10th January 1898
Reference Numbert18980110-113
VerdictNot Guilty > non compos mentis

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113. RICHARD ARTHUR PRINCE (32) was indicted for, and charged on the Coroner's inquisition with, the wilful murder of William Charles Lewin.

MESSRS. C. P. GILL and HORACE AVORY Prosecuted and MESSRS. SANDS and KYD Defended.

THOMAS LEWIN . I live at Bedford Park, and am an actor by profession—the deceased was my father—his professional name was William Terriss—I last saw him alive on the evening of December 15th—on the following; night, December 16th, I saw him lying dead at the Adelphi Theatre a little before eleven o'clock at night—I did not know the prisoner at all—The

Prisoner: I saw you once in the dressing-room. Witness; I have no recollection of having seen him—this letter and envelope is in my father's hand-writing—it is dated November 9th, last year.

RALPH CROYDON . I am a theatrical manager—in October last I was with a company at Newcastle—on Saturday, October 23rd, the prisoner came there and saw me in answer to an advertisement—he applied to me to engage him in my company—I engaged him at a salary of 25s. a week to play small parts—I asked him among other questions what experience he had had—he told me that the experience he had had justified him in taking very much better parts than the one he had come to take with me, he said he had played big parts at the Adelphi in the Union Jack, and that he would have been there now if it had not been for one man—I saw him the next day, October 24th, it was a Sunday—he had tea with Some of the company that evening—during tea he repeated his statement that he would be at the Adelphi then if it had not been for one person—he said he should have starved bad it not been for the Actors' Benevolent Fund—on the next day, the 25th, we went by train to a place called Heddon—on our arrival there we went to the theatre to rehearse—at the rehearsal I found Prince absolutely incapable of playing any part—he did not know any of the words, and he was ridiculously dramatic—he said his brain was gone, and that I had better close the theatre till the Tuesday—I then left him with the stage manager, to see if he would improve; and upon my coming back, the manager had stopped the rehearsal, as it was impossible to do anything with him—I then told him it was impossible for him to take any engagement at all, and sent him away—he came next morning to my lodgings and asked for payment, which I refused—when I told him so he did not make any direct remark to that—I told him he should never have left the Adelphi, and he said he would have been there then if it had not been for one man, Mr. Terriss—he mentioned the name then for the first time when I refused to pay him—I asked him who the man was of whom he had been speaking, and he said Mr. Terriss—he said he was a dirty dog—when he made that observation I said, "You must be mad to talk like that"—he said the world would ring with his madness before long—he told me he had come from Shields to join my company—he said he had been playing in a provincial company, the Union Jack, I think the play was.

Cross-examined. He was peculiarly eccentric and dramatic in his manner—when he came in he said his foot was on his native heath, and his name was Macgregor—he said it in a dramatic manner as he entered the room—he did not say anything else like that—he talked in the same dramatic manner, but not to the same extent—he talked as if he had been wronged in some way, and about being revenged—those remarks were all volunteered by him, except the name, that was said only once—on Sunday he had tea with the company—there was nothing said about the tea—I did not hear anything—I heard that there was another remark—my wife told me, it was this: there was a tin of sardines on the table which was being opened, and the prisoner asked them to put the knife away as he did not like the look of it—there was nothing said about what was in the sardines, or in the tin—the part he had to play was a very small one—there was no reason why a man of ordinary experience should not have learned it—I have had it played in a few hours—he did

not give any reason why he could not play the part except that his brain was wrong—he seemed rather to resent the idea that he did not know the words—I gathered from his conversation that he was a Scotchman.

CHARLES ISMAY COLSTON . I am the Secretary of the Actor's Benevolent Fund, in Adam Street, Adelphi—I know the prisoner very well—he had received money from the fund in 1890—I am not certain of the date, but the receipts will show—in the November of last year he made an application for relief from the fund—we require a form to be filled up by an applicant—this is the form tilled up by the prisoner, which I supplied him with—I also received his letter of recommendation from Mr. William Terriss—the application form was enclosed with Mr. Terriss' letter: "I have known the bearer, Mr. Richard Archer Prince, as a hardworking actor for many years. William Terriss."—I also received with the application form this letter:" Care of Mrs. Darby, 16, Eaton Court, Eaton Lane, Buckingham Palace Road, S.W. To the Gentlemen of the Committee: Gentlemen, the reason I have to ask for help is that I was out of an engagement for 12 months before I left the last one, and lost it through no fault of my own. During the time I was in my last one I spent all my money, when I left on that Monday night I had not a shilling to call my own, my box is at the docks for my fare and passage, I have nowhere else to go, I thought I could get something to do in town. For the last six or seven months it has taken me all my time to live without being able to save, if you will only help me to live for a week or two, I think I shall be able to get an engagement. I am, gentlemen, yours truly, Richard Arthur Prince"—after that the Emergency Committee sanctioned the advance of £1 to the prisoner on the following day—I subsequently received other letters from him asking for assistance—these (produced) are all the letters I received from him.—"16, Eaton Court, Eaton Square, S.W. To C. I. Colston, Esq. Dear Sir,—Last week I was too ill to go home, besides I thought I could get an engagement for South Africa, and I thought I saw a chance of another engagement. I was Prince Richard last Friday night, and saw the manager, but it is not settled yet. I missed the 'bus and had to walk home on Saturday—eight miles; I was quite done up. I did not know I had a home to go to till last Tuesday. I enclose a letter from my little sister. You will see I am not a liar. If the fund does not help another once I shall have to starve or die. I have done all I can to get an engagement, and have tried all the gentlemen in London to get me one, but have not got one yet, Thanking you for your very great kindness, I am, yours faithfully, R. A. Prince."—"To C. I. Colston, Esq. Dear Sir,—I shall not get another engagement in London now. The ship goes to-day; and as they have been so kind to me they might pay my fare if you will ask them.—Yours faithfully, R. A. Prince. The fare is 15s., and I will go to-day if I can get the money.—(there were also several other letters)—I think he received on November 10th, £1; on November 27th, 10s.; on December 2nd, £1; and on December 9th, 10s.—I obtained from him receipts for those different amounts—I saw him myself from time to time—on every occasion I handed him the money myself—I had no knowledge of him except seeing him personally at the office—he told me he had played at the Adelphi—I saw him at the door on December 16th, but did not speak to him—my clerk spoke to him.

Cross-examined. A Mr. Bannerage wrote to me at the same time as Mr. Terriss, the letter favourably recommending him.

ARCHIBALD KING HOLLANDS . I am a clerk in the office of the Actor's Benevolent Fund—I saw the prisoner at the office about four o'clock in the afternoon on December 16th last—I told him that the committee were unable to entertain his application for further relief—he made no reply.

Cross-examined. He turned round and went away immediately.

CHARLOTTE DARBY . I am the wife of George Darby, and live at 16, Eaton Court, Eaton Lane, Buckingham Palace Road—I let lodgings—I remember the prisoner in October last taking a bedroom in my house, which I let him for 4s. a week—he gave me the name of Richard Arthur Prince—he described himself as an actor—he said he came from Newcastle—he had only a brown paper parcel with him—he said he had left some of his luggage on the boat—he offered me two shillings, in the first place, as rent—I said I could not take two-shillings, as I wanted a week's rent in advance—he then produced another shilling, saying that he would give me the other shilling on the Saturday—he showed me a book—I think it was a bank book—I let him take-possession of the room—I supplied him with what was necessary in the room, so that he could have a little food—a plate, knife and fork, and coffee-cup—the knife was an ordinary small table-knife—on the following Saturday he paid me the other shilling—he remained at my house up to the time of his arrest—after he had been occupying the room some days,. I saw another knife in the room—he got up very late in the day, and was then in and out several times—he was engaged in writing—that (produced) is the knife I saw in his room—I saw it there on more than one occasion—I saw it about a week before his arrest—I saw it on the dressing-table when I was tidying the room—he was not there, then—he paid his rent regularly up to the last fortnight—when he got in arrears., with his rent I asked him about it, and he asked me to wait for a few days—I did wait for a few days, and it came to the Sunday, he spoke to-me about it himself—he said, "Mrs. Darby, can you wait till Thursday?" I said, "Yes;" he said, "I will give you the two weeks, together, on Thursday"—he said he expected a letter from his sister, and it would be one way or the other—I did not understand what he meant; I said, "Mr. Prince, what do you mean?"—he said, "That is best known, to God and man"—that conversation was on the Sunday before his-arrest—until he was owing me this rent he seemed to be pretty cheerful—he conducted himself like a gentleman—he received a great many letters—I did not know he was pawning his clothes, I noticed that they were gradually disappearing—on Thursday, the 16th, he went out about two o'clock—I saw him again at 3.45—he came and spoke to me—it was between 3.45 and 4.15—he knocked at the door and said, "Can I speak to you," I said, "Yes," he said, "I am sorry I have not got any money for you, what shall I do," I said, "I don't know, Mr. Prince, I am very sorry for you," I saw him no more then—he asked me for some hot water, and I said I had not got any—that was the last I saw of him till he was in custody—he told me he was looking for employment—he had some meals in his room—he made tea there—he spoke to me about having gone to church on Sunday.

Cross-examined. I did not supply him with food—he had his meals there—he had mostly bread, and milk, about twice a day, according to what time he got home—he used to lie in bed very often—he used to have one meal when he got up, and the other in the evening before he went out—as far as I know those two meals were all he had in my, house—I saw that knife more than once—I first saw it about a week, or a week and a half after he took the room—I saw it lying about in his room for anybody to see—quite open—I never saw him use it—I saw some marks on it as if it had been used for cutting bread—I attached no importance to the knife—his manner did not change at all while with me, except when he could not pay me the last two weeks; he seemed depressed and worried about it—his appearance did not change in particular—he looked like a man troubled at the last—I did not know what was in the brown paper parcel—he had some clothes when he first came—his clothes began to disappear about a fortnight after he came—at the end of the time I cannot say if he had any clothes left at all—within the last fortnight he had no clothes left—I cannot say whether he had any meals in my house on the last morning—I cannot remember anything about his meals the last few days—he said he was trying to get some theatrical engagement.

GEORGE LOKBERO . I am a cutler, at 46, Brompton Road—my name is on this knife—it was sold from my shop at the end of last October—I have knives like that for sale from 9d. to 2s. 6d.—this is one of the 9d. ones—I sold one like this about the end of October, in the evening, to a man who was a rather tall, shabbily-dressed man—I so described him at the police-court in the prisoner's presence—when I was giving that description the prisoner said that I wanted to sell him a shilling one, and that this was large enough for cutting bread—when I was asked if I could identify him he said there was a lady in the shop with him—that was true.

Cross-examined. I do not remember whether he said the knife was large enough to cut bread with—he may have done so.

HENRY SPRATT . I live at Thurlow Terrace, Hampstead—I am stage-doorkeeper at the Adelphi theatre—I know the prisoner by sight—I remember at the end of October or the beginning of November his coming to the stage-door and speaking to me, and bringing a letter—he asked me to convey it to Mr. Terriss, and get an answer—I got an answer after about half-an-hour—I conveyed that answer to the prisoner—I said, "The answer to the letter is All right"—after that I noticed him about the stage-door on several occasions—he was round the stage-door about six times altogether—he was there for about half an hour—Mr. Terriss was not in the habit of using the stage-door himself—he went in at a private door in Maiden Lane, of which he had a key—I remember on Wednesday, December 15th, the prisoner coming and speaking to me—it was about 6.50, or it might have been later. He said, "Mr. Terriss comes up this way, doesn't he," meaning the stage-door—I said, "Yes"—that was the last I saw of him.

Cross-examined. I should think it would be before November 9th that he came to the stage-door with the letter—I have been doorkeeper there about 16 months—it is not an uncommon thing to wait about the stage-door, they walk up and down—it would be a very common thing for

him to go and see his friends—it is not an uncommon thing for people to make inquiries about the leading actors and actresses who did not know them—as a matter of fact, what I told him about Mr. Terriss was not the case—Mr. Terriss did not use the stage-door.

HENRY GRAVES . I am a Surveyor and live at 44, Talbot Road, Bays-water—I knew the late Mr. William Terries all his life—on the afternoon of December 16th I was with him at his residence in Prince's Street, Hanover Square—about seven in the evening we went from there in a cab to the corner of Maiden Lane; we there got out of the cab and walked to the door of the Adelphi Theatre in Maiden Lane—I did not notice anyone near the door—Mr. Terriss said to me "Wait a minute Harry till I get my keys"—he then took his keys from his pocket and stooped slightly to put his key in the door, and while he was doing that somebody rushed from across the road and struck him two blows most rapidly on the back—I thought at first they were given in good fellowship and it occurred to me how exceedingly rough the act of friendship was—Terriss turned round instantly, and the man then struck a third blow in Mr. Terriss' chest—Mr. Terriss said "My God, I am stabbed"—the man then backed into the road, I followed—I did not at that moment know what had been done—there were cries of "murder" and "police"—I followed the man and never lost sight of him for a moment—a constable came up and I said "I charge this man with stabbing Mr. Terriss"—I cannot say exactly how far he had got from the door of the theatre when the constable came up, it was some little distance—I and the constable went with the prisoner to the police-station; the prisoner walked very quiety, he was in the middle and the constable and I were on either side of him—he said nothing when I gave him in charge—on the way to the station I said to the prisoner "What could have induced you to do such a cruel deed"—he said "Mr. Terriss would not allow me to have any employment, and I did it," either "in revenge," or "by way of revenge," I am not quite certain which—when the prisoner was charged at the station I returned to the theatre, and found Mr. Terriss lying at the foot of the stairs, he was dying then, and he died in my presence shortly afterwards—the prisoner was speaking to the constable on the way to the station, and I heard him use the word "blackmailing," but it was in a disjointed way.

Cross-examined. The door in Maiden Lane is very close to the passage leading to the stage door of the Adelphi, it is a passage leading down to the Strand—the stage door, I should say, is nearer the Maiden Lane end than the passage—there were two or three persons about when the man was backing into the road, the thing was done instantaneously—the persons did not come up immediately, they backed away—they were on the spot—the prisoner made not the slightest attempt to get away—I did not hear the word "blackmailing" used more than once to my knowledge, I was very much excited—I should say it would be quite incorrect to say that there were 10 or 20 persons about at the time—I did not see two commissionaires there.

WILLIAM ALGER . I live at Camberwell—I was employed as a dresser to Mr. Terriss—on Wednesday night, December 15th, my attention was attracted to a man outside the street door, it was the prisoner, he was watching the people coming out of the door, I was coming

out at the time and just passed him, I did not know him—on the next night, the 16th, I was in Mr. Terriss' dressing-room waiting for him—it is a room on the first floor, with windows looking into Maiden Lane—the window I was at is I think directly over the private entrance at which Mr. Terriss was in the habit of coming in—my attention was. attracted by a shout, "Oh my God, I am stabbed"—I did not recognize the voice at the time—I looked out of the window at once, it was open, and I saw the prisoner strike Mr. Terriss a violent blow in the chest Mr. Terriss was facing the prisoner, his back was towards the door—the blow was a downward blow, the force of it simply bore him down—he shouted a second time, "Oh my God, I am stabbed, arrest that man"—the prisoner stepped back into the road, just off the kerb—I saw an old commissionaire in the street—the prisoner seemed to want to get at Mr. Terriss again—he then stepped on the other side of the road—a policeman came from Bedford Street—at the time I looked out I should say there were about a dozen people in Maiden Lane.

JOHN BRAGG (272 E). On December 16th, about 7.30 in the evening, I heard cries of murder and police in Maiden Lane—I went there and found Mr. Graves and the prisoner about 100 yards from the private door of the theatre, towards Southampton street—Mr. Graves said, "I give this man into custody for stabbing Mr. Terriss"—I took hold of the prisoner—he said, "What is the matter"—I said, "You know what is the matter"—on the way to the station, Mr. Graves said, "What made you do such a dreadful, bloody thing as that"—he said, "In revenge, he blackmailed me for 10 years"—he used the word "black-mailing," two or three times—on the road to the station he also said, "I have given him due warning plenty of times"—he also said, "I should either have to die in the street, or have my revenge"—Inspector Wood took the charge at the station.

Cross-examined. We had walked a few yards towards the station before Mr. Graves asked the question—the prisoner used the word "blackmailing" of his own accord—Mr. Graves put no question to him about that—all his remarks were made of his own accord—he used the word "blackmailing" of his own accord three or four times on the road to the station—there was no particular reason for using it—it was not in regard to any previous expression, it was quite a disconnected statement—I know the locality of Maiden Lane very well, the commissionaires barracks are quite close, and have been there for many years, close by the door—I did not see two commissionaires there on this occasion—there is a large restaurant nearly opposite, and a large public-house very much used.

GEORGE WOOD (Inspector E). I was at Bow Street station when the prisoner was brought in at 7.45—he was brought in by the last witness and Mr. Graves—Mr. Graves said, "This man has stabbed Mr. William Terriss at Maiden Lane, as he was about to enter the stage door of the Adelphi Theatre"—I said, "Where is the knife"—the prisoner produced this knife from his coat pocket—he had an Inverness cape on, and he threw it back and drew the knife out—there were blood stains on it—I took the knife—he said, "That is what I stabbed him with, he had due warning, and if he is dead he knows what he had to expect from me; he prevented me from getting assistance

from the Actor's Benevolent Fund to-day, and I have stopped him"—I wrote that down at the time he was at the station—shortly after wards I heard that Mr. Terries was dead, and the prisoner was charged with the wilful murder of Mr. Terriss—the charge was read over to him in the usual way—he said, "All right"—he gave me his name and his address, at Eaton Court, and it was found to be correct—on searching him I found a number of letters and five pawn-tickets for articles of clothing, pledged between November 9th and December 14th, altogether amounting to seven or eight shillings—at the station the prisoner appeared to be perfectly calm and collected.

Cross-examined. He was perfectly calm and quiet the whole time—he was under my observation from 7.45 to 10.15—he was in a room which we call the sergeant's room, attached to the charge room—I was there the whole time—I saw nothing extraordinary at all in his demeanour—he was more calm than I should have expected under the circumstances.

WILLIAM FRENCH (Inspector). On Thursday, December 16th, I went to the Adelphi Theatre, in Maiden Lane—I found Mr. Teniss there, with the doctors attending him—I was there till he died, about eight o'clock—I went back to the Bow Street police-station and saw the prisoner at 9.45—I said, "Mr. Terriss is dead, I shall charge you with murdering him;" the prisoner made no reply.

WILLIAM CROSTON (Inspector at Bow Street). I took charge of the station on the 16th at ten o'clock—in the course of my duty I visited the cells at 10.50—the prisoner spoke to me, and asked me to acquaint his sister with his condition—I asked him if it would be necessary to break it to her gently, and if she was teamed—he replied, "No, there is no occasion to break it to her gently"; he met her in the street about an hour before this occurred; she was accompanied by her husband; "I asked her for assistance, and she said she would rather see me dead in the gutter than give me a farthing; had she given me ten shillings this would never have happened, it is all through her"—I took this communication to her at her address which he gave me—I subsequently saw the prisoner again, and I told him that Mrs. Archer declined to have any more to do with him—he replied, "I did not think she would; it is now clear to me that she is in league with Terriss in blackmailing me"—at this time he appeared very calm, and spoke very quiedy.

Cross-examined. When I first saw him he was calm, I should say extraordinarily calm considering the circumstances—his hands were not clenched, his face was pale, he looked very determined and quite calm—I had said he was in a state of extreme tension—I made a note at the police-court of what he said—he interrupted me and said it was at her house, not in the Strand.

ALFRED LEACH (Inspector E). On the night of 16th I went to the room at 16, Eaton Court, after the prisoner's arrest—I there found this envelope in the handwriting of Mr. Terriss, also this printed list of subscribers to the Actors' Benevolent Fund and some manuscript which appeared to be theatrical plays—I looked through the list of subscribers, and amongst them found Mr. William Terriss' name.

Cross-examined. I have been making inquiries in this case—I have received from Mr. Frederick Terry two post-cards and this letter—I have not seen the prisoner write.—I have seen a lot of his handwriting

and I say this is his writing. "68, Hill Street, Dundee." Sir, please return play, Countess Otto, at once—if you are hard up for the money I will send it—Terriss, the Pope, and Scotland Yard—I will answer in a week.—Richard A. Prince." The other documents were read as follows:—"68, Hill Street, Dundee." Sir, favour to hand this morning at ten o'clock—the old story about King Charles and the £200,000—they sold him for a king—I'm only a Prince, not a woman, mon Dieu, a woman.—Richard A. Prince." "51, William Street, Vic. Road, Dundee—late Union Jack tours—to Mrs. Fred. Terry. "Madam, I thank you as 'a Highlander and a gentleman,' and in the name of the Almighty God, our Queen, and my rights for play Countess of Otto.'—I am, Madam, yours faithfully, Richard A. Prince." "If Lord Salisbury will only stand by his God, his Church, and his Queen now, with the forces of our motherly Queen, and for the honour of Great Britain, by the side of the godly King of Greece, we shall have 'peace with honour' and God's blessing."—I have also received in the course of my enquiries these letters, which appear to be written from Hollo way Prison, and to be in the prisoner's writing, addressed to Mr. G. Astley, at 51, Burlington Arcade. "Dear Sir, Many thanks for letter. It was no fault of yours or anyone's that night, but Mr. Terriss himself. Had he only spoken to me he should have been alive now, and the poor Prince would have been in Scotland; 'he ask for it and he got it.' That's why I killed the cur who could only fight a gay woman and a starving man sent on tour to ruin my character. Had been there. I would have given them the same. The only one I am sorry for is my sister. But she must stand her ground now with the things that call themselves men I have named in this note. You may call any day and see me from ten to twelve daytime, afternoon two o'clock till four. If you know any gentleman, or your own doctor might do that, knew my sister or myself in the passive, tell him to send his doctor to see me here once. I must see a doctor. I should like one of the best in London. If you can do this for me God will reward you. My soul is all right.—Yours faithfully, R. A. Prince. N.B.—Send a doctor, Astley, if you can."—" H.M. Prison, 1—1, '98. To G. Astley, Esq. Dear Astley,—I am more than sorry you came and they did not let you see me. It was my fault. I did not ask, and one must go by H.M. Rules' here. The Governor of Holloway Prison has just told me you can come and see me any day you like, any day but Sunday. Hours ten till twelve o'clock., two till four o'clock. If you could only come once more I shall deem it an honour. I have never seen anyone but the lawyer since I've been here. I will give you all the news when you come and see me. One thing you might do, bring or send a white shirt and collars 15 1/2 or 16, a tie and handkerchief, and one stud. I would ask my sister again, she sent the last, but I don't think she is in London. Maggie sent me a lot of underthings last week and 10s. Please come and see me. N.B.—I don't want a doctor now; come by yourself.—Yours faithfully, RICHARD ARTHUR PRINCE."

WILLIAM CURLING HAYWARD . I am Senior House Physician at Charing Cross Hospital—on December 16th, at 7.30, I was called to the private entrance of the Adelphi—I there saw Mr. Terriss lying on his back in the passage, with a piece of ice on his chest—on removing that I saw a wound in his chest—he was sinking very fast—his death took place at two or three minutes to eight—during that time he was semiconscious—he

never spoke—on Friday, the 17th, I made a post-mortem examination—I found four wounds—two on the back, one of them over the spine, about four inches in depth, inwards and downwards, such a wound as would be made by striking a man from behind; the second wound was over the left shoulder, and there was a slight superficial wound on the right wrist—the fourth wound was in the chest, downwards and backwards, penetrating the heart—that wound was the immediate cause of death—it must have been inflicted with very great force—such wounds would be caused by this knife.

MARY WALLER . I am a servant, and have been in Mrs. Archer's employment, living in London for some years past—the prisoner has been in the habit of calling at Mrs. Archer's house—I heard from him that he was her step-brother—I lost sight of him for a number of years until about two months ago, when he called and saw Mrs. Archer—he came to the house about six times after that—I never heard from him what he came for—I last saw him at the house about a fortnight before the murder—I let him in then, and he saw Mrs. Archer—I was at the house all day on the 16th—I did not see him come; nobody came that day—Mrs. Archer was at home on that day—she left the house on the 18th, and has only been once there since; she did not stay then—she is out of London now; I do not know where she is.

CHARLES JOHN DEXTON . I am a theatrical agent at 34, Maiden Lane—I first knew the prisoner during the run of the Harbour Lights at the Adelphi, 11 or 12 years ago—we were then both play ing in the same company—Mr. Terriss played in that piece—I never saw the prisoner outside the theatre—I lost sight of him after that until about two or three months ago—in October or November last he came to me for employment—I endeavoured to obtain employment for him—he called at my place nearly every day—I made him an offer for one week's engagement, which he did not accept—he called on December 16th about five p.m.—he asked me if I had anything, and I said, "nothing"—nothing about him attracted my attention—my office is nearly opposite the stage door.

Cross-examined. I believe the prisoner had been at the Adelphi some time before I went there—he was taking small parts, just over walking-on, line parts—Mr. Terriss went there in the Harbour Lights, after some Irish piece—to the best of my knowledge it was about that time that he became identified with the Adelphi—I dressed in the same room with the prisoner—I think he had an opinion about his own acting powers, saying he ought to have an opportunity of showing what he could do—I could not say if he was understudy to some more prominent actor—to the best of my recollection he thought he ought to have larger parts than those given him—I believe he had an animosity to everybody above him he thought he ought to be in a better position, that was the impression I and the other actors had—he had no special animosity to Mr. Terriss to my knowledge at that time—the prisoner could always be made in a temper by chaffing, or anything of that sort, he was eccentric, I should say—I should not say he flew into a very bad temper when he was excited, I never saw him violent—he was more easily roused to bad temper than most men—when he came to my office at the end of last year he looked as if he was in low water—a good many actors in low water come to, me for engagements—he gave as a reason for not taking

the engagement I offered him, that he had not got a wardrobe for it—I tried to get him an engagement for pantomime—I had made up my mind to put him into one of my pantomimes; I run pantomimes as well as being an agent—I do not think I told the prisoner that—I said I would do my very best to get him something to do—I knew Mr. Terriss very well—I should say he was decidedly not the sort of man who would have tried to keep another actor oil of work, but, on the contrary, would have been willing to help those of his brethren who were in low water.

Re-examined. I have an idea that the prisoner used to express jealousy with regard to everybody above him when I was at the Adelphi with him—when he called on me, and I was trying to get him employment, there was nothing in his manner or mode of speech that attracted my attention, he told me he was very hard, up—I see such a lot of people that I cannot say.

Witnesses for the Defence.

MARGARET ARCHER . I am the prisoner's mother—he was born on May 11th, 1858—I was then living at a farm called Balmedown—in the harvest time of that year I was shearing in the harvest field, the baby was with me, it was very hot, and he was sun struck—after I had finished my work I went to the field where he was—he was blue in the face, and his eyes were very bad—I took him to a doctor—after that he squinted—he was always a little bad tempered—as a boy he sometimes got very angry—he did not play very much—he stopped at school till he was 14, and then went to work at Borr and Ireland's, and Gourley's shipyards—while he was at Gourley's he went in the evening to the Theatre Royal, Dundee, and played as a supernumerary—about 1875 I came up to London with my husband—we left the prisoner in Dundee; he afterwards joined us in London, and got employment at the Adelphi Theatre—we went back to Dundee, leaving him at the Adelphi, and for seven years I did not see. the prisoner much—about eight years ago he came to us at Dundee—he was on a theatrical tour, and from Dundee he went on to Aberdeen—after that he lived with us for some time, going away to get engagements and coming back to us—while he lived with us he worked at Gourley's ship-yard and Robertson and Archer's engineering works—sometimes he was not very well pleased; he thought I doctored his food when he was in a bad temper—he often said that—he also said other people did it; he could not say who they were—he did not say much against Robert Arthur to me—sometimes when he was out of work he said Mr. Arthur prevented him from getting work; I did not believe him—Mr. Arthur was a theatre manager in Dundee; the prisoner blamed him for keeping him out of the Dundee theatre—I cannot remember if he said anyone else had tried to keep him from getting work—he did not say anything about his fellow workmen—he said Mr. Arthur had blackmailed him or something—I do not remember his using the word blackmail as to anybody else—the prisoner said he himself was the son of a gentleman, and that he was Lord Jesus Christ, and that I was the Virgin Mary—he did not say that very often; I do not remember when he began to say it—he got angry with me when his tea was not right to please him—he said his tea was adulterated; it was poisoned—he did not say that often, just when he had his turns, by which I mean when he got in a bad temper—he was never violent to me; he did not touch me—he did not hurt me in

any way—he never attacked me—Mrs. Moffatt, my neighbour, is here; she will tell you about my going into her house—the prisoner's brother Henry was and is still living with me—I do not mind a quarrel between the prisoner and his brother—when the prisoner had not his turns he was quiet—he wrote a great deal; he wrote plays and that, and letters to people, and dressed and went to the theatre, and so on—when he had his turns he swore sometimes; he was not always the same—in his turns he sang hymns and songs; his eyes would stare out of his head for ten minutes, and never wink—he had turns more often the last few years than when he first came back to Dundee, and they got worse—he last left Dundee five years ago; he went away with a company—the prisoner's father was married before he married me—he had a son, David, who was never right in his head; he was born wrong altogether as far as I know; he was mad when he was born—my eldest son was James—he died about eight years ago—he was a cabman and coachman in London—in his turns the prisoner was sometimes very noisy; he looked wild-like—sometimes he said I had poisoned his food, not always.

Cross-examined. The prisoner used to learn at school; he did not learn very quickly—he was dour, and bad at taking up the things—he was always very vain; he had very high self-esteem all his life—as a boy he was very easily put in a passion, and when anyone interfered with him he was very cross with them—I do not think I was in when he threatened to stab his brother; Mrs. Moffat will tell you that; she was there and I was not—when he grew up he got employment at several different places, working as a labouring man as a plater at the works—I don't know if he dressed very smartly—he very often complained of people trying to keep him out of work—he thought he was a grand actor—when I say he had turns I mean violent fits of passion, when he would be wrong in his mind—at other times he was quite calm—he told me he left the Adelphi theatre to get more money, to go with a travelling company—I have heard him say he ought to have had leading parts—when he was out of the atrical employment he worked as a labourer in Dundee—when he could not get employment at the theatres he was very depressed, low—I knew he had not much money when he was in London this last time—he wrote to me a few days before this occurrence about going back to Dundee—my grandchild answered the letter for me—I knew he was talking nonsense when he said I was the Virgin Mary and he was Jesus Christ—he never drank spirits, he used to drink beer—when he took a little beer it excited him very much; he never drank much—I never saw him much the worse for drink—he said the tea was adulterated; it was no good—my son James was thrown off a cab on to his head near Lords—my husband was a ploughman—he had four children by his first wife, and five by me—David was one of the first family—he was never locked up; he was silly—a farmer keeps him in the country.

HARKY GRAHAM ARCHER . I am the prisoner's brother—I have been living for the last eight years or longer with my mother in Dundee—when my brother came home from time to time he slept in the same room with me—he talked about what people had been doing to him—he said that Robert Arthur, the manager of the Dundee theatre, had blackmailed him for the last ten years—he spoke about different men blackmailing him;

but did not mention names—he said the actors generally were all black-mailing him—he said the men in the places where he worked in Dundee had been sent by Robert Arthur to blackmail him in London—a soldier in Wallace factory for one, and Mr. Husband for another, and other persons whom I cannot remember now—his temper was very passionate indeed; there was not the slightest cause for it—when the prisoner was in a temper he was very outrageous—he said I was in league with Mr. Robert Arthur to blackmail him, and was working against him to prevent his making a living—I have seen Mr. Arthur in the theatre, but I never spoke to him—the prisoner attacked me three or four times—one day, a week after the new year, three years ago I think, when we were living at Rosebank, something had vexed him, I cannot say what, and he had some words with me—I was in bed I think at the time, no, I was not in bed; I cannot remember just now, I am a kind of excited; he used a knife and a poker to me at that time and nearly took my life, and I think he was nearly out of his mind at that time—I had done nothing to make him angry—he put my mother outside the door at that time, ill-used her, and he was very bad to her that day, in fact, we had to go into a neighbour's, Mrs. Moffatt's, house—I went for the police, but they would not take any proceedings in the matter; they came up to see the prisoner, and he got quiet two or three hours afterwards, before they came—he used to come in from his-work with me, perhaps, sometimes before me, and he would pick up the-tea pot, and fill up the cup, and take a small drop of the tea, and would say, "Good God! what have you done? You have poisoned my te.," and go and empty the tea into the sink, and he used to say that I wan league with my mother to poison him—he has said, "I am the second Jesus Christ, my mother is the Virgin Mary, and you shall go to Hell," meaning-me—he was not so bad when he began to stop at Dundee about eight years ago—he got worse afterwards—I remember something of his going to the Alone in London troupe, and coming back in April, 1895, I think—he has often been away on an engagement since then; his last engagement was the Friday before the July holidays; I went to the station and saw him off—we got a letter that he had arrived and was doing well—he was very peculiar in his dress—he used to say, "They don't know the way to dress in Dundee and London"—he used to have a great big standup collar sometimes, and a felt hat, and a great big long coat, with a great big collar and a black tie; the collar was a double collar, and his cuffs were always tied up with string or black ribbon, he would not have studs.

Cross-examined. When he was not in theatrical employment he worked as a labouring man—I think a doctor at Dundee saw him on account of these fits of passion, but I don't know his name—it was about two years ago; he got a line from his foreman to go there, I believe—from the time he was a baby he has always been very peculiar in his ways, I believe, and very passionate at times if he was interfered with—we had a great struggle with a knife and poker; I had to hold him down for two or three hours at that time—after the fit of passion he would calm down and be quiet sometimes—he went to his work every day and attended to it, a very good workman he was—he had a very good opinion of himself as long as I remember—he thought he was a very fine actor, a much better actor then the men who were playing leading parts—he was second manager to Mr. Alliston, as far as I believe, seven or eight years

backwards and forwards, I have seen the papers of the engagement—he never spoke of looking after the baggage sometimes—I know of nothing that annoyed him when he threatened me with the knife at the New Year—he was very easily affected by a little drink; a small drop of 2d. ale would do him a great harm, and make him very excited—about the New Year there is a good deal of drinking in Scotland—he did not calm down at the time when the police came, but a number of hours afterwards he calmed down greatly, and he never spoke to me—they warned him to behave himself and that calmed him; of course I went out afterwards—I did not see the police officer come in and warn him about the postcards he was writing; I know through my mother he came—I did not understand what he meant by blackmailing; I think he meant black-balling him in some way, or persecuting him, and preventing him having his proper position, I think; I never understood what he meant by it.

Re-examined. He had not been drinking, that I know, when we had the quarrel—he said to me at times that Alliston was a very nice (or grand) gentleman, and at other times he said he had been blackmailing him.

MARGARET MANNING ARCHER . Mrs. Archer is my grandmother—I live with her at 51, William Street, Dundee—the prisoner is my uncle—I have a friend Jessie—I remember about New Year's time, two years ago, sitting in a room at home with her when the prisoner came in and said to her, "Are you the last spy they have sent here? and he ordered her to go—she did not go; she waited till I was ready to go with her—he looked very wild when he came in and spoke—he has complained to my grandmother about the tea—she made it for him—he always used to say it was adulterated—he would not drink it, but poured it out and made more for himself—he said at different times he was a second Jesus Christ—I heard him say it long ago; I cannot say when he began to say it—he has always been the same; occasionally he would appear wild.

Cross-examined. When he bad employment there he used to go and do his work in the daytime and come back in the evening—when he was away he wrote to his mother—he did so the last time he came to London—I answered some of the letters—I could not tell exactly when the last letter came from' him—he wrote about coming back to Dundee—I answered it for his mother; that was the week before Christmas.

ANN FRASER DARGAY . I live in the same building as Mrs. Archer, next door to her—I have known the prisoner nearly two years—I have seen him not in his right mind; that is what I think, because I have heard him tell his mother there was poison put in his tea, and I have seen him empty the teapot and make fresh tea for himself—in June last he came home to breakfast, and I was washing his mother's blankets, and he got quite excited and said there was poison in his tea—I did not notice if he tasted the tea before saying that—he emptied out the teapot and made fresh tea for himself—I did not interfere—I don't remember what I said—I remember his mother saying never to mind, that he took these turns often—on those occasions when he was out of his mind his appearance was very excitable and wild.

Cross-examined. I only saw this occur with regard to the tea once—I could not remember that he said it was adulterated; he said there was

poison in it; he was in a great passion at the time—I have more than once seen him in a passion; I could not say how often—he was an excitable man, and passionate, and wild looking—I have seen him very nice—I know he went about his work when he had got employment, and attended to it for weeks at a time—I have heard him talk about himself—he talked principally about himself—I have heard him say he thought he was a great actor, and he was very angry because he did not get proper parts, and thought he had not been properly appreciated.

DAVID SIMPSON . I live at 84, Ferry Road, Dundee—I am the foreman at Gourley's Iron Works at Dundee—I have known the prisoner for the last 23 years—he worked for me before he went to London—he came to work with me again about three years ago, in May, 1895—he was a very steady, attentive and obliging workman when he worked for me—from time to time he went away on theatrical engagements—he had a very eccentric strange way with him; he was very strange in his ways; he was very jealous minded—he was looked upon as a little soft—the workmen gave him the name of "Tripe"—he was a passionate man—when in a passion you would think he was a man not in his senses; he did not know what he was doing—his passions were not those of an ordinary man—on one occasion on a steam-boat trip of one of the masonic lodges between Edinburgh and Dundee, he had to be locked down in the fore compartment, he would give a song of his own accord, and someone interfered with or interrupted him, and he would not have that, and nothing would please him but to sing, and, people interrupting him, he lost his temper altogether and would not be quietened down, and the white foam was at his mouth and we had to lock him down—that was about two years ago, in September—when he worked under me I had occasion to go, when his shopmates were interrupting him, and quieten him; take him away on one side—he passed the remark sometimes when I had occasion to chastise him that he thought his fellow workmen were trying to put him out of the shop—he complained of that—there was no foundation for the statement—he did not say anything particular regarding other people, only that he had different ones always to complain about when I would chastise him—sometimes he was very kind speaking, and at other times he was very angry speaking—it was always his, idea to be an actor—I think he stopped working with me in the middle of March last year—I never saw him drinking—the scene on board the steamer was not the effect of drink, but people tormenting him—the workmen tormented him more than other men, because he always had a way of reciting to them, and he was always considered a sort of butt and soft by them—I never heard the prisoner mention Mr. Fife's name; I don't know him.

Cross-examined. The prisoner would not have been fit for very hard work; he was not physically very strong when he was under me, but apart from that he was a good workman, attending to his work and intelligent at the jobs he professed to do—he was connected with the theatre before 1875, so far as I can remember—he was not connected with it while he was working at our place—I knew him well—I should describe him as a very vain and jealous man, but not an exceedingly bad tempered man—it was an exceptional thing when he was interfered with and got in a passion—it was pretty well known in the place that he vas a very vain

man—he believed himself to be a very fine actor—the men amused themselves by chaffing him about this, so as to get him to talk about it—on the occasion when he got into a rage on the boat they had laughed at his singing, and that was what made him very furious.

Re-examined. His rages were very exceptional rages when he did, burst out.

ANDREW MOFFATT I live at 22, Carmichael Street, Dundee—I used to live next door to the prisoner's mother when the prisoner was living there—I have known him about seven years, and I have known him pretty well—I did not see much of him through the day as I was at work; but when I was done with my work at six p.m. I have come home, and I have scarcely had my supper when I have seen and heard through the wall a performance by the prisoner; he was in a very excited condition, with his arms flying about and his eyes rolling in his head; sometimes we would get a bit of a recitation from him; at other times he would change the thing altogether and we might get a little bit of an act; and that might go on a little time and then singing would start; I have known him sing from seven p.m. till one a.m., and to the best of my ability I always considered that the man who would do that was not of sound mind—I don't believe there is a man in the whole of the part of the country we come from that is of any other opinion—I have heard people say as he passed, "That is mad Archer, the actor"—he was dressed like a mad-man, too; I have noticed him with a collar six or seven inches; no other man would have worn it in Dundee but himself—I never knew him to drink at all; I never saw him under the influence of drink.

Cross-examined. I heard the things I speak of going on in the next house, through the wall—he was reciting and going through parts of plays—when I met the prisoner we talked a little—he always talked about acting—he thought he was one of the best actors in the whole of the country, I would suppose—I thought he was mad because he sang from seven till one; I don't think he stopped an hour during that time—I have been to a theatre: I have seen an opera once—he scarcely ever stopped singing; if he was not singing he was reciting; sometimes till two.

Mrs. MOFFATT. I am the wife of the last witness—on a Saturday afternoon, about three years ago, I heard a noise next door, and I was called in—I went next door to Mrs. Archer's house and saw the prisoner and his brother—the prisoner had a knife in one hand and a poker in the other—I did not see him strike his brother—when I went in his brother went out—the prisoner was not speaking at all; he just ran about the house—he seemed like to strike his brother, but his brother went out—the prisoner was walking about the house like a madman—I cannot remember what he was saying—he looked just like a madman—his eyes were rolling in his head—I said if he did not let his brother out I would go for the police—Mrs. Archer was not there; I think she had been there before, but she went away like Harry did because of the noise—I did not see him strike his brother.

Cross-examined. I said I would go for the police, if he did not let his brother out, and he let his brother out, and there the matter ended.

ROBERT BEVERIDGE . I am a theatre attendant at the Dundee Theatre—I have known the prisoner between 24 and 25 years—I remember him. when he was a super at that theatre, before he came to London—he went

about then in a very peculiar sort of way—he was not the same as any other lad, I would think—he spoke very little at that time—he seemed to be stage-struck at that time, so far as I could see—he became quite professional in his way at the theatre altogether before he left for London; he was not like other professionals; he seemed to think himself above everybody who was connected with the theatre, though he was only a super—he was quite a lad at that time—in March, 1883, I was in London and I met him in the Strand, and spoke to him—he said he was at the Adelphi—I took him to be a little off his head—he still thought he was a great actor; but I had very little confidence in him at that time—I next, saw him at the Dundee Theatre, about nine years ago, in the Union Jack company—I saw a good deal of him then—he had a quarrel with the supers at that time because they called him "Tripe"—he did not behave like an ordinary person then; he cursed and swore more than most people would do, and carried on a bit—I had to turn him out of the Star dressing-room one night; he got into it from the upper circle, or somewhere, and he was not engaged in the company—I travelled with him, in 1895, in Rob Roy—I had to carry him out from the dress circle, at that time, because he was standing hurrahing at the actors when they were on the stage, and was creating a disturbance—he looked then about something similar to what he looks like now—12 months last April, when For the Crown was being played, the prisoner wanted to go for Arthur Stewart, an actor, and was turned out—he then pulled a revolver from his pocket, and threatened to go for me and Fife, the acting manager of a theatre.

Cross-examined. He behaved badly in the theatre and gave us trouble, and he was peculiar in his manner in different ways—I had to turn him out about five or six times, as far as I can remember—I saw the revolver when he threatened me with it—he put it up, and told me he would shoot me—he did not afterwards fire the revolver, to my knowledge—I am certain he had a revolver—I never knew him to take drink; I never saw him in a public-house but once—I did not know him to be under the influence of drink.

ALEXANDER HUSBAND . I am a foreman at the Wallace Foundry,. Dundee—the prisoner was working there in the summer of 1896—he had not worked there before—he performed his work to my satisfaction, and was always steady at it—lie never talked to me about his acting—he talked about Mr. Terriss, and said Mr. Terriss blackmailed him—he showed me a letter from Mr. Terrias which I read; he had asked Mr. Terriss for a character and Mr. Terriss wrote in answer, that he would be glad to hear of him receiving an engagement, and he would be quite at liberty to use his name; but the prisoner was not satisfied with that, and he thought it was blackmailing—I have also heard him mention Mr. Allison, he said just about the same about him; he thought they were in conjunction and united to blackmail him, and he intended to bring an action in the court of law about it against Mr. Terriss and Mr. Allison; because Mr. Terriss gave him this letter and no more—that was the reason he showed me the letter and asked my advice in the matter—he only used the word "blackmail" on that occasion when he consulted me about this letter.

Cross-examined. I understood that by "blackmail" he meant that Mr. Terriss and Mr. Allison had injured him and prevented him accepting engagements;

what he wanted from them was a character stating he had been employed by them, and the acts he had taken part in, so that he could use them in applying for a situation independently of these gentlemen—he complained that the letters they had given him were not satisfactory, and would not enable him to get a situation; he wanted to act independently of these gentlemen—he wanted to get a leading part on his own merits—he left the works of his own accord in order to take up one of these theatrical engagements—I had no complaint whatever against him when he left—he was quite competent to do his work—he left on July 22, 1897—I gave him a certificate of character which I very often do—it was written on one of the firm's memorandum forms, and merely stated, "This is to certify that Richard Archer has been employed under me for a considerable time past, and he has conducted himself to my entire satisfaction; he has also proved himself steady and obliging, Yours truly, Alexander Husband."

Re-examined. He worked for me from March 26th, 1896, to July 27th, 1897—he was not, to my knowledge, chaffed by the men.

MR. ALLISTON, I am a theatrical manager, living at Southport—I take about a large number of touring companies—in June, 1889, the prisoner came to me and took a part in the "Union Jack" company—from June, 1889, he was engaged with me to play two small parts; and up to 1893, off and on, with very brief intervals, he would be in my employment—he only took the smallest possible parts—in 1895, from January to April, he was with me as a baggage man in "Alone in London" on a little tour in Scotland—those were the only two companies he was in with me that I can remember—they extended nearly five years—if I am not mistaken I discharged him—I have received a great many letters from him at different times since he left; practically all found their way into the waste-paper basket, with the exception of three—I think I sent three post-cards to the Dundee police—these cards are addressed to me, and are in the prisoner's writing—this is a correct copy of a letter I received from him. (The post-cards were addressed to J. F. Alliston, Esq., Theatre Royal, Bolton, from 7, Rosebank Road, Dundee, and there as follows:—"Sir,—What am I to understand by your silence? I demand my reference. No more blackmailing for me. If you do not send it at once, I will fight again for it in London.—Richard A. Prince" "Sir,—Another thing I will tell you, you cannot fight an actor with money, or he would have horsewhipped you for blackmailing him for seven years, I am not a woman, a Highlander is Richard A. Prince." Sir, you are not pleased by taking away my living; you want my character as well. You cannot, you cur, you hound. Out with what you have got against me, and let the world know.—Richard A. Prince. "The letter was dated September 25th, 1895, from 51, William Street, Victoria Street, and was ns follows:" You hell hound, you Judas, you told me in a note you would give me a manager's or an actor's reference. A gentleman has written for a reference, and I know now why I have not obtained an engagement, you cur. This is my thanks for saving you pounds in "Alone in London," and saving it from being disgraced; I have suffered worse than death. I know now why I did not get engagements. When I left the "Union Jack" tours you never spoke the truth about me to any manager, black-mailing me to get yourself on. The next time I shall ask for a reference

will be at Bow Street police-station, where my lawyers will make you tell the world in Court why you have dared to blackmail a Highlander. I am not a woman, you hound. I shall expose you and others; they have no mercy on me, and if I die at Newgate, after you have not given me a reference, the world shall judge between us. I would advise you to take this note to Scotland Yard this time, and find if they cannot find anything against me. I shall write to every paper in London; we shall see who will come off best in the end, I, poor Prince, or a cad with a bank at his back and Pope's Bulls. Victory or Death is my motto, and the fear of God.—R. A. Prince."—it is not true that I have ever blackmailed him or tried to prevent him getting employment—I had many disputes with the prisoner while he was in the company, through his eccentric behaviour and refusing to do the work allotted to him—his last engagement with me was the worst he had, inasmuch as his position was a lower one—I would not have him back to play parts, I only had him as a baggage man, but I had complaints that he refused to handle bags and said his position ought to be better and he ought to have parts—his behaviour was not exceptionally eccentric all the time he was with me—at the end of his engagement the prisoner was very eccentric—his memory was not at all bad, and I think it got better while he was with me—he would have been able to master a small part in a day, and on one occasion he was put on to play a rather difficult part through the illness of an actor—in the "Union Jack," which was one of our pieces, there was a murder scene, a man is stabbed with a knife—the prisoner played the servant, who led the supers on in the snow scene, and one of the sergeants in the barrack yard—on the occasion when I thought his memory was so good the prisoner took the part of the assassin.

Cross-examined. Actors in his position usually have exaggerated notions of their own importance—I did not think it anything extraordinary in him—he kept bothering me for a reference, and then he wrote for a reference for a part in the "World's Verdict," and I refused to give it as he was totally unfit to play it—I only kept these three post-cards which I sent to the police—I got a reply from them that they had had an interview with him and he had apologized—the communication stopped then until the receipt of this long letter, the post-mark of which was October 26th, 1897.

RICHARD TANNER FINCH, M.B ., Cambridge. I am the senior medical officer at the Fisherton Asylum, Salisbury—James Archer was admitted there in a state of acute excitement—it was stated on his certificate that he had been a cabman—he was admitted in August, 1890, and died in the following October—the cause of his death was general paralysis—such an accident as falling on his head might produce the state in which he was just before his death if he inherited a tendency to insanity—before the accident he was to a certain extent, I think, liable on very slight provocation to become insane.

Cross-examined. Being thrown from the box of a vehicle, if his head came violently in contact with the ground, might affect his mind; but if he had not a tendency towards insanity I do not think he would display the symptoms of general paralysis—there was no cause stated for his going to the hospital on the certificate.

HENRY CHARLES BASTIAN , M.D., F.R.C.P., F.R.S. I am physician to

the Hospital for Paralysis and Epilepsy—I have had something like 30 years' experience in insanity cases—I have been in Court during the whole of the proceedings to-day, and have twice visited the prisoner in Holloway, on December 31st and January 6th—I saw him for about three-quarters of an hour on each occasion—Dr. Scott, the medical officer of Holloway, was present—I read there also letters written by the prisoner, and shown to me by Dr. Scott, others than those put in—I think the man is of unsound mind, and probably has been so for some time—there are many people of unsound mind about who are not confined as insane; he would certainly be much safer in an asylum than out, and for the public safety he ought to be there—he was excitable, incoherent in his conversation, and it seemed evident to me that his. mind was really saturated with a number of delusions, what are termed delusions of suspicion of persecution—he seemed to think a number of people had been acting against him, as he called it, blackmailing him for a series of years, but that these actions emanated especially from Mr. Terriss, and that the things that were done to him were either done directly or indirectly through him, and also through Mr. Alliston—for instance he believed that he had had poison (he spoke of it sometimes. as a drug, but at other times as poison) put in his tea wherever he went all about the country, and attempts were made to poison him—I said, "What has that to do with Mr. Terriss?"—he said it was through Terriss' directions and instructions that all about the country, where he went promiscuously, landladies acted on a hint emanating from Terriss—he seemed firmly convinced of that; you could not shake him—he referred to a particular occasion on which Mr. Terriss had sent sums of money to the managers of the Dundee theatre for the purpose of sending up a number of low men, disguised, from Dundee to London, to consort with the prisoner's sister, and by ruining her character, his character by reflection, as it were, was to be damaged and ruined also—then the delusions were of very much the same character with regard to Mr. Alliston, that Mr. Alliston had sent people away to act with him knowing that his consorting with them would be the means of ruining his character—he spoke with what I may call a most off-hand manner, and an air of levity about the act; them was no sign whatever of remorse for the act he had committed; indeed, he seemed to think it was an act of justice that Mr. Terriss should have been killed, and, as far as I could make out, that act of justice was brought about in some way through an intervention of the Almighty, and I think that notion I gathered then is really borne out by his demeanour and actions in Court to-day; he does not seem to be overladen with any feeling of remorse—I do not attach much importance to the evidence of his having had a sunstroke; he had an attack of some kind, whether of sunstroke or not I don't know, and apparently it may have caused some slight damage to his brain at that tune, which may have weakened his brain power—I have no doubt it would be a contributory influence to his mind becoming unhinged—it is said that the cast in his eye followed the attack, whatever it was, which means that he received some injury to his brain at that time—with all the cares and worries incidental to his career he would very likely have gone to the wall more quickly—I think his inability to get employment for some

time would tend to aggravate his condition—all the distress and anxiety he suffered for the last two months in London would be likely to have made him worse—the letters and postcards of the end of 1895 and 1896 that have been read afford the same sort of notions with which I find him now thoroughly imbued; he was evidently under the influence of those same notions some years ago, and they would be strengthened by what took place afterwards—I believe them to be distinct delusions—there are many other things; I have only mentioned two or three of the most prominent; he was really full of delusions of all kinds—I connect the act of killing Mr. Terriss with the delusions—I think the act he diet was to a certain extent the outcome of the delusions themselves; he believed he was persecuted by Mr. Terriss for eight or ten years, and undoubtedly there was a connection between the act and the delusions—I do not think he was capable of exercising self-control at the time; taking the state of his mind as it had existed for some years, and then taking the privations and troubles he had had, I have no doubt he had no proper control.

Cross-examined. I have heard the account of the prisoner's life given to-day, that as a youth he was extremely passionate, that all his life he has been very vain and of very jealous disposition—I know the prisoner says he bought the knife a month before the crime, when he went into lodgings, for the purpose of cutting bread; I believe that to be true from my conversation with him; so far as I have heard that was the only knife he used to cut bread with in his apartments—I did not know his landlady supplied him with a table-knife—I imagined that was a use to which he had put the knife; I don't for a moment believe the man contemplated any act of this kind a month before—I know he had spoken of being even with Mr. Terriss, and of Newgate as a possible consequence of some conduct of his, and that he had said the country would ring with, his madness—I think it was a sort of crazy talk—I cannot say I attach any importance to the fact of his purchasing this butcher's knife at the end of October—I understood that he was leaving his lodgings at the time he went out with this knife in his possession; he did not tell me that, I gathered it—the fact of his going out with such a knife concealed about him would look like premeditation of a serious crime—it is not a knife a man would carry for any other purpose—in a matter of this kind I should attach importance, from the point of view of premeditation, to a man waiting about the stage door, if I had to do with a man of sound mind; but if I had to do with a man whose mind was saturated with delusions, I should attach less importance to it, because my experience of insanity leads me to know that persons with insane minds will premeditate acts of violence—there is evidence of a certain amount of premeditation in this case—the waiting about the neighbourhood of the stage door bears the aspect of premeditation—his making enquiries as to which door Terriss came out of was because he wanted to see Mr. Terriss; I don't know what his object was—I think he had been in this condition for a year or two, but I have no doubt his condition was made much worse of late by his continued privation and disappointments, and those would act very differently on a man of his condition to what they would in ordinary cages, and make him less capable of controlling himself—a man of evenly balanced mind does not commit a murder from any motive—it would not make a difference in my

opinion of his insanity whether he had premeditated the killing of Mr. Terriss or not, because insane persons do premeditate acts, and are capable of doing it—a man insane, in the ordinary acceptation of the word, may premeditate acts of violence, think them out, plan them and wait his opportunity, and probably be under no delusion as to what he intends to do—there may be no evidence here to show that the prisoner did not intend to murder Mr. Terriss at the time he stabbed him; I know nothing about that—I should not go so far as to say that at the time he stabbed Mr. Terriss he knew he was inflicting or intended to inflict on him a mortal wound, and that his object was to kill him; he knew he was making an assault undoubtedly, but I do not think he knew the quality of the act, and in a sense his mind was too disordered—I think he had sufficient capacity to realize that he had a knife in his hand; every person's acts are the outcome of their knowledge and belief; the prisoner's knowledge and belief were in my opinion entirely perverted, and therefore one could not expect from him that these would be rational and sane acts—Q. Is not this the conditon of things, that he may have and did have delusions with regard to Mr. Terriss' conduct and the wrongs he suffered from, but was perfectly conscious of how he was going to avenge those supposed wrongs.—A. I don't know how far he may have acted on the spur of the moment at that time—from my conversation with him I rather believe he did not go there with the actual intention—I have heard him say that if Mr. Terriss. had only spoken to him it would not have occurred, showing that he did yield to some impulse—immediately afterwards he produced the knife with the blood on it, and said that was the knife he had stabbed him with—that is quite common after acts of violence of this sort by insane people—they often calm down almost at once, and there is no particular indication afterwards—he was in no paroxysm of rage if he came across the road and stabbed him—I understood from what he told me that he wanted to speak to Mr. Terriss and that Mr. Terriss would not speak to him, and then he stabbed him immediately, happening to have the knife in his hand—I have heard Mr. Graves' evidence—I do not think the prisoner knew the moral or legal quality of the act—in all probability he knew he had a knife in his hand—his mind was saturated with all sorts of delusions, and under the influence of those he acted—he acted with premeditation, undoubtedly—I know he stabbed Mr. Terriss twice in the back, and then in the heart, after Mr. Terriss had called out that he was stabbed—the prisoner never used the word "revenged" to me—I know he used it immediately after he was arrested—Q. You have no doubt, have you, that he did this act in order to be revenged for supposed injuries—A. Yes, I have no doubt the things were connected in his mind.

Re-examined. I heard Mrs. Carby's evidence that she had seen traces of the knife being used to cut bread—his committing this act in a public place, and not attempting to get away, is further evidence of his insanity—it is quite possible that in insanity there may be delusions which overcome the moral sense and self-control, and that yet some of the functions of the mind may perform their ordinary operations; a man's power of judging of the quality of his actions would be altogether altered by his beliefs, and this belief of persecution which had been going on for some time would influence him—I consider an act of this sorts

the climax of his mental disease; I think the act was directly connected with the delusions—a man with that amount of mental aberration, under trying circumstances, and I should say with his habit of body which has existed all through, and been explained here, would, under such circumstances, have very little power of control by habit of body I mean his eccentricity and odd behaviour and vanity—the fact that his father's two children were affected mentally, that one was an imbecile from birth, and that the other died in a lunatic asylum, are very important elements in the case—the prisoner's brain was damaged by an attack in infancy; he came from a stock evidently wrong in some way, because three children of that father are affected—he was always weak mentally, and under the strain of life he acquired these delusions—he has harboured the delusions for years, and under the influence of them he acts, no doubt with a great deal of premeditation—he was in a weak condition of mind and body, too, I should say.

By the COURT. I think his power of judging as to right and wrong generally, and as to the right and wrong of this particular act, would have been much interfered with by reason of those mental delusions that interfere with his mind to such an extent, that at the time he would have had no adequate control over his actions, and therefore would not have known properly the quality of the act—"control" is a contested Phrase—we know quite well that in these cases where a man has weak brain power, he has a weak power of controlling his actions, and there are certain forms of insanity that are distinguished by uncontrollable impulses coining over a man-generally his power as to forming a conclusion as to whether an act was right or wrong might be fairly good, but under the influence under which he acted I chink he would for a time have lost his power of judging, that is in anything connected with Mr. Terriss, as to whom he had got these delusions, he would not have the power of judging as to right and wrong.

THEOPHILUS BUBBLY HISLOP , M.D. I am lecturer on mental diseases at St. Mary's Hospital, demonstrator of psychology at, St. George's Hospital, and senior assistant physician at Bethlehem Hospital for the Insane—I have had an opportunity of seeing the prisoner at Holloway—I came to the conclusion that he is now of unsound mind, and, so far as I could understand, the beginning of the trouble was in infancy to the best of my belief he was of unsound mind at the time he committed this act—I found the prisoner to be suffering from delusions of persecution, which, have arisen in various ways through the senses; he had the idea that he was poisoned; he also had perversions of smell, of the significance of which he was unaware; he also on various occasions heard voice, calling out to him the word "Rats!" the significance of which was that rat-poison had been put into his food—he imagined that he could actually taste poison in his food—he has been in Holloway Prison on four separate occasions he has stated that he has tasted poison in his food, and it had a very serious effect on his physical condition-a sunstroke in infancy is sometimes followed by various sequelae of this kind; there may be some uncontrollable impulse, or homocidai tendencies which may be carried through life: or there may be various other mental manifestations some eight years ago I collected a number of cases of sunstroke in infancy which had

been followed by similar perversions—I should say that when he committed this act he was not conscious that it was one he ought not to commit, from his own statement that he believed at the time he was carrying out God's will—the delusions from which he suffered had dominated the whole of the individual—I cannot say whether when he committed the act he would be likely to know the consequences to himself, beyond this, that I put the question to the prisoner and he said that before God he did not know the consequences at the time he committed the act, so that he did not calculate the consequences—I believe the act was the outcome of those delusions—I agree with Dr. Bastian that the fact of two of his brothers by the same father having been insane would induce me to come to the conclusion that the prisoner is of an unsound, nervous disposition—I do not think his mind was in such a condition that he could judge between right and wrong; I think he regarded himself as being infallible and simply carrying out the will of God—privation and hunger is the most productive means of loss of control—I should think the fact of his violence having increased of late years would point to the growth of his condition of delusional insanity; cases of delusional insanity do tend to become more demonstrative—owing to his suffering from hunger and privation the control over his will was weakened.

Cross-examined. The chief delusion under which I considered the prisoner was acting was that Mr. Terriss had done him some injury by preventing him from getting better employment; and that he was persecuted directly and indirectly by Mr. Terriss—I believe what he did was done in revenge for this supposed injury—starvation would increase the absence of control over himself—if under the influence of that starvation he had stolen food I should not suggest he was not responsible for that act, if that was the only feature in the case—some of his delusions had reference to food—it was because of his delusions I think he had not control over his actions—if he had merely inflicted some injury on Mr. Terriss with a view to preventing him performing at the theatre that night I should say he would have had more control, he would have manifested more control than he did—I take into account the fact that after he had stabbed him twice in the back, he stabbed him a third time to the heart—I have no doubt that when he inflicted that third blow he intended to kill him—the prisoner has demonstrated on myself exactly how he did it, and he has stated that he did it in the usual stage manner—my statement of my belief that he did it under the belief that he was doing it under the will of the Almighty is based on the prisoner's statement to me in the prison, after his committal for trial—I had not seen him, or heard such a statement, before he was committed for trial—I do not think it likely he would tell that to the policeman immediately after it happened—there was no statement of the kind fill I came to examine him.

Re-examined. I have heard the evidence that he said he was Jesus Christ; that type of insanity is very common, to have hallucination of tastes and delusions, associated with the idea that the person is Christ, and very possibly the belief that he was carrying out the will of the Almighty—I never heard any delusions from him as to the rights of property—the post-cards and letters written in 1895 and 1896 indicate that the prisoner was suffering mentally, and show that the disease was

growing stronger, and point, I should say, to acts of violence—probably want of food and dissappointmcnt would increase the mental stress and strain, and dimmish the want of self-control.

By the COURT. I had it in my mind with regard to the prisoner's statements to me that he might be making out that he was mad—when I questioned the prisoner as to his hallucination of taste he fell in with one's usual experience in Bethlehem—he was most indignant that there should be any question as to his mental condition.

JAMES SCOTT . I am the doctor to Holloway Prison—the prisoner has been under my observation since December 17th—I have examined him as a public official, not at the instance of his friends—I agree almost entirely with the previous witnesses that he is suffering from insane delusions, and that at present he is of unsound mind—generally I agree with what Dr. Bastian and Mr. Hislop have said—I simply approached the prisoner in the ordinary way as I do with all prisoners to test his mental capacity; unless insanity is forced on me I don't believe it—I assume in the first place that a criminal is sane until I find evidence to the contrary.

Cross-examined. Dr. Bastian was instructed to examine the prisoner at the instance of the Treasury authorities—I do not believe the prisoner knew the quality of the act he was doing—I think he knew the difference between right and wrong to a very limited extent, if at all—I question whether if a policeman had been there it would have made very much difference, judging from the prisoner's conduct afterwards—I have had him under very close personal observation in my capacity as an officer of the prison, and not in any way as a partisan on either side—I did not suspect that he was shamming, or that his conversations were not genuine—his demeanour has not excited my suspicions at all—I watched him very carefully—I was not instructed to keep him under very close observation—I should have done so under any circumstances from the nature of the crime.

GUILTY.—The JURY added that they found the prisoner knew what he was doing and to whom he was doing it; but that upon the medical evidence he was insane so as not to be responsible for his actions according to law at the time he committed the act.—To be detained until Her Majesty's pleasure be known.

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