom I know now to be Mrs. and Mr. Sargeant), who had a child with them, about thirteen months old—my mother went up and spoke to them, and introduced me to Mrs. Sergeant as her niece—she did not explain to me why she did that; I did not ask her—she called me her niece when I was married—we all adjourned to the refreshment-room, where some money (I did see how much) and the child were handed over to my mother—I believe Mr. Sargeant handed the money, I could not be positive—I saw a paper handed to my mother; she kept it—I did not see it; I never asked to see it; I was never told its contents—I and my mother then returned to Mayo Road with Harold and the Sargeants' child which was dressed in this plush pelisse—the child was all right when we got home, but soon after got fidgetty and cross—it was a little boy—I asked my mother not to let him cry, if she could help it, but to give him the titty, and keep him quiet—she said she would—she shook him—I don't remember that she said anything else—the child was cross and fidgetty, and crying—I don't

recollect what she said, or if she said anything—my deposition was read over to me; this is my signature to it—I asked my mother to give the child the titty to keep it quiet, and she said something then, but I cannot remember what it was—my mother had no food or bottle for it—I wanted my mother to give it the indiarubber titty, just something to suck—the child did not seem hungry—my mother gave it the titty, and the child was quiet for a little while; but it broke out again, and then I gave it some bread and butter, and it was all right till about six o'clock—my mother shook the child before I gave it the bread and butter; she was cross with it, and called it a little devil, but I could not understand exactly what it was—she said she should not keep it, and called it a little devil, and passed a remark that I cannot quite remember now—she passed a remark which I understood to mean she should not keep it—we had got back about two p.m.—about six that same evening the prisoner asked me if I was going to put my little boy, Harold, to bed, and I said, "Yes"; and she said either "I will put mine, too," or "I will put this one, too"—she undid his pinafore and frock—I took Harold into the other room—as I left the room she said, "Don't be many minutes," or "Don't come in for a few minutes,"I could not he positive which—I might have been out of the room for ten or fifteen minutes—when I got back to the sitting-room the baby was lying on the couch, covered all over with her shawl—I did not see its face—I asked the prisoner if it had gone to sleep, and she said, "Yes"—I went to look at it, but she pushed me away, and said, I was not to touch him, or I should wake him up—before I went into my bedroom it had been crying—it had stopped crying a few minutes before I left the sitting-room—when I came back I did not know it was the baby on the couch, any more than it looked like the child; I only saw the shape of the child covered up with the shawl, and I did not see it anywhere else—I did not want to see it for anything particular—I did not think it peculiar for the prisoner to push me away when I went to look at it, because she is very apt to do it when I want to do anything she does not want me to do—soon after my husband came into the room—he asked if we had been to fetch the child—I said, "Yes"—he looked acrosa at the couch, and asked if that was the little nipper there, and he walked towards the couch—the prisoner told him not to go to him or touch him, because the child was asleep—just before we went to bed, between ten and eleven, I asked the prisoner if I should make a bottle of milk for the child, and the prisoner said, "No, if he wants one I can make it myself"—between 7 and 7.30 I went out with the prisoner and my husband—before going out the prisoner asked me if I could lock up her carpet bag in the box—I said, "No," and asked her what she bad in it to want it locked up—she said she had nothing in it particular, but she did not want other people in the room pulling her things about—when we went out of the room she locked the door of the sitting-room—at that time the carpet bag was under the couch, and the child was still asleep on the couch, completely covered up by the same shawl—it had been on the couch from the time I went into the room, about 6.15, till we went out, about 7 or 7.30—I had been in the room all the while—I had not noticed it move or utter a sound during that time—nobody had gone to look at it in my presence; I had not—I was in the room—I had given it some bread and butter and milk before it was put down on the

couch, and it had some at tea-time when, we had our tea, before six o'clock—after six it had neither moved nor made a sound, nor had anybody looked at it—my mother, my husband, and I were out from one to one and a-half hour—we had been for a walk down the road; we did not go to any place of amusement—my mother wanted to go to Olympia—when we got back we all went into the sitting-room; the baby was still on the couch, just as we had left it—it was then about nine—the prisoner went straight up to the child, and looked at it—she did not take the shawl off; I did not notice what she did—she said, "He is still asleep; don't touch him"—when we went out there was nothing to prevent the baby from rolling off the sofa—the sofa had no sides, only an end, and was made of horsehair, and slippery—I don't think the prisoner posted a letter that night when we were out—I know nothing about a letter posted at 8.30 that night—I saw her writing a letter in the morning; I did not see to whom it was addressed—the prisoner slept that night in the sitting-room; she said she was going to sleep on the couch—my landlady offered to let her sleep with her—the prisoner said, "No"—I left her to sleep on the couch—when I left the room to go to my bedroom the baby was apparently still on the couch—the room was not locked that night, that I know of—next morning I went into the sitting-room about eight o'clock; my mother was sitting on the end of the couch—I could not see the baby—I asked where it was; she said it was all right; she did not say where it wan—it is a medium-sized room—there were chain and a table in it—I did not cast my eye round the room to see if it was on the chairs or table—I then tidied up the room; and as I was sweeping it out I noticed a parcel under the head of the couch; I could only see one end of the parcel; it looked like the shape of a child's head; it was tied up in what looked like a napkin—the rest of the parcel was like a child's body, so that the whole thing looked like a child—I asked her again what she had done with the baby—she said the baby was all right, I was not to worry about it—I did nothing with the parcel—about dinner time, that same day, my mother asked me if I had a brick—I said, "No"—she asked me if Arthur (meaning my husband) would get her cue—I said, "No; not unless he knows what you want it for"—soon after I went out to the back yard—my mother followed me out there—there were some loose bricks there—she took a brick into the sitting-room and put it under the couch; I did not see where she got the brick from—the bag and the parcel that looked like a baby were still under the head of the sofa, on the floor—on the evening of that day, about 7.20, the prisoner asked me and my husband to go to Paddington Station with her—I left the sitting-room, and went to my bedroom to get ready—when I came back to the sitting-room I noticed that the carpetbag was packed—it looked more than full, it would not close at the top; there was brown paper over the top, and the bag was tied round the centre with string:—Hooked under the sofa, and there was nothing left there; brick and parcel were both gone—the prisoner, my husband, and I left the house together, the prisoner carrying the bag—as we left the house I asked her what the neighbours would say that saw her come in with the child, and did not see her take it out again, or go out without one—she aaid I could very well make an excuse—we went by omnibus—we went to the cookshop by the side of the Crown, where the omnibuses start, and

then she asked my husband if he would hold the bag while she went into the pastrycook's—at Paddington I saw ray mother into a carriage of the 9.15 train, which is express to Beading, I believe—my husband took her ticket; I did not see it—she told me she was going to Reading—after she got into the carriage someone else got into the same carriage—she got out again, and got into anpther carriage by herself—we left her before the train started—she had the bag still with her, I am sure—I had a work-basket in this sitting-room; it contained tape among other things—after my mother had gone I missed a skein of tape that I had there befor she was there—when I returned home I never saw anything more of the baby that had been brought from Paddington Station—neither of the babies was left there.

Cross-examined. In 1891 I was living with my mother in Bristol; she was confined in Gloucester County Asylum in 1891—a doctor examined her in that year, and I told him my mother tried to commit suicide by cutting her throat—she made three attempts, and I said that she was very violent—in 1893 she was sent to the Wells Asylum—she was very violent then—in 1894 she was again sent to Gloucester County Asylum, and after coming out of there sho tried to drown herself; she was taken to Bristol Hospital—in 1891, 1893, and 1894, the only thing she seemed to want to do was to com nit suicide—she said she heard voices, and she had a delusion that I was going to murder her—she threatened my life on several occasions, and once she attempted it—these fits appeared at certain times with her—in between them, as a rule, the was calm and quiet—at times she used to go off like that—during her calm moments she was very kind and affectionate—on March 31st, when she came, she seemed all right at the door, but when she was indoors she seemed very flurried—I left her at the open door—I did ask her in—I could not say whether she undressed" herself that night—I found her dressed in the morning—she did not appear to have gone to bed that night; none of her things were undone—she seemed to me not to have taken her clothes off—during the time my mother was at my house we had meals in the sitting-room—two infants came to the house—when I asked my mother, "What will the neighbours think of your bringing babies here, and going out without them?" she was perfectly quiet—she pushed me away when I wanted I to go near the bftby, and I did not attempt to go near it after the push; I was afraid of her. Q. When she is in that mental condition (you know she was confined in asylums in 1891, 1893, and 1894) is she very dangerous?—A. Yes.

  MART ANN BEATTIE (Re-called). The carpet bag I carried was very beavy indeed, and seemed a solid substance: it made my hand ache carrying it.

  MARY ANN PALMER (Re-examined). The gammon of bacon my mother gave me on the night of her arrival, I should say, weighed about 7 Ib. or 8 lb.—my mother has been three times in an asylum; I believe the longest time was three months; I believe that was in 1893—the others were some shorter periods—she had children to nurse between the first time she went to the asylum and 1891—I could not say about adopting any—there was trouble about one of those children—the parents came for it—she did not hand it over to them, to my knowledge—she had not got it in her possessioc—she told me she had.

adopted it for a friend of hers—I don't knov who the friend was I believe that was about three weeks before she went to the asylum—the parents were pressing lor their child; they were not satisfied with that account—mother had a lopted the child for herself—I believe my mother was in some trouble about it—the parents brought a police constable with them when they came; it was shortly after that that mother was sent to the asylum by her husband—the home was not broken up—I went on living there—I could not say whether she was in the asylum six weeks or two months—she then came back to the same place for about a fortnight, and then went to live elsewhere, at 144, Wells Road, Tether-down, near Bristol; after that she wont to Oxford Street, New Cut, Bristol—I could not say whether she was well till 1893; I had left home—as long as I was there she was well—I next saw her about seven weeks afterwards—I did not see her at all for that seven weeks—after that I lived with her again till 1893—she was not in good health then at times; she seemed very down*hearted and very peculiar in her manner at times—she had children to nurse or adopt between that time and 1893, when she went into the asylum again; I do not remember how many, I believe more than one; it might have been two or three; I believe it was three; I cannot be sure it was not more—I don't know whether she was paid for taking in each of those children; she never told me—I believe she had advertised; I had seen those advertisements; I believe they were like these—shortly before she went into the asylum, in 1893, the same persons who had come for their child in 1891 came again, and gave trouble about their child; my tnofher was then living at Horfield, another part of Bristol, and they brought a policeman with them—mother went out that same afternoon, and tried to drown herself; she was picked up in a ditch, near Cumberland Basin; it was on that occasion she was sent to the hospital; she remained there just over a week; that was in May, 1894; that was after she had beenin the asylum the second time—she was admitted into the asylum the day after Christmas Day (Boxing Day)—the doctors who attended her suggested her going there—I had sent for a doctor the day after those people had come, Dr. Maquoid; he had attended her betore, on and off, for a long time; he had attended her three or four weeks before—she was in the asylum then, I think, about three months—I believe at was from December 26th to January 30th; when she came out she was in her usual good health; we then went to live at Montpelier, another part of Bristol—from that time till December, 1894, she was taking in children again—I could not say whether the advertisements were still published; she never told me; I had not seen any; I did not know.

Q. What means of support had your mother other than payments received for children?—A. Nursing ladies during their confinement; no other that I knew of—I was married in May, 1894; I don't think she took in children between the time when she came out of the hospital, after attempting to drown'herself, and the time she went to the asylum; I am not sure—she told Mr. Dyer that she was going to take a couple of children, and she did have some after that—when she went into the asylum in December, 1894, she had three children in the house—she was then living at Grove Cottages, Fish Ponds, about five miles out of Bristol—my husband sent for Dr. Eden on that occasion—I believe two of those children had been obtained by advertisements, and one was

born in her house—the mother was confined there, and she left the child in my mother's charge—she was a Mrs. Perrin—I believo my mother had £80 for receiving that child, to bring it up entirely as her own, to adopt it—I believe she had £30 with one of the others, and £40 with the other—I don't know where they were born—one was named Harding, the same name as mother afterwards used, and the other's name was Rawlings—they lived at Horfield, I believe, I am not positive—when mother was sent to the asylum the three children were sent to the work-house—when mother came out of the asylum I believe she went to the workhouse at Barton Begis—she came from there in June, 1895—as far as I know, she stayed there till June; then, after living a few weeks at Bristol, she joined me and my husband at Cardiff—I don't know where she lived till then—she brought one child with her to Cardiff, and she took in others—I believe we bad three at Cardiff, with the one she brought with her—that was not one of the three that she had when she went into the workhouse—it was before we went to Cardiff that she came to us at Devonport—I don't know whether she had then come out of the workhouse—she did not tell me—I had then adopted a child—I handed it over to her—I had advertised to take it in to nurse at 5s. week—I only had that one at Devonport—my mother was then living at Bristol—I could not say exactly how Jong it was after that she came to Cardiff; it might have been a month—I handed that child to my mother, because I and my husband intended to take a situation together—I had adopted the child for good—its parents' name was Jeames—it came from Wells Street, Tetherdown Eoad, Bristol—it was a girl, between five and six years old—it was about a month afterwards that my mother joined us at Cardiff—she did not bring the little girl with her—I made inquiries about it—she told me she had had a house in Bristol, and she had let it out in the usual manner, for ladies to be confined there, and one of the ladies took a fancy to the child, and she handed it over to her, and had adopted it for good—I asked mother to take care of it, and she parted with it, unknown to me, and the lady had taken it away with her; she said the lady's own child was dead; that lady's name was Johnson—I asked her for her address, and she said she was going abroad—my mother was with us at Cardiff two months—we started with one child at Caversham; one child had died; the other, she told me, she had taken to Bristol, to her parents—I did not see the parents—the first night we went to Caversham we stayed at the Clappers, and next day went to 6, Elm Villas—we stayed there about six or eight weeks—Mrs. Dyer went to London, to fetch Willie Thornton—she received him in answer to an advertisement, and adopted him; he is still alive—I don't remember the name of the place she went to, to fetch him—she had one child at Elm Villas, besides the one I brought from Cardiff, that was between three and four years old—I don't know what she had with Willie Thornton; for the other child, I believe, she had five shillings a week—I asked her what she had with Willie Thornton; she would not say; she told me it was not my business—we moved from Elm Villas to Pigot's Road—Willie Thornton came from London; she never told me where—we took the little girl with us to Pigot's Road; mother took it up to London; I did not go with her, my husband did—she came back the same day—she had no other child at Pigot's Eoad but the little girl and Willie Thornton—it was at Elm Villas that I adopted Harold;

he was the one that I took—I distinguish between what I took and what mother took—I also took a little girl at Elm Villas; I adopted it; it died when it was ten weeks old—my mother remained at Pigot's Road a fortnight only—then she went to live at Kensington Road; we went to Warminster first; we were there till a fortnight after Christmas—we then moved to 76, Mayo Road—she came up to London to see us from time to time—I did not go and see her in Kensington Road after I came to London—I saw her between the time we left Pilot's Road and our coming to London—on the occasiun of my mother's visit to me on March 31st to April 2nd this year, she had her meals with me—she wrote a letter on the morning of April 1st, and went out with me in the evening, and was about with me all day on the 2nd, and went to Paddington in the evening—I left her in the carnage alone—she was perfectly quiet and calm then.

  AMELIA HANNAH SARGEANT (called at the request of MR. KAPADIA). I am the wife of Alfred Sargeant, of 50, Baling Road—in consequence of an advertisement which I saw in the Weekly Dispatch on March 15th last, I wrote a letter to Mrs. Harding, 45, Kensington Road, Oxford Road, Reading—after some correspondence, on March 25th I went to that address, and there saw the prisoner—I asked her if she was in the habit of taking in nurse children—she said, "No," she had never brought up but two children in her life, her niece at Harlesden, and a young man who was serving on board a nhip which took the place of the Camperdown in the Mediterranean—she said she had lived in Reading twenty-two years with her husband, who was a goods guard on the Great Eastern Railway—she said her name was not Harding, that she advertised in tbat name, but her name was Thomas, that they had lived in Reading twenty-two years, 'and were very much respected in Reading, and that was the reason she did not advertise in her own name—alter further conversation I arranged with her to hand a child to her for adoption, a little boy named Harry Simmonds, aged thirteen months, and to pay her £10—after further correspondence with her, I went on Wednesday, April 1st, to Paddington Station, with my husband and the little boy, and there met the prisoner and Mrs. Palmer, whom she introduced as her niece—Mrs. Palmer had charge of the child—she said his name was Harold—she was carrying the child, and said it was very ill—I should say it was from eighteen months to two years old—the prisoner told me it was a niece's child—it was dressed in white, and a fawn-coloured pelisse similar to the one produced—I believe this to be the same pelisse—it had this silk cord and the same ribbons—we adjourned to the refreshment-room, and there I paid her £5, and gave her an I.O.U. for the remaining £5, and she gave me this receipt; it is her writing in pencil on one of my husband's billheads. "Received of Mrs. A. Sargeant, £5 on account"—she signed it, "Annie Thomas," and both I and my husband also—I then handed over the little boy, Harry Simmomdf, to her, and also a parcel, plenty of clothing for it—afterwards, on April 11th, I went to the mortuary at Reading, and there saw the dead bodies of two children, a male and female—I identified the dead body of the uiale child as Harry Simmonds; I afterwards saw in the possession of the police a quantity of clothing which I had handed over with hint; some portions of it are here.

Cross-examined. The child was left in my care by its mother; I was not

paid for it; I undertook to see that it was cared for, free of charge; it was the child of a friend of mine—I paid the £5 out of my own pocket to the prisoner; it was the child of Mrs. Simmonds; she was in trouble; she had obtained a situation as lady's maid, and she wanted to find a home for the child—I wrote this letter to the prisoner; it is my writing—Mrs. Simmonds was to return the money; I paid it out of my own pocket, it was my own money; I did it for the affection I had for her and the child, and she was to repay me; it was not a money transaction; it was only lent to her, trusting that she would pay me back—I did not ask for any reference from Mrs. Dyer—I do not like references; I went to see for myself what home she had—she appeared a kind person; I took her to be a kind, homely, motherly woman; she invited me down—I took some children with me; they were my own children; she invited me to bring them, if they liked to come; she told me to come when I was so disposed, to see how the little boy was going on; I intended to take the money down; she asked me to send it in a registered letter—she had a very bad cold at the time; she did not complain, but she certainly was not looking ill—in my letter I inquired how her cold was; naturally, anyone would do so.

Re-examined. I reached her house about two, or soon after, and stayed with her till about a quarter-past three; she went with me to the station—I left by the 4.23 train—she told me that the house she was living in was her own, and that she was in very comfortable circumstances—I left her thoroughly satisfied, as a person to leave the little boy with; I felt quite sure she would be kind to him—I wrote this letter, stating that I would meet her on Monday next, and that I could not bring the full cash; I could only spare £5 at present, but the rest I would bring or send—I received this reply of March 29th, stating "Of course I will have the dear little soul. I should have liked the money paid down, but I will trust you."

  CHARLOTTE CULLUM . I am the wife of Albert Cullum, of 76, Mayo Road, Harlesden—Mr. and Mrs. Palmer lived in my house since January—I saw the prisoner at my house on Wednesday morning, April 1st, between eight and nine—she told me that she had slept in a chair all night in the Palmers' sitting-room—she gave me, that morning, a little pair of child's button boots—during the day I noticed a carpet bag just inside the parlour door—this is the one—there was nothing in it; it was lying carelessly on the floor—I had not heard the sound of any child, except the boy Harold—Mrs. Dyer said she had slept out—I offered her to sleep with me—I saw her again on April 2nd in the house—I went out between seven and eight that evening—the Palmers and the prisoner were there when I left; when I returned, in about ten minutes to a quarter of an hour, they were gone, and the lights were out—while the prisoner was in the house she paid me one week's rent; she took it from her purse; it was owing by the Palmers—I had seen the prisoner at the house on two previous occasions—on the first occasion, in January, she stayed at home.

Cross-examined. When I saw her on April 1st she said she had not sent the parcel, because she had been very poorly—she had promised me a parcel—she did not say what it would be; she said it would be handy for me—it was to be as a gift for my kindness to the

Palmers—I don't think she looked ill, not more than useful; she always looked pale.

Re-examined. She looked and behaved quite quietly, the same as she always had.

  ALBERT CHARLES CULLUM . I am a carriagecleaner, and husband of the last witness, living at 76, Mayo Road—some time before April I had a grate moved in the kitchen; in doing that there were a number of loose bricks—I put a number of them under a rabbit hutch in my back garden—on April 1st and 2nd, as far as I knew, they were still under the hutch—the police have brought some specimens of the bricks (produced).

Cross-examined. I do not say that these are the same bricks; they are similar; they correspond very much with those I had under the hutch—those I had under the hutch had been in the fire, and burnt, and these correspond with them—I buried some of them in the garden, to support the place that my wife washed in.

  JOHN TOLLER . I live at Reading, and am an engineer at the prison there—on Thursday night, April 2nd, about five or ten minutes to eleven, as I was returning home, I passed by the railway arch near the Rising Sun public-house—on the right-hand aide, going towards the station, I saw a woman coming towards me; she had just come from under the arch—I wished her "Good-night" as shepobsed—I saw her face; I recognised her; it was the prisoner—she was not coming on the way from the station to Kensington Road; it was on the way from the river.

Cross-examined. I said "Good-night" to her because I thought it was somebody I knew—she said nothing—I think it was on April 11th that it first came to my head that it was the prisoner I saw on April 2nd; that would fee nine days afterwards—I recognised her as a person I knew—very possibly I met several other persons on April 2nd—when I saw her again I recognised her—I did not go down Forbury Road; I crossed on the right-hand side, I live on that side; I crossed from the left to the right-hand side of the bridge; the bridge is on the left, and I live ou the right—I was close to the prisoner, we passed each other; we could have touched each other as we passed.

Re-examined. There was a gas lamp close to where I met her, a few yards on the other side of the road, and the Rising Sun was lighted.

  JANE SMITH . I am a widow—up to June, 1895, I was an inmate of the Barton Regis Workhouse, near Bristol—I there became acquainted with the prisoner under the name of Dyer—she invited me to come out of the Union and live with her—she told me that she was going to do the same as she used to do, taking in babies to nurse—I consented to go and live with her—she first took lodgings at Bristol, and after remaining there a short time I moved with her to Cardiff, and there, on the platform, we met Mr. and Mrs. Palmer, and we lived together, first at one house at Cardiff and then at another—in August, 1895, the prisoner went to Reading, and shortly after I and the Palmers followed her, and we all lived together, first at Pigot's Road, and then at Elm Villas, and then at Kensington Road—I lived with her there up to the time of her arrest—on Tuesday morning, March 31st, she left Reading by an early train—she said she was going up to see Mr. and Mrs. Palmer—she took with her this carpet bag of Willie Thornton's, and some small baby clothes, and

she took with her a piece of boiled ham for the Palmers, about seven or eight pounds weight—she returned on Thursday night, about half-past eleven—she did not bring back Willie Thornton's bag—she said she had left it behind for the purpose of Mrs. Palmer packing up little things, as they intended to go to Bridgwater to live, the whole of us, Mr. and Mrs. Palmer and myself, the little children and herself; she said she thought of going for about a fortnight—shesaid she was so late because she had lost two trains; on the platform there were so many people that came by railway that she could not come till they had put a special train on.

Cross-examined. When I met her at Barton Workhouse she did not tell me that she had come from Barton Asylum; she said it in the work-room; I heard her say it—she was kind to me sometimes; she was not particularly excitable; she got into tempers sometimes—she never threatened me—I was not at all afraid of her; she was not peculiar in. her habits, nothing whatever—she used to go out of an evening occasionally—aftergiving evidence before the Magistrate I went over to the gaol to see her—I told her that we wanted money, me and the children, and she gave me 10s.—she made no remark, only told the matron to give it me—she did not say, "Take care of it, for God knows where you will get any more"—she let me have several sums of money—I never heard her talking to herself.

Re-examined. She always kept the money, and paid for things and managed the house—she seemed a good woman of business when I lived with her—I asked her for money for myself and the children, Nellie, Oliver and Willie Thornton—Nellie was six, and Willie nine—Nellie had been with her about three months; Willie came when we were living at Elm Villas—Miss Butcher's girl was in the house at the time of the arrest; the mother had had a child, and took it away herself after the prisoner was arrested—I called the prisoner "mother."

  HENRY SMITHWAITE . I am a labourer at Reading—on April 10th last I was assisting other people to drag the Thames there—on that afternoon, in the river, I found this carpet bag; about half-way across the foot bridge, across the Clappers, at Caversham, on the left-hand side, going from Caversham—it was sunk in about twelve feet of water; I fetched it up from the bottom—on getting it out I took it to the back of the lock-house at Caversham, and called Sergeant James—it was tied round with string at the top, with about three inches gaping open, and a piece of brown paper along the top of the contents—in my presence Sergeant James cut the string, and I saw in the bag the body of a female child; Sergeant James took out a brick—the bag was taken to the Police-station, and was found to contain the bodies of two children, one a male and the other a female—besides a whole brick there was also in the bag about three-quarters of a brick.

  HARRY JAMES . I an a sergeant of the Borough Police at Reading—I was superintending the dragging of a portion of the river when the last witness found the bag—I accompanied him to the Police-station, and thence to the mortuary, which was close by—I there unpacked the bag,. and found in it the bodies of a male and female child, and these bricks—on the body of the female child was a diaper, which was identified yesterday by Miss Harmon—the male child had on a shirt, and a napkin

wrapped over it—I was present when Miss Marmon identified the female child at the mortuary; I was also present when Mrs. Sergeant attended at the mortuary—the two bodies were shown to her, and she identifiedi the body of the male child as that of Harry Simmonds—I afterwards went to 76, Mayo Road, and there found some child's clothing, which was handed to me by Mrs. Palmer—among the baby clothing handed to me was this cardboard box, and the clothing in it, identified by Miss Marmon—the fawn pelisse was handed to me by Mrs. Palmer.

  WILLIAM JAMES MORRIS . I am an M.D. and M.R.C.S., practising at Reading—on the morning of April 11th I went to the mortuary at Reading, and there saw the bodies of two children, oiale and female—there was a double mark round the neck of the female, like the mark of a tape or ligature, tied quite tight—I afterwards made a post-mortem of the body of that child—strangulation was the cause of death—the ligature caused the strangulation—I formed an approximate judgment that it had been dead about ten days—the ligature must have been tied tightly round the neck; there was not a very distinct mark where it was tied; it was more distinct in some parts than others, but nothing that I could identify as a knot on the body of the male child, I found a tape tied twice round the neck; it was tied in a bow—the cause of death in that case was strangulation by the tape—in that case death had been about ten days—there was a little less decomposition in that case.

Cross-examined. It is possible that in the case of the female death might have been caused by the tube of a feeding-bottle—I don't think it very likely, because it was an uneven-mark, and the tube would be more likely to make a more even mark—there is not much elasticity in tape—I can say the mark was made before death.

Re-examined. I believe the tape is about forty inches in length—I never saw the tube of a feeding-bottle that length—a ligature of this length would render an infant absolutely powerless at once—that throat was not constricted; in the male child it was quite constricted.

  JAMES ANDERSON (Detective Constable, Reading). On April 6th I went to 76, Mayo Road—I found there a number of pawn-tickets, ten relating: chiefly to children's clothing—on the 15th I went to the prisoner's house, 45, Kensington Road, Reading—I there found fifteen pawn-tickets, chiefly relating to children's clothing—I found there a number of diapers, which have been identified by Miss Marmon—I found them in a brown paper parcel, among some dirty clothing which the prisoner said she bad brought from London the night previous—I found it contained twelve diapers, as well as some dirty linen.

  ELLEN GIBBS . I am matron at the prison at Reading—I was in charge of the prisoner there when she wrote this letter—she asked me to send it to the police—I sent it to the governor—she said, "Now I have eased my mind"—I read the letter, and handed it back to her, and said, "A letter like this; you plead guilty to everything"; she said, "I wish to; they can't charge me with anything worse than I have done"; I said, "You are on remand; would you not like to send this letter later on?" she said, "Oh no, let it go—I sent it on to the governor—I afterwards saw her write this other letter, addressed to Arthur E. Palmer, who, at that time, was charged with being an accessory after the fact to

some crime of hers, and was then in custody—I also sent that to the governor—that is a rule of the prison. The letters were read as Jollows: "April 16th. To the Chief Superintendent of Police. Sir,—Willyou kindly grant me the favour of presenting this to the Magistrate on Saturday, 18th inst.? I have made this statement out, for I may not have the opportunity then. I must ease my mind. I know my days are numbered, but I do know it is an awful thing to bring innocent people into trouble; but, as God Almighty is my Judge in Heaven as in earth, neither my daughter or her husband, I do most solemnly declare, had anything at all to do with it; they never knew I contemplated doing such a wicked thing until it was too late. I am speaking the truth; I alone must stand before my Maker in Heaven to give an answer for it. Witness my hand, EMILY DYER." "To Arthur E. Palmer, Thursday, April 16th, 1896. My Poor Dear Arthur,—Oh, how my heart aches for you and my dear Polly! I am send—this to tell you I have eased my mind, and made a full statement. I have told them the truth, that as God Almighty is my Judge, I dare not go into His presence with a lie. You will have a lawyer, but for myself it would only be throwing away money. I know I have done this dreadful crime, and I know I alone shall answer for it. I have just written a long letter, another to mother; also I have wrote out a true and faithful statement of everything. I hope God will give you strength to bear this awful trial.—Your broken-hearted mother, E. DYER. Let me just have one line Friday morning."I knew that the actual charge the prisoner was under on April 16th was that of murdering a child; I did not know it was the child of Miss Marmon—she was remanded over and over, and there was a fresh committal every time.

Cross-examined. While in the prison, under my care, she talked to herself—I don't think she was depressed, not anything particular—she was very low-spirited concerning Arthur Palmer being in custody.

Re-examined. The talking to herself continued, more or less, the whole time she was in prison—that is not unusual with a prisoner under arrest—I should say 90 per cent, do it.

Witnesses for the Defence.

  FREDERICK THOMAS BISHOP LOGAN . I am a medical man, in practice at Bristol—on December 24th, 1893, I examined the prisoner at 114, Wells Road, Bristol—she was very violent, and suffering from delusions—she picked up the poker and rushed at me with it, and threatened to break my skull—she said she had heard voices telling her the whole time to destroy herself, that the birds said, "Do it, do it "; her daughter was present; she told me that she had been very violent, and had attempted suicide—I came to the conclusion that she was a person of unsound mind, and I gave a medical certificate under which she was taken to an asylum.

Cross-examined. I have not seen her from that time to this. I saw her on December 26th, when she was before the Magistrate—I had never seen her before the 24th; that was in reference to the lunacy proceedings—Iknow she was discharged from the asylum—I am not aware of the exact date, but it was somewhere in January—shewas very excitable and wild in her manner—I saw no other

objective symptoms beyond what I have mentioned—I was sent to her by the relieving officer—I did not examine her eyes by the opthalmoscope, nor for action and reaction—I do not remember anyone else being present besides myself, Che prisoner, and Mrs. Palmer—she got hold of the poker—I had only been there a minute or so—I had not said who I was—Mrs. Palmer said I was somebody come to see her—I did not examine her particularly for drink; she had no symptoms of drink; if there had been I should have traced them—I was told to decide whether she was mad or not—I was not told before I had got there that she had attempted suicide—I was told so at the house by the daughter—I saw no marks of violence on her—when I first came into the room she was sitting down away from the table, not doing anything—she was nearer the fire—I was sitting down at the table, and going to ask her some questions, when she suddenly got out of the chair—I cannot remember wltether I had put questions or not—I made my note in the certificate the same day—I took notes at dietime, and copied them in the certificate on the 25th—she was on my left side—she would have struck me had I allowed her—I took the poker from her—she struggled a minute or so when I got hold of the poker, and after I had taken it away—then I got her to sit in a chair before I commenced to examine her—I stopped with her ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, it may have been more—I next saw her at the Magistrate's private house—we met there—I did not see her again—I bad heard nothing of the parent of a child coming after her.

Re-examined by MR. KAPADIA. From my examination I was satisfid she was a fit ana proper subject for an asylum.

By the COURT. Her delusions were when she heard voices in the air telling her to destroy herself, and that birds kept talking to her—distress, or fear would sometimes bring on that sort of insanity that I noticed—mental anxiety might upset the brain in such a way as to cause insanity—I do not think all her symptoms might have occurred from that—I think her conduct was due entirely to disease of the brain—I inquired about her antecedents—I learned she had been in an asylum before—I did not form my judgment from that—it may have formed an element—her daughter told me she had been four months in an asylum.

  J. LACY FIRTH . I am a Doctor of Medicine, living at Clifton, Bristol—in May, 1894, I was in charge of the prisoner at the Bristol General Hospital—I was house surgeon there between April and May—the prisoner was brought there on April 26th—I saw her an hour or two after admission—she was reported to have attempted suicide by drowning—she was very cold—she was low-spirited—she was reported to be excited—I did not see her excited—there was difficulty in getting her to take food—I cannot remember being present then—she remained thirteen days—she was melancholy, but I do not go so far as to say she was insane—she said repeatedly she had something on her mind—it is impossible to remember what I said, but I tried to find out what was on her mind, but did not succeed—I wrote a letter to the Treasury about May 27th. (The letter was called for, but not produced.)

Cross-examined by MR. LAWRENCE. She was in bed when I saw her—she was shivering—she was discharged sound—a man came to the hospital, and in consequence of an interview I asked the prisoner some questions as to the address of a person—I asked her if she knew where a certain person

lived whose name I have forgotten—that person was a woman, who had been mentioned to me by the man who had called at the hospital—she did not give me a plain answer, but I am certain, from what she did say, she knew something about that person—she said the person had lived in some street in Bath, which she mentioned—I was with the prisoner ten minutes, talking about the matter—I do not recollect how directly I mentioned it—the subject matter was that a child was lost—as near as I recollect, I asked her if she knew where such and such a child was—probably I mentioned the name—I found out she had had something to do with the child—I made no notes—she partly admitted having had the child; she obviously knew something about it.

  WILLIAM FREDERICK BAILEY EDEN . I am a surgeon and licentiate of the Royal College of Surgeons—I practise at Hambrook village—I live At Hambrook Court—on December 14th, 1894, I was called to examine the prisoner at Grove Cottage, Grove Road, Fishponds, upon an order sent by the relieving officer—I found she was very excited—when I went in she threatened to pitch me out—she wanted to know who had sent me there—I said I had come by order of the relieving officer—I kept quiet—I went as a stranger—I had very little conversation with her, she was in such a bellicose spirit; I heard what she had to say, and let her talk on, and in the end I came to the conclusion she was of unsound mind, and ought to be placed under control—I signed a certificate to that effect, on which she was sent to an asylum—her daughter and daughter's husband were there—her daughter said that she was suicidal, and had run after her with a knife, and that she was upset about some children—the prisoner rambled on—site said that God had forsaken her, and that she must do it, or that she will do it, or words to that effect—she did say the world was against her—I was with her about ten minutes.

Cross-examined by MR. LAWRENCE. That was the first time I saw her—I saw her after she was discharged from the Gloucester Asylum in January, 1895, as recovered—the daughter told me the prisoner "had been in an asylum twice before—the daughter and her husband had applied to the relieving officer to have her removed—I saw no mark on her body of a suicidal attempt—the daughter told me the prisoner in tended to drown herself; that she had got up with that intention—I was told she had been in an asylum twice or three times before—I did not ask how long she had been in an asylum—she was not depressed, just the opposite—I did not ask her why she said God had forsaken her, and the world was against her—it might have been prudent to have asked her, but the daughter told me—if she had told me of her misfortunes I do not think that would have altered my opinion—she remained in the asylum about a month.

  FORBES WINSLOW . I am an M.B. and LL.M. of Cambridge, a member of the Royal College of Physicians, London, Physician to the British Hospital for Mental Disorders, and Lecturer on Mental Diseases at Charing Cross Hospital—on the 15th inst. I examined the prisoner at Holloway Gaol—the first time I saw her Dr. Scott was present—I had a long interview with her—I had not read much about the trial, nor formed an opinion before I saw her—T asked her a great many questions; after that I considered she was a person of unsound mind, suffering from delusions and hallucinations—a delusion is a belief in something which has no

existence apart from the diseased fancy, and may be objective or subjective—hallucination is to believe in the existence of something in the mind of the person; for instance, if a person hears a voice or sees a vision, and there is nothing to account for it—either might be delusion or hallucination—then there is illusion and subdivisions of illusions—the prisoner was suffering from insanity, from melancholia, insanity with delusions—there was no excitement, nothing beyond her depression and delusions—she made not the slightest attempt to feign insanity—I examined her, and came to the conclusion she was not shamming—there was nothing in her movements or in her conversation, apart from the absolute delusions which I elicited from her, that proved to my mind she was trying to put on any form of insanity or to exert her symptoms; if she had, it would be apparent, I presume; it would be evident on the surface, I imagine—I did not ask her, but she volunteered the statement that very often she got in a very depressed menial condition, that voices spoke to her and told her to take her own life, and that she had made several attempts to do that, but had been prevented—she said she frequently saw visions of her mother, who came to her; but that was my second interview, on the 19th—in the first, she told me she had been in Gloucester Asylum, that she had been cruelly treated, and placed in a padded room, and in consequence of that treatment she had a perfect right to take her own life—her memory was good for what happened years ago, but bad for recent events—that is common with people advanced in life, or from people suffering from melancholia—I should say it is a test of memory in melancholia—her memory was exactly what you would expect to find in its normal condition, but, still, it is a test—that symptom, taken with others, would show organic disease of the brain—it is, shown in a person over fifty—the prisoner is fifty-seven—I asked her if she had any recollection of the crime; she told me she had not, and when she tried to recollect she became mystified—I asked her if she could tell me the names of the two children who were drowned—her reply was she could not recollect the names—I have the questions and answers here—I asked her, "How many children were there?"—she said, "I cannot tell; I will try and think about it, but feel in a dream"—my first visit was an hour and a quarter, my second visit fifty minutes—I asked her whether she still heard voices speaking to her—her reply was, "Yes, every night"—I asked her how she had been since I hod last seen her on the 15th—she said, "I had a peculiar sensation lost night; I felt as if myself and my bed were passing through the floor"—I told her I had sten a letter from her son, who was in the Army, and that he was quite well—she answered, "That is very strange, because last night I was visited by the spirit of my mother and my boy"—I then, for the first time, asked her about apparitions, and about the visions to which she had alluded—I said "Will you please give me the nature of these visions that you see?"—she hesitated for a moment, then she said, "It is too horrible"—then she stopped for a moment, and seemed to contemplate, and then continued, "Oh, the sights and sounds are so horrible that I prefer to keep them to myself"—I pressed her—she then went on, "I had a fearful sensation the other evening; I thought I was handing my mother's bones from out her coffin"—she then went back to the question of her boy, to whom I had alluded, having received a letter that morning from him—she

said, when the boy enlisted she was unconscious for three weeks, and when she woke up she fancied that the rats were crawling all over her—I then went back to the subject of the crime, and asked her when she first knew of the occurrence, the crime she was in custody for—her reply was, "On Easter Sunday or Easter Monday, or it might have been on Good Friday"—I said (referring to his notes), "Can you tell me anything, about the two children found in the river? how did you hear about it?"—she said, "I cannot tell; when I try to recollect dates I cannot do so. It might have been months or years; that is when I get mystified"—I said, "What were the names of these children?"—Mrs. Dyer thought for a time, and then replied, "I am sure I do not know. I cannot tell the names now"—I passed on to "When did you first hear about what had happened?"—her reply was, "Good Friday or Easter Monday, or perhaps it was Tuesday"—I asked her if she had not missed the children. Her reply was, "I cannot tell"; she never thought a bit about them—I asked her when she saw them last—she said she did not know—these are the chief things in the conversation I had with her—I formed my opinion, on examining her twice, that she is a person of unsound mind, and not responsible for her actions. (The COURT reproved the witness for making the latter observation, that being a question for tlie JURY.) I have heard the evidence given to-day—the transient or recurrent form of insanity is the most formidable of its kind—predisposition to an attack is greater in a recovered lunatic than in. one who has been always sane—it depends upon circumstances generally—she would be predisposed to an attack at any time—insomnia is a concomitant symptom of insanity, but not taken per se and not always.

Cross-examined by MR. LAWRENCE. The defence of insanity had been raised when I was first consulted, on May 14th—I got my instructions on the 15th—depression in a sane person, charged with murder, is not unnatural; I mean low-spiritedness—I put the question about the voices—that was the first I heard about them—she had not mentioned them till I put the question—I knew she had been in an asylum—she did not say she had been an attendant in an asylum—one question I put was, how she got her children when she had no children; she said she had been a monthly nurse, a surgical nurse, and a medical nurse—I put the question, "Do you ever see visions?"—I asked her, with regard to the voices, "Do they speak to you?"—that was the last question but three on my second visit—the first I heard about visions was on my second visit, about the voices I heard on the first—I should not have expected signs of excitement, because in melancholia and monomania there are no outward evidences of lunacy—excitement shows quite a distinct type of insanity from what I saw—the strain of being charged with a serious crime would be likely to shake the firmest nerves—I asked, "Do you ever see visions?"—her reply was, "Do not ask me"—I continued, and then pressed the question, "What do you see?"—her reply was, "I cannot tell you; that is why I keep awake at night; sounds and sights, and one thing and another; I keep it all to myself"—"Won't you give me some notion?"—she hesitated for a moment, then said, "My poor boy! my poor mother!"—"Do they ever speak to you?"—"Frequently; I hear them talking, telling me to come to them;

my poor boy! my poor mother!"—and "I had fearful scenes last night I fancied I handled my mother's bones, picking them out of the coffin. When my poor boy went awny and enlisted I never slept for three weeks. I knew no one. I beat the rats off. Everything seemed to fly to my head, and I feel I want to fly to my boy"—it constantly happens that people with trouble conjure-up visions and dreams—the greater the trouble the more extravagant sometimes the vision—I am not surprised either way, if they have them or not—visions appear to people when they are wide awake and conscious; dreams cannot—melancholia would disclose itself by a tendency to suicide.

Evidence in Reply.

  JAMES SCOTT . I am a Bachelor of Medicine and medical officer to the prison at Holloway—the prisoner has been under my observation since May 7th, a few days after her arrival there—I have seen her daily, and conversed with her—I have discovered nothing that is not consistent with her being sane, beyond her own statements of her Constant desire to commit suicide, and her memory of recent events being a total blank—I tested her memory by questions—she readily gave information about events which happened some years ago, more especially her being taken to the asylum, and her suicidal attempts—in the result I consider she has not been insane during the time she has been under my observation—she told me she had been an attendant at the Stapleton or Fishponds Asylum, near Bristol.

Cross-examined by MR. KAPADIA. It is possible for a lunatic suffering from homicidal mania to be free from excitement—it was not reported to me that she talked to herself in prison, and I have not heard her—I saw her myself once or twice every day, and received reports about her—I was inclined to look upon her as simulating insanity—I have heard her say she heard noises telling her to injure herself, not any other person—I considered her responses, conduct and other things, and the case in all its bearings; I do not see how I could directly test whether she heard voices or not—I could not find, as I should have expected, any evidence of her intention to commit suicide—she has not behaved in an insane manner—she has complained of pains in her head, and giddiness and weakness; I was present at the interview with Dr. Winslow—I heard the doctor's questions and her answers—possibly I may have passed a confidential opinion as between one man and another—a sane person might have made her answers, as if simulating insanity—some of them might be given by an insane person.

Re-examined. No answer was given to Dr. Winslow from which it would be safe to deduce insanity.

By the COURT. People commit suicide through trouble; suicide may attend insanity, or be committed independently of it.

  GEORGE HENRY SAVAGE, M.D., M.B.C.P . I have had long experience in lunacy—I have been seventeen years Physician to St. Bartholo-mew's Hospital, Lecturer on Mental Diseases at Guy's Hospital over twenty years, author of a Manual on Insanity, and other publications—I saw the prisoner one hour at Holloway—I made a careful examination of her, and inquired into her past history—I came to the conclusion she was not mentally unsound—she told me she had been an attendant at an asylum—she said she did not recollect anything about

the crimes of which she was accused—going back to the facts of her life, the doctors of asylums and institutions were perfectly clear in her memory she gave their names.

Cross-examined by MR. KAPADIA. I made a report—I say, "Having to-day seen the above prisoner at Holloway in the presence of Dr. Scott, the medical officer of the prison at Holloway, and having seen the news-paper reports of the trial, and the various reports as to her life's history, and her conduct before and after the trial, also the reports of her early history, I come to the following conclusions"—all the evidence influenced me as an unbiassed person—if the whole mass of premisses were wrong, ray conclusion would be wrong—I was informed of the crimes by the reports—I relied entirely in my judgment of her insanity upon my examination; the rest is a statement of facts to make perfectly clear the conditions under which I examined her—I say, "symptoms always of a transient nature"—that is not necessarily the worst kind of insanity—sometimes it is very formidable when it is sa called impulse—there was no evidence of that before me in this case—the evidence was that of statements of medical officers of asylums when admitted, when discharged, and statements, in case-books at asylums, of medical officers of those asylums—I should not say that such persons are generally liable tohomicidal mania—some who hear imaginary voices are liable to homicidal mania, not generally; those voices are of two distinct descriptions, some commanding, some merely indicating—the instances are not rare among those who commit crime—hearing voices and being impelled to do certain acts are symptoms of homicidal mania—one attack of insanity frequently predisposes for another, and if two or three, the person would be still more liable—the intention of violence or feeling would be dormant for awhile, or it would not be impulse—homicidal mania is not necessarily periodical—I should think so in the majority of cases fortunately—homicidal persons have commonly attempted suicide—they have expressed a wish to die—I should not think confession of guilt a common characteristic of it—the sight of a weapon or an intended victim would be an incentive—the patient, perhaps, could not resist the temptation—he might write sensibly and clearly—you may detect insanity in the writing or in the conversation—I wrote, "There seems to be no doubt that the mother was insane, and it is likely that she has a defective power of self-control, and might be induced to do wrong more readily as a consequence"—I have since my report heard the mother was not insane—I began my examination by telling her I was a doctor—I made no note at the moment, but I made my report immediately on my return home—I told her I had come to examine her—I asked her if she knew why she was in the gaol—she said, "Yes"—"Do you know the nature of the crime you are accused of?"—she said, "Yes"—"Can you explain it in any way?"—"No, I know nothing about it; I know I am accused of this, but if I did this" or "them, I must have been mad when I did them, because I am so fond of children"—then I began to ask her history, whether she had been married more than once, what occupations her husbands had respectively, how many children she had herself, what had become of those children, how many were still living, then as to why she went to be nurse, and as to the two years' regular training she had had at medical, surgical and monthly nursing; then she told me she had been some months, I think, attendant

at this Fishponds Lunatic Asylum, but she did not care for that very much—that fact was verified by Dr. Scott—I heard it from the prisoner—I accepted nearly all she said—then I examined her as to whether she saw properly, heard properly, and whether her taste and smell were correct, trusting to her reports in most cases—then I asked whether she was troubled, whether she slept well or badly—she said she had been sleeping very badly, and dreamed a great deal—I did not allude to hallucinations—I have heard of them—presently she said, when speaking about sleep and about being disturbed, "I hear voices"—"What do they say?"—"They say 'Do it'"—"What does 'Do it,' mean"—"Well, I had better kill myself; I am constantly hearing these voices"—"By day as well as by night?"—"Yes"—I said, "Were there many kinds of voices?" and tried to get further information, but I got nothing beyond that—at the time she did not give me any clue to her having visions, though I asked—I heard of the certificate given by Dr. Logan in 1893, where Dr. Logan described the symptoms—I heard Dr. Logan, bat he spoke of years gone by, and I have no right to deny or question it—that is not what I am giving an opinion upon now—I did not conclude the prisoner was suffering from homicidal mania or some kind of insanity—a person may be violent, without being homicidaliy maniacal—I got the information about her being confined in an asylum—she spoke only about suicide—she said the voices said, "Do it."

Re-examined. I said, "Do what?"—she said, "Destroy myself"—in homicidal mania the voices would probably urge to murder—the impulse would be to do that which the voices told one to do, not to do something different—there is nothing in the mauner these two children met their death to suggest homicidal mania, that I see—you must deal with all the surrounding circumstances as far an you can ascertain them—each case requires a distinct consideration—if any material matter had been pointed out as having been mis-stated in the reports of the trial, that would have altered my judgment.

  JAMES HOBLEY . I wish my name not to be mentioned in public—I shall be a pensioner—I am the prisoner's brother—my mother was never insane—there was never a case of insanity in our family, so far as I have heard our family history.

Cross-examined by MR. KAPADIA. I have not seen the prisoner for thirty-five or thirty-six years—she is a total stranger to me.

GUILTY .— DEATH .