Old Bailey Proceedings Online (www.oldbaileyonline.org, version 8.0, 27 October 2021), December 1876, trial of ISAAC MARKS (37) (t18761211-142).

ISAAC MARKS, Killing > murder, 11th December 1876.

142. ISAAC MARKS (37), was indicted for the wilful murder of Frederick Barnard. He was also charged on the Coroner's Inquisition with the like murder.

MESSRS. CRISPE and HORACE AVORY conducted the Prosecution; and MESSES. STRAIGHT and SMALLMAN SMITH the Defence.

ALEXANDER BAIRD . I am eleven years of age—on the evening of 24th October, about 7 o'clock, I was in Penton Place, Southwark—I heard a pistol shot, and saw a man falling—I saw another man; he was in the middle of the road; he fired again—he fired three times; he then threw the pistol down and ran away—I had not seen the two men together before—I cannot say who the man was who ran away—I should not know him again.

ELLEN PARKER . I am twelve years old—I live in Penton Place, Southwark—on the evening of 24th October I was outside the house—I heard a pistol go off—I had not seen anybody before I heard it—I then heard two more shots—directly after I saw a man walking in the road in a brown coat very fast—I did not see his face at all—I afterwards went into the road and picked up a pistol and a black leather bag—I gave them to Sergeant Underwood—I saw a man lying in the road at the time I picked them up.

Cross-examined. The pistol shots did not come quickly one after the other; there was first one, and then another after an interval of about two seconds, and then two seconds between the next.

HENRY SOUCH . I am a greengrocer, of 14, Penton Place—on the evening of 24th October, about 7 o'clock, I was in my shop parlour—the door was open—I heard a report of firearms, and the lower pane of my window was broken—I went to the shop door, and saw a man running away, a little to the left, towards Newington Butts—I ran down Penton Place towards the Butts and saw a man lying alongside of the kerb; that took my attention from the man who was running away, and I lost sight of him—I stopped and looked at the man; I saw blood oozing from his mouth—I went for a policeman, and saw Sergeant Underwood, and gave him information of what I had sen—I noticed a little boy and girl in the road; I saw the little girl give the pistol to a gentleman, who gave it to Underwood—I heard three reports.

JOHN UNDERWOOD (Police Sergeant L 11). On 24th October, a little before 7 in the evening, in consequence of information, I went to Penton Place—I there found a man lying in the road on the kerb stone—he was quite

motionless—I immediately sent for a doctor—the doctor washed his face, and I then recognised who he was, and told the doctor his name; it was Frederick Barnard, an umbrella maker, of Newington Butts—I obtained assistance, and removed him to the mortuary—I then loosened his clothes from the upper part of his person, and discovered three wounds; the bullet I now produce was extracted from the breast at my request—I then went to Kennington Lane police-station—I received the revolver from Kimber and a black bag from Parker—on examining the bag at the station it contained only blank paper roughly folded together—I produce it—Sergeant Brannan asked me in the prisoner's presence if I had possession of the revolver—I said "Yes," and the prisoner replied "Be careful, as there are two or three chambers loaded, and in-raising the hammer it may go off"—it is a six-chamber revolver; four had been, discharged,. and two remained—I could distinctly see that three had been discharged; the hammer was on the fourth and I could not see, but on examination it proved to be empty—there were four blank cartridges left behind in the revolver—I then searched the prisoner, and among the papers found in his breast pocket, I found this certificate written in Hebrew characters—the prisoner asked me if the deceased man was dead—I said "Yes"—he said "Then I have sacrificed. my own life for him"—I then charged him with the wilful murder of Frederick Barnard in Penton Place, Newington Butts, in the pariah of St. Mary, Newington—I then said to the prisoner "I am going to put a question;" you need not answer it unless you please; this bag was found on the spot; can you say if it belongs to you or the deceased man?"—he replied "I recognise the bag as my property."

Cross-examined. Penton Place is about 500 or 600 yards from the Kennington Lane police-station—there are no shops in Penton Place, they are all private houses; it leads out of a very busy thoroughfare called Newington Butts; it leads towards Carter Street and Westmoreland Square—it is a thoroughfare—I don't know how long the prisoner had been at the policestation when I got there—I had received information before I removed the deceased that a man had given himself up for the crime—I had received that information probably half an hour before I got to the station—he was sitting down in the inspector's office—I can't say positively whether there was a fire there; I rather think not—he was not sitting near the fireplace, rather in a corner of the room by himself; not with his head buried in his hands; he was sitting perfectly erect—I believe I have stated all that he said to me—he answered readily; he volunteered all the information that I have given—he submitted readily to my searching him—I found on him a number of pawnbrokers' duplicates, representing property pledged to the amount of 40l., and 6s. 10 1/2 d. was found on his person—the bag contained various kinds of paper, some newspapers, and some tissue paper—the bag was open, not locked—the certificate was in his breast pocket.

JOHN WHELAN (Police. Inspector L). On 24th October, I was at Kennington Lane police-station, about 7 o'clock—I saw the prisoner there—"he had previously seen Pride, a constable, and made a statement to him—being informed of the occurrence by the sergeant, I said to the prisoner "I understand you have given yourself up for some offence"—he said "Yes," and after a slight pause he said "I am the man that shot at Frederick Barnard, I don't know whether he is dead or alive, I should be glad to know if you will be kind enough to tell me; I am a Russian subject and wish to give information to the Russian embassy, and if they choose to attend, then I will make

a statement and give my name and particulars"—he was then charged in the usual manner—I read over this statement to him, and he said it was quite correct—I was present next morning when the contents of the revolver were extracted by a gunsmith, it contained four empty cartridge cases and two full cartridges—I have seen the bullet produced by the sergeant; I com-pared it with the revolver, and the gunsmith also compared it; it corresponded.

Cross-examined. I saw the prisoner a few minutes after his arrival at the station.—I was not sent for, I have a duty to perform there of an evening and I dropped in in the ordinary way—the conversation I had with him was in the inspector's room—he was very calm, very quiet, and very cool—he was sitting holding in his hand a felt hat, which he had been wearing—he was not under my observation that evening more than forty minutes, I should think, it might be a little more; he did not remain in the room forty minutes, he was taken out in the presence of the witnesses when they arrived, he was perfectly calm and quiet during that time.

JAMES PRIDE (Police Sergeant L 5). On 24th October I was on duty at the Kennington Lane police-station—about 6.50 the prisoner came there and gave himself up—when he came in I asked him what he wanted—he said "I have shot Frederick Barnard"—I said "What?"—he said "I am the man that shot Frederick Barnard, and I am come to give myself up"—I said "Where?"—he said "In one of the back turnings, I don't know the name, I don't know if he is killed"—I said "What did you shoot him with?"—he said "With a pistol"—"Where is it?"—"On the spot where I left him"—I then sent police-constable 64l. to see if he could hear anything of it, and drew the attention of Inspector Whelan to the case.

Cross-examined. He walked into the station and made the communication to me as if he was stating the most ordinary thing; he was slightly flurried when he came in, as if he had been running; he made the communication to me in a very calm and quiet way.

CHARLES MCCOMBIE . I work for Mr. Smith in Newington Butts—on the evening of 24th October, about 7 o'clock, I was outside the shop and saw the prisoner passing by with Mr. Barnard, I knew him; they were going towards Penton Place, walking side by side—I did not hear whether they were talking—I had not seen them together I daresay for eighteen months or a year and nine months.

GEORGE ST. HILL BADCOCK . I am a surgeon, and live at 87, Newington Park Road—on 24th October, in the evening, I was fetched by a policeman—I went to Penton Place and there found a man lying on the path; he was in an unconscious state; he was lying slightly on his right side, more on his back, in the roadway—I bad some brandy fetched, but he was unable to swallow it; he died in a few minutes—I made a superficial examination then; afterwards I made a more careful one, on Thursday, 26th—at the mortuary I extracted a bullet which I gave to Sergeant Underwood at his request—there were noticed on the surface of the body seven wounds; the first was a contused wound over the left eyebrow, that extended to the bone; the second was a graze over the bridge of the nose, I took those wounds to be caused by the fall, they were front wounds; the third wound was a circular one, one-third of an inch in diameter at the back of the neck, about 4 inches below the base of the skull, it was a punched out wound, slightly lacerated—I should judge that was produced by a bullet, I am speaking of the wound where the bullet went in, it was a little to the right of the middle

line of the body, its edges were lacerated, and it extended beneath the muscles of the neck down to the side of the spine; the right particular pro-ceases of the third and fourth cervical vertebrae were fractured, and a fragment of lead was driven into the spinal column; the wound was then' traced towards to the angle of the jaw; about an inch below this was a fourth wound, which was a small incised wound, that arose from a piece of the lead broken off the bullet about half an inch long, probably caused by the escape of apiece of lead; I extracted that bullet, I extracted all three, and I produce them—I think that wound was probably inflicted while the man was standing—the wound which, in my opinion, caused the death was a wound which was found on the left side of the back of the chest, nearly opposite the eighth rib; that was a circular lacerated wound, divided in two by a narrow band of skin; that wound extended to the eighth rib, which it fractured close by the spine; it then extended upwards and forwards through both lobes of the left lung, through the first rib on the left side, fracturing that, and ended in a superficial wound below the collar bone—the passing of the bullet through the lung was fatal—all the bullets entered at the back—I have no doubt that the bullet was the cause of death—I was assisted at the post-mortem examination by Dr. Swallow, Dr. Holt, and, Dr. Lees—the condition of the body was that of a well-nourished man.

ALEXANDER. DUNLOP . I am in the employment of Mr. Mason; a gunmaker, of Wigmore Street—on 20th October the prisoner came and asked to see some revolvers; I showed him some; he said he wanted, to buy a lot on commission—he eventually bought one; he paid for it and took it away with him; this (produced) is it—he also purchased a box of fifty cartridges—the Ballet produced is a similar sized bullet to those in the cartridges that he purchased—he gave the name of Marks, but no address.

Cross-examined. He was some little time with me—he said he wanted to buy a lot on commission, and he thought he could manage about 100; he asked the price of 100; I could not tell him then, my employer was not there—there would of course have been a reduction made in the lot—the price of the single one was 3l. 10s., and the cartridges 3s. 6d. the box; we do not sell less than fifty.

By THE COURT. After the purchase he wanted a receipt, and I asked his name—he said "Marks," that was to enable me to make out the receipt.

ADELAIDE BARNARD . I am the sister of the late Frederick Barnard, and live at 91, Newington Butts—I know the circumstances under which the prisoner became acquainted with our family; it was in 1874, I don't recollect in what part of the year; we were at Ramsgate, about the end of August, or the beginning of September—on our return to Newington Butts, the prisoner visited at our house; he made my sister an offer of marriage, and an engagement resulted—the prisoner was then living in Newman Street, Oxford Street, he was a carver and gilder, and dealer in works of art; he had a shop there, and also lived there—I recollect a fire taking place at his premises early in 1875—he came to my father's about 1 o'clock in the morning of the tire, and he stayed at our house for about a fortnight—my brother Frederick assisted him with regard to his claim on the insurance company—after the fire I noticed a difference in the prisoner's behavior to my brother, he had promised to lend him 40l.; I was present and heard him promise—after that he seemed to slight my sister—he got 350l.—I think from the insurance office, I don't know what office it was—after he had got his money I noticed a great difference between him and my

brother—he did not fulfill his promise of lending ray brother the 40l., they were friendly till after the fire—when he received his money they had a a few words together—nothing more was said at that time about the loan of 40l.; he promised to give my brother 5l., which my brother refused; he said he did not wish any money; then he said "I will make you a present of two little mirrors that I have in my shop"—he did not do so—there were some paintings on my father's premises which the prisoner claimed; they came a few days after the fire; they were given to my sister as a present on the engagement—there was a dispute about those paintings, and the prisoner instituted proceedings against my father at the police-court; I was a witness—an order was made to give back one of the pictures—there were Subsequent proceedings instituted by the prisoner with regard to the other paintings at the County Court, Bloomsbury, I was a witness there—there was no result, the Jury were discharged—the engagement with my sister was broken off, in March, 1875, after the summons to the police-court; the proceedings at the Bloomsbury County Court, were sometime after that—in May, 1875, my sister brought an action against the prisoner for breach of promise of marriage—after that the prisoner became bankrupt—on 24th October, this year, I was at 13, Newington Butts, my father's premises—the prisoner called; I had not seen him for sometime past—he asked me if Fred was in—I said "No, he has gone to a funeral"—he asked me who was dead, whose funeral it was—it was my aunt's—he asked if he knew her—I said "No;" he had a black bag with him—I told him I thought my brother would be back at 4.30—he went away and said he would call again—he did call again about 4.50—he still had the black bag with him—he asked if my brother had returned—I said "Yes"—he said "I want him to do me a favour, and I will repay him for it"—I told him my brother had gone to his own house, 142, Lower Kennington Lane, and he had better go there—he then left; nothing further was said.

Cross-examined. I had lost sight of the prisoner from May, 1875, until October, this year; quite eighteen mouths; he never came to the house at all—my brother resided about five minutes walk from us, and kept an umbrella shop—the prisoner knew where he lived; I told him he had gone home to tea—my sister's engagement lasted nine months, from September, 1874, to March, 1875—I forget when he got his money from the insurance office; it could not have been more than a few weeks after the fire took place—he was with us in the house for a fortnight—my brother was carrying on business at that time; not living in the house—I do not know what part the prisoner came from; I know he is a foreigner—I never saw his brother—the damages against him in my sister's action was 50l.; I forget when it was tried—there were four oil paintings presented to my sister by him; they were figure paintings; he brought them about two or three days after the fire—my brother was not a witness on the trial of the breach of promise.

Re-examined. He was there ready to be examined if wanted, but was not called-my mother died since the engagement, and according to the Jewish law there can be no marriage between the parties for twelve months—our family is Jewish.

JOHN HYAMS . I am a rag merchant of 13, Lancashire Court, New Bond Street—I know the prisoner—I knew the deceased Frederick Barnard—I knew of the prisoner being engaged to Barnard's sister, and I knew of the engagement being broken off—about March, this year, I was passing through Blandford Street, Manchester Square, and saw the prisoner's name overs

shop door, and the prisoner in the shop—I had a conversation with him—h told me that Frederick Barnard had interceded for him with the fire insurance company to get his claim settled—I don't know what company it was—he said that he had promised to lend Frederick Barnard some money, and when he received his money Frederick Barnard had asked him for it, and that he said "If I am engaged to your sister, I don't want to marry the whole family, if you like to give me security for it you can have it;" that Barnard offered him a bill as security, and he said "If you get it backed by anybody, or by your father, I will lend you the money," and Barnard would not do it, so the transaction fell through; then there was litigation, suits for breach of promise, and summonses, and that sort of thing—he said that when, he would not lend Fred the money, Fred had either written or sent to the fire insurance company to tell them that he had deliberately set his place on fire—I said "I can't believe it; I don't think Fred would be capable of doing such an action; are you sure that he did so?"—he said "Yes"—I said "I can't believe it, and won't hear anything more on the subject until I see Barnard"—then he said "What do you think of a man that would do that; he did not mind transporting me"—I said "I can't believe it of Barnard, and 1 will not hear any more against him until I have asked him if it is true"—I can't exactly remember all the words that passed, it was something to that effect—there may have been a few more words, I can't remember all—I saw the prisoner again on the Saturday before the murder, at my house; ray wife was then present—he walked in and sat down on the corner of the sofa in our parlour—I said "Halloo, Marks, what, brings you here"—he said "I was in the neighbourhood; I have been to look after a shop"—I said "I thought you told me that you had an agreement on your shop for two years"—he said "So I did, but I was doing no business there, and I have given the landlord 10l. to go out"—my wife said "I was playing cards with your old girl the girl you were engaged to"—he said "I suppose she is spending my money"—my wife said "Have you settled with her"—I said to my wife "What has that to do with you, you don't want to know anything about her business; you had better come out, Marks, and have a drink," so me and my brother-in-law went out of the shop—the prisoner lingered behind a few seconds to speak to my wife, and then followed us, and we all three went into a public-house—I don't know what took place when he remained behind; some words passed which I did not hear; I was in the shop and he was in the parlour with my wife.

Cross-examined. The business he was carrying on in Blandford Street was an antiquarium, a curiosity business—I had known him from a few weeks after he was engaged to Miss Barnard—I had not known him before that—I am no relation of the Barnard's, but a very intimate friend; it was through them that I knew the prisoner; the first time I met him was with Miss Barnard, at my sister's house, at a party—I know as a fact that Frederick Barnard did write to the fire office; I asked him and he said he did do so—I saw Marks after that, and told him what Barnard had told me, and Mark's said "What would you do in the affair—when I saw him on the 21st October he did not say where the shop was that he had been looking after; it was in my neighbourhood.

SOPHIA HYAMS . I am the wife of the last witness—I remember the prisoner being at our house on Saturday, 21st October—we had some conversation about Miss Barnard—my husband, went away, and the prisoner remained behind with me for a short time—he asked me whether I had

seen any of the Barnard family—I said I had seen his intended that was—he said "I suppose she is enjoying herself with my money"—I said "What money?"—my husband then came in from the shop, and said "She don't want to know your affairs"—he said "Well, it is no secret, every one will know in time"—he then went out into the shop, came back, and said "Good-bye, I don't suppose I shall see you again," and I saw no more of him.

NATHAN JOB DAVID ZIMMER . I live at 28, Holland Road, Brixton—I am an importer of foreign goods—I understand Hebrew—this document (the certificate) was brought to my notice—I translated it—this is the translation; it is correct, except that the date ought to be the 24th instead of the 23rd. (Read: "We affix hereby our seal, and give witness of one of our native city, named Mordecai Isaac, son of Arria Petrowoki, of blessed memory, who travelled from here, this our native city, in the days of his youth, very poor, to another land, and he is now about thirty years old, and he found now rest or dwelling-place in the great metropolis of London, in Great Britain, he is living there, and he is going under the name of Isaac Marks; we give hereby witness of this man that he left single his native land, and that he has no wife in this land, also his family is very honourable in our midst. This shall be as a true witness or certificate for this man. This day, Thursday, 23rd day of—, Anno Mundi, 5628, 1868." Signed by three persons of Seray.

The prisoner's statement before the Magistrate was read as follows:—" My intention was to call witnesses, but as I have no means of paying witnesses, I had better reserve my defence. My intention was to make as statement which was the outline of my defence, but as I have no witnesses to prove it, I shall adjourn it. I have no confession to make, because I made a confession at first, and I repeated it in this Court. I intended to give the outline of my defence if I had the power to call witnesses to prove it. Why I applied to the Russian Consul was through the Russian press to take notice of my case, on account of my relatives. I have witnesses, but I am like a sheep tied ready for slaughter, and am only surprised at so much interest having been taken in the case, having given myself up to justice, but I suppose there must be some black patches in the case."

The Following Witnesses were called for the Defence.

ISIDORE SIMON . I am the minister of the Southampton Hebrew Congregation—our last new year began about September—the Feast of Tabernacles comes after the new year; it is considered the most solemn feast in our church—the Jew's taliph is something with four corners and a fringe—a Jew is supposed to put it on every morning—there is no particular age at which it is worn—some boys put them on when they are six or seven; they are put on when they go into a place of worship—it is regarded by a Jew with very great sanctity and respect—I knew Samuel Hyams, the prisoner's brother; I also knew his father—Samuel was not of sound mind; that may be about twelve years ago, but I knew him before that, when he was of sound mind—the father was not quite of sound mind, at least, I can't say exactly; he had some peculiarities, the same as some old men will have; he was very peculiar—I did not know the prisoner at home—I know Mr. Solomon Jacob, of Manchester.

Cross-examined. I knew the prisoner's father in my native town, Seray—I know nothing of the certificate that has been read—I have been out of Court—I am considered a good Hebrew scholar—the word Seray is mentioned

at the bottom of this certificate; that is my native town—it was there I knew the prisoner's father and brother—I can't remember how old I was then—I am now about twenty-seven; if you reckon twelve or thirteen years ago, you will soon find that out; I was a mere boy at the time—the father might have been over sixty when I knew him, or very likely more; he was considered a very old man—I can imagine what second childhood is—very likely his peculiarities might have been attributable to that, I should not say against that—he was a Pole, I only knew his Hebrew name, that was Arria—I have read this certificate—the prisoner is named as Isaac Mordecai, the son of Arria—that is not a Christian name, but a termination, like the son of Peter—we always call ourselves by our own name and the Dame of our fathers—there are three names at the end of this certificate which I recognise, I know the people very well—the date, according to the Hebrew, would be about eleven years ago; but if I have mistaken the letter "s" for "a," it would be five or eight—I did not know the prisoner at all; I know he is the brother of Samuel Hyams, from seeing in the daily papers that a man of the name of Marks had committed a murder, and that he had resided in Newman Street, and was a carver and gilder, therefore I knew it must be the same man—I knew the prisoner in London, but not in Seray, because he went away when I was a child—I knew him by the name of Isaac Marks in London—I was introduced to him about five years ago by a commercial traveller, and the prisoner told me about his family, and I knew his family; that was how I came to know him—I identified him as the brother of Samuel Hyams, according to his own evidence, because he told me so—I asked him who was his father and' mother, and he told me so and so—Samuel Hyams is dead—I knew him for a number of years; not in London, but in Poland—I was a boy then, he was a man—the translation of his Hebrew name would be Samuel Hyams—the prisoner's name is not Hyams—I may say for certain that the two men were brothers, because the prisoner told me all about his family years ago, about his father, mother, and brothers, and I knew directly that it was the same—I did not ask him why his name was Marks and not Hyams, I give you the Hebrew name; my brother has a different name to mine; we name a child two names, because we name the children generally after a former generation—if a man has two uncles or two grandfathers, he will give the name after the two, and they are both not surnames but real names—you may have the name of Hyams and Marks in the same family in Hebrew—I never saw Samuel Hyams and the prisoner together—I say I know the names on this certificate; I am only seven years from Poland—I was about eleven when I knew Samuel Hyams, or more; I knew him a number of years—I don't know that he was at school with me; he was much older than me—he was in business; he had a shop—I began to knew him when I was about ten or eleven, and I knew him a number of years; I ceased' to know him when I left Poland, seven years ago—he was of unsound mind then, I know that—shall I give you what his insanity was?—his wife died and left him with four children in a very wretched position, his uncle was a very rich man; and he took it into his head that his uncle's daughter, a girl of fourteen or fifteen, fell in love with him, and he went about and said "There is the girl, standing waiting for me," when she was not there, and his frenzy went on; all the town thought him mad—that was why I thought him of unsound mind.

Re-examined. He didn't die in a lunatic asylum in Warsaw; he died I London, I think—I heard that he died in the London Hospital, I don't know

it personally; I heard by letter that he came to London—the persons the prisoner referred to in his conversation with me five years ago are the persons mentioned in this certificate—I have not the least doubt that Samuel Hyams was his brother.

SOLOMON JACOB . I am proprietor of an hotel, 5 and 7, New Bridge Street Manchester—I did live at Seray, in Russian Poland—I can't say that I know the prisoner by seeing him now; it is seventeen years since I left Seray—I knew all his family very well; I knew him and his father and two brothers—I was a teacher of Hebrew, and I taught the prisoner Hebrew two and a half years—I left him a, child when I came away—the father was Arria Petrowski, and the son's name was Marks Isaac—there were three brothers, one was Samuel Hyams, one was Ashur, and one was Isaac Marks—when I began to teach him he was ten and a half years old and I taught him till he was thirteen—his father was not right and proper himself, nor his brothers; his mother was very clever, and when she gave him to me to teach him, she cried and begged me to take care of him very much, because he was not right in hit mind; that was what she told me—one day I was told that he had run away; I went after him and found him in the river, nearly an English mile from the town, and his clothes on, to drown himself, and I fetched him out and took him home—he came back to school after that—during the time he was under me as a boy he was very strange at times; he never had proper senses like I have—I knew nothing at all about Samuel.

Cross-examined. I taught the boy till he was thirteen years of age; I don't know his age now, but thirteen and seventeen are thirty—I have not seen anything of him for seventeen years—I never came across Samuel Hyams in London; I never was in London, always in Manchester—it was through the newspapers that I recognised the prisoner to be the boy I knew in Poland—I heard the name—Petrowski is his name—I don't know whether Marks is an uncommon name in London—I saw in the papers that he was from Poland—I knew the father, the brothers, and every one—I don't know that Samuel Hyams came to London—the father was about fifty when I knew him—the boy's clothes were all on when he was in the water; it is a river by Seray, it is not a steep bank, it is the place where we go to wash ourselves in the summer time; not a bathing place proper, it is a washing place—there were twelve boys at my school—I never had an accident with any of them falling into the water; I have not known such a thing in my school.

MARK LEVINE . I live at 4, Meeting House Yard, Houndsditch—I do not know the prisoner much; I have seen him two or three times—I first knew him about five years ago—I come from Russian Poland—I did not know the prisoner there; I knew his family—I knew his father and one sister—I was not present at her death—I heard that she died in a lunatic asylum at Warsaw—I never saw her—I knew his brother; he was a little mad as well.

SIMON LICHENSTEIN . I am a traveller and dealer, of 21, Little Scarborough Street, Goodman's Fields—I have known the prisoner six or seven years—I knew him when he was carrying on business at Newman Street, Oxford Street,—he has often visited at my house—I have observed something peculiar about him; about six or seven months ago he came to my father-in-law's, where I was, and said he had a new plan in his head, and would make his fortune by it—my father-in-law asked him what was it—he said he had made up his mind to go to Poland to buy some furniture of the farmers, not from the rich farmers, but from the poor farmers—my father in-law asked him "Do you mean new furniture?"—he said "No; I mean old broken-up furniture,

some kinds of chairs, benches; they will be curiosity things, antique things, for England, and I am sure to make a fortune by it"—of course we laughed at him, and when he left my father-in-law said the man must be out of his mind—he appeared to be strange; he came out with this in such a quiet manner—prior to that he would sometimes sit at my place for half an hour or an hour and not speak one word; he used to sit with his hands like that (to his head) thinking, and when I talked to him he did not answer—that has happened on many occasions—I have not noticed any forgetfulness—the day before our New Year he came after me and knocked me on the shoulder and said "I want to bring you to-day my taliphs and prayer books; I want you to buy them"—I said "You must be mad, you are ridiculous; you must recollect that every Jew has to buy to-day some taliphs and prayer-books if he has not got them, and you want to sell"—he would want to buy them for the New Year, a solemn occasion—he said; "Don't ask me no questions," and with that he went off—he looked to me very strange at that time as if he must have something in his head—I did not know his brother or sister.

Cross-examined. He looked worried—I deal in furs—I never saw the prisoner's curiosities and antiquities—I knew he was a carver and gilder—I heard of his being subsequently in the old curiosity way.

By THE COURT. I was born in Poland—I know the district of which he spoke where he would buy those things—the farmers there have no furniture worth anything, only common wood, not even polished; that was why I thought it so absurd; they have no old cabinets or things of that sort; they make their own, they don't go to a shop, and buy; they take a piece of wood and make for themselves.

JAMES RICHARD DURNFORD . I am a saddler and harness maker, and live at 3, Blandford Street, Manchester Square—I occupied half of the shop with the prisoner at one time; he occupied the other half since last Christmas till the time of the murder—I have noticed that at times he was. very strange in his manner; sometimes he was very desponding, at other times very violent—I have seen him standing outside his shop on many occasions in a sort of mute state, and if persons spoke to him he did not answer them; he would stand outside in a sort of desponding state, and when persons spoke to him he did not seem to notice them, and they would walk away; and at other times he would walk in and bang the door in their face—I have known him leave business many times in the middle of the day and not come back; he would sometimes shut up his portion of the shop all day—he has sometimes almost insulted his customers, and he has complained of his business being so bad—he was almost under my sight all day—I have not known him to remain all day without food—I have known him to be asleep in his chair when people have entered his shop, or appear to be asleep; he has not noticed them—he slept in the shop in a chair. bedstead—he frequently used the same coffee-house that I did, and I have seen him sit with the newspaper before him, upside down, for half an hour, with his head on his hands—he once remarked to me that there was nothing left for him but the water, or something to that effect—that was about six weeks or two months ago, or perhaps a little longer—on one occasion I saw him walking up and down the shop rather in a desponding state, and I think he went upstairs and down stairs and turned the taps on and let all the water out of the cisterns, without giving any cause to me—I have seen him violently slam the door in the faces of persons I believe to have been customers, after but a few words—I did not hear what was

said; they were gentlemen and tradesmen the neighbourhood, and also dealers—we had a common landlord—he rented one half the shop and I the other—I did not sleep there, I have a private residence.

LEONARD ADENOVRA . I am a tailor of 3, Blandford Street—I hare known the prisoner about six or seven months—I occupied the first floor—during that time I had been constantly associated with him—on Monday night, 23rd October, we went out together, and when we came back he asked me to come into his shop and have a little bit of conversation—we were talking together and all of a sadden he said "I have got a revolver to sell, don't you know a customer for it, as I want the money"—I don't whether he had another pistol in the shop at that time—I had seen a dagger before in the window, and he told me it had come from Germany—when he came into our room he often sat in the chair for ten minutes or a quarter of an hour with his face in his hands, thinking, and all at once he would commence to talk again; and sometimes when we were talking he would leave off and sit down with his face in his hands again, thinking about something or other, and then he would commence afresh again—I have several times heard him mention suicide—he was telling me about his sweetheart, that he had lost his money and he had got regularly ruined through her, and had gone bankrupt, and the only thing left for him was the water—he said that several times.

By THE COURT. He told me that on the Monday before the murder, and he said it several times before—I did not make any answer to that—I said something—I said "I expect you will get up like all the rest of us"—I did not take any steps to prevent him; I thought he would get up again when his spirits were better.

KATE SUPPCROPP . I am the wife of Charles Suppcropp, a tailor, of 3, Blandford Street—we occupied the first floor—I remember the prisoner there; he came and saw us daily—I have observed that he has been very strange in his ways for some time—he got worse during the last month—he complained of his head—when he was in conversation he would break off; he would sit for a long time still, with his head on his hands, and then start up and begin again—I have offered him food, but he would not take it; that has been at supper time when he was up in our room, when we were going to have our supper, and he declined—I thought many times that he needed the food, but he would not take it—the night before this occurrence he was up in our room; his conduct was unusually strange—he has spoken of suicide; he said there was nothing left for him but the water; I think that was said the night before; I am not quite sure; he was talking about his poverty, losing his property—he said he had been very much attached to the young lady—I have not noticed him shut the door in the face of his customers—I should not be downstairs.

Cross-examined. I am a Christian—I know that the Jews do not eat certain food with Christians.

WILLIAM POULTON . I live at 24, South Street, Marylebone—I know the prisoner as a tenant—I collect the rents of the house—I have had difficulty in collecting the rent from the prisoner—I had to put the broker in on one occasion; that was the second quarter, last Christmas—he paid it subsequenty—I have noticed him strange in conduct—prior to my putting the broker into the shop he required another room to sleep in; I got it ready for him and took him the key, and told him the room was ready for him, and he took the key out of my hand and flung it on to ray feet and called me a

scoundrel—I picked up the key and came away; he followed me down to my shop and said he was very sorry that he had called me such a name—he was a very violent man, a very nasty tempered man—I have not seen much of him for the last few months—he sut up his shop entirely, shut himself in, and used to sleep in the empty shop—he has never to me threatened to destroy himself.

Cross-examined. He was not so particularly angry when I put the brokers in as when I took him the key—of course he did not like it—he did not seem harrassed about his affairs—I thought he had got money to pay his rent—the greatest indication of violence was when he called me a scoundrel—he never slammed the door in my face—I did not know that he was in embarrassed circumstances—I put in the broker because I thought he could pay.

Re-examined. He was' more violent when I delivered him the key than when the brokers were put in, the key being given to him in pursuance of his request; that was about last March."

WILLIAM PHILLIPS . I live at 81 1/2, Greenfield Street, Commercial Road—I am a tailor—I am nineteen years of age—I reside with my father—Marks has visited at my father's house as long as I can remember; he wanted to court my sister, but my father would not allow it—this is about 6 years ago—my sister said that he was very strange in his ways—he was very strange at that time; I do not remember his wanting to marry my aunt, her name is Amelia Cohen, I remember Marks giving some pictures to my mother, after that he went away, and we did not see him for sometime, we received a likeness from Russia; my mother showed it to him, and he gave her a frame for it—she said she would pay for it; he would not take it—next week my sister was engaged, and when the prisoner came again my mother said "This is my daughter's intended"—he said "Oh," and next week he sent a County Court summons for the frame.

By THE COURT. At that time he had been denied as to my sister; he was told he would not be allowed to court her; he went by the name of Isaac Marks—he had no nick name at our house; I did not know him by any nickname.

EPHRAIM LAWTON . I am a photographer, and live at Southend, I never saw the prisoner until the 14th March last; I then saw him at Blandford Street, I went there on private business—I first saw him at the window, and I felt so alarmed at his appearance that I hesitated, to go in; he was in his shop looking out of the window—he looked liked a madman, there was a wildness in his appearance; he was standing with his hands in his pockets, and when I went in he scarcely recognised that I was there—I commenced telling him my private business—I told him I came from a gentleman that would wish to recommend a young lady to him—his reply was "Say nothing to me about ladies, I have had quite enough already"—I asked what he meant—he said "Don't worry me, I have had enough of one or two already"—I asked what he meant—he said "One is trying to ruin me, by "borrowing money of me and not returning it, likewise wanting to borrow again, but I have not lent it"—I told him I did not want to go into that business, but that of my own that I came about—he walked up and down the place in a desponding manner and repeated frequently that he was nearly ruined—I asked him his position, I went for that purpose—my name did not transpire at all—when I asked him his-position he said he was worth 200l.—I asked him if a young lady was proposed to him whether he could

produce satisfaction to that amount—he said he could get credit for 10,000)' if he liked; that he formerly had a place in New man Street, or Berne's Street, I forget which, and had a very excellent connection—I was with him for about half an hour—his conversation was so rambling and his manner so peculiar that I felt satisfied my mission could have no avail, in consequence of his desponding manner, not being in his right mind—in the Jewish community marriages are generally arranged in this way, in nine cases out of ten—I am of the Jewish persuasion—it is very common; no doubt there are gentleman in this place who have done the same.

JOHN RITTER . I am a licensed hawker, and lodge at Camperdown House, Great Alie Street; it is an hotel, I have known the prisoner about two years—there is a coffee-room attached to that house, and the prisoner used to come there occasionally to take his meals; I knew him well—some of the people there used call to him "Breach of promise," and others called him "Mad Marks"—they called him that to his face—he would sometimes sit down by the fireplace, take up the newspaper upside down and read it—I saw him once and called the attention of persons to it—he would do that perhaps for an hour at a time—he had the newspaper in his hands, not really reading it; I noticed him once for nearly an hour—I told him "You are reading the paper upside down," and he said "I know better than ever you knew how to read"—on a Sunday night, in September last, I found him there sitting by the fire—I said "Good evening Mr. Marks," and he nodded at me—I sat down in a chair beside him and asked how business was going on with him—he said "Very bad, I have done nothing for a month"—I said "There is no need to despair"—he said nothing, we were conversing quietly on different matters, and he jumped up suddenly, put his hand in his pocket, took out a knife and opened it, and took a step towards me like that (describing); with the knife open in his hand as if it was a dagger; I drew back, he was apparently going to stab me, that was my opinion at the time; Mr. Saunders, the landlord, and two or three other gentlemen who were in the house at the time caught hold of him and put it out—on the following Sunday, I saw him there again and I asked him what he meant by drawing the knife at me—he asked me what I was talking about; he said he never remembered anything at all about a knife, he swore he never did such a thing in his life; he appeared to believe what he was saying—I told him "You ought to be in a madhouse, not here"—I read the account of this case in the paper when I was at Luton, and came here voluntarily to give my evidence—I used to see the prisoner it the coffee-room very nearly every week at meals, it is a large table, not in boxes—I have seen him sit at the table with his head on his hands; he always used to sit down like that, he would sometimes sit so for three or four hours; I am always in the house when in London, on Sundays especially—Sunday was the day that I saw most of him; I never took any particular notice of his eyes, but he seemed to have very strange peculiar ways about him.

Cross-examined. It was an ordinary pocket knife that he had; I never same him take it out before—I never called him Mad Marks, I would not do such a thing.

NATHAN SAUNDERS . I keep the Camperdown Hotel—the prisoner has been in the habit of frequenting my house—I noticed a great difference in him the last six months; he would sometimes sit quiet and say not a word and sometimes in conversation he would get excited—I have seen him

sitting by the fireplace with a pipe in his mouth and say nothing—I was present when he made the assault upon Ritter; there was some conversation between them, what it was I don't know, and I saw him take a knife' from his pocket and I pulled him back from Ritter; we could not make out what was the matter with him—the people always said he was not in his right senses—he was called "Breach of promise" and "Mad Marks."

Cross-examined. Some people who came to my house called him so—I never took much notice of him, because I had not much time to attend to him; he was sometimes very angry when they called him "Breach of promise," he did not like it.

By THE COURT. He was called "Breach of promise" since be came to my house, the last eighteen months I have called him so; I called him so up to the last—he once drew a knife upon some other person, I can't recollect who it was—we did not speak much to him only when he came in for refreshments—we did not call him much by that name, we did sometimes, sometimes he minded it, and sometimes he did not—a good many persons frequent my coffee-house, sometimes between thirty and forty dine there, they are regular frequenters—I have cautioned my customers to take care of him—I saw him twice with a knife, once the last time, and once a few weeks before, he did just the same then, he had a conversation with a man and he took out a knife and said "If you come near me I will serve you."

NATHAN ROSENSTEIN (interpreted). I live at 2, Half Moon Passage, Great Alie Street—I know the prisoner as using the Camperdown coffee-house for a year and a half—I noticed that he was very strange—one Sunday I came in when he was taking his supper—there were about a dozen persons in the room, a conversation took place about a contribution for a widow with some children; everybody was asked to contribute something and I asked Marks—he asked whether she was a Polish woman—I said "Yes, with four children," upon which he said for a Pole he would not give anything—I said "What are you then?"—he said "I am a Russian"—I said "That is worse, because you are from Lithuania," upon which he immediately took up the knife that he had used for his meal, intending to stab me with it, or wanting to stab me with it—he looked altogether like a madman, his hair standing upright, so that I was quite frightened—the landlord was not there at the time, he was upstairs, this happened downstairs—some persons advised me to knock him over with ray umbrella or to strike him on the head—I said I would not do so, and at last I went away—I have heard him called a madman, "Mad Marks."

JOSEPH JEFFRIES . I am a carver and gilder, of 31, Paddington Street—I remember hearing of this affair on 24th October—about three weeks before that I called on Marks to buy some china—I had known him by sight for years, when he was in Newman Street, but not to have any business with him—I had a customer who wanted 'some blue china, and passing down Blandford Street I saw the very thing that would suit in Marks' shop, and went in and asked what he wanted for them—he said "2l. 15s."—I said "I am in the trade, I will give you 2l. 10s."—he said "No, I am not going to sell to you, I am not going to lose my valuable time selling my china to—you"—I thought the man was mad, he treated me with great brusqueness and rudeness—2l. 10s. was a high price for the trade; of course, a dealer' expects to get things a little cheaper, that is well known and allowed in the trade—he said he was not going to lose his valuable time going to sales, he would not deal with me, and he shut the door; he as good as turned me

away from the door, and I said to my friend who was with me "The man is mad"—I said it quite loud enough for the prisoner to hear—he said nothing to it, he walked inside.

MARLEY SMITH . I reside at 29, Manchester Street—I have seen the prisoner occasionally at sales—I am independent and reside in my own house—I am a collector of curiosities—I had no transaction with the prisoners until about four months since, I was looking in at his window and he asked me to go in and see a picture which he called a "Moreland"—I went in and said "What do you want for it?"—he said "Something like 400l. or 500l", it was a rubbishing painting, worth about 4d., in my estimation—I said it was ridiculous to ask such a price; with that he got in a rage and said that I knew nothing at all, and to get out of his shop, or he would kick me out, and so on; he was in a fury, in a perfect rage, and I went out of the stop in case he should assault me; I had never spoken to him before—I did not wait to see whether he shut the door, I was afraid of him in fact—that was the only occasion on which I went into his shop, but I frequently passed the shop and I have seen him walking up and down in a seemingly demented state, as if he was not right in his head, and everybody who was about, and the man next door, who was an artist, said that he was mad—I saw that frequently, almost daily—I had seen him at sales, but did not pay any attention to him till I went into his shop.

Cross-examined. He was more than angry with me when I told Mm his Moreland was not genuine, he was fierce; it was not worth 1s., it was not a Moreland. or anything like it; if a man was a connoisseur I don't consider he could make such a mistake; if it had been genuine it might have been worth more or less than 400l.; it is a matter of opinion.

Re-examined. It was such a daub that any one who knew anything about pictures could detect it.

Thursday, December 14th.

JACOB DAVIS . I am a glass merchant, and live at 31, Osborn Street, Whitechapel—I have known the prisoner something like twenty years; for some years he has appeared very strange in his manner—he has dealt with me and bought things of me a good many times-about eighteen months ago he bought an article of me on which he paid 3l. deposit, and when it was delivered three days afterwards he had forgotten all about it; he had frequently in former instances given me orders and forgotten it.

Cross-examined. I cannot tell how old he was when I first knew him; he was a young man grown up, not a boy—twenty years ago he was a young man grown up.

Re-examined. I did not know him in Seray—I got to know him a few months after he came over to England—I can't say what time it was.

By THE COURT. I knew him first by his coming to deal with me—I then lived in Bedford Street, Commercial Street—I have been twenty-seven years in England—I can't say for certain that it is twenty years ago that I first knew him; eighteen I am sure of—the total amount of the purchase on which he paid 3l. deposit was 7l. 15s.; he had 4l. 15s. to pay—when I first knew him he was not in business; he used to go out glazing, taking out glass for mending windows—he then lived right opposite where I lived for a few mouths.

AARON FRAGARTNER . I am a jeweller, of 23, Princes Square—I have known the prisoner for about twelve months—I have seen him frequently—he appeared to me to be strange in his manner—I used to see him every

Sunday by taking my dinner at the same hotel he used the Camperdown coffee-house—occasionally he used to remark on the meat we got saying that it was not meat that ought to be brought in any place but I never heard since I came into the place that any person complained about such a thing—I did not see any reason for complaint—during the last six or seven I always used to see him his eyes flying about in a rushing way and he used to be sitting at the fire and talking to the fire almost—there was that about him that attracted my attention—I did not know him by any nickname—it have heard him called mad marks sometimes at the coffee-house people spoke of him as such, and also in his presence they would call him such.

Cross-examined. I have not heard him called "Breach of promise"—I have seen him sitting by the fire talking to himself—I do not Know what affected mind—I did not hear what he said but his eyes were throwing about and words coming out of his mouth—that has occurred several times from time to time—he was talking over the fire in that way six months ago—they had a fire there then.

Re-examined. They cook downstairs not in the coffee-room—I am quite positive that I have seen him sitting over the fire and talking to it Joseph Levender. I am a cigarette maker, and live at 3 Lenton Street. Goodman's Fields—I have know the prisoner some twelve months as one of the persons frequenting the camperdown Hotel—I dine there on Sundays—during the time I have know him I have observed that he has been strange in his manner—I never spoke to him in the street—I have played dominoes with him, and in the middle-of the game he threw away his bones and stood up and went out without any reason and walked out of the house—he used to sit for an hour together with his head in his hands and an empty pipe in his mouth thinking to himself; he did not move—I have spoken to him many times and he did not give me any answer.

MARK CROOK (interpreted) I live at 2, Dorset-street, Spitalfields—I have known the prisenen for years—he came to England eighteen years ago—I knew his brother by sight—I don't know whether his name was Samnel—I knew the brother that died in the London Hospital I was not there—during the time I knew the prisoner he was very strange in his manner—he was called "The Madman"—that applies to all the time I knew him except six orseven years when I did not see him—three years ago he returned to see me and asked me to write him a letter when his brother died to send home to his family—for nine years after be came to London he came to see me then for a few years he did not come; then about six or seven years ago he asked me to write home to the Rabbi to ask his certificate that he, the prisoner, was not married in his own country before he was married here I did so and he afterwards showed me that certificate—this is it (the one produced)

ISIDORE SALTZBERG . I am watchmaker at 132, Hampstead Road, and 7, park Road Wood Green—I have known the prisoner for the last five years—he generally appeared strange in his manner—he employed me as a Kind of witness in the marriage affair or the engagement with his sweet-heart—he took me to the house serveral times as a witness to the marriage affair, which I thought rather strange—he asked me to go; I knew of his engagement to Miss Barnard—he took me as a witness that they meant to give him the daughter and afterwards he subpœnead me on the branch of promise—he meant that I should belive that he wanted to marry her although he gave her up—he subpœnaed me for that, to show that he wanted

to marry her; that it was not his doing that it was broken off—his general behaviour was strange; he would pass my shop ten or fifteen times without coming in, although I was a friend—I thought it was a loss of memory his subpœnaing me as a witness to the breach of promise, because he told me that he wanted to marry the party—I bought a looking glass of him, which he valued at 7l.; that was what I was to pay him for it—I sent a van to fetch it, and he refused to let it come in the van, and seat it in a barrow, and it was smashed to pieces—it was a large glass.

Cross-examined. I attended at the action for the breach of promise under my-subpoena, but I was not called.

JACOB NEWSTEAD . I am a traveller, and live at 16, James Street, Cannon Street Road—the first time I knew the prisoner was five years ago—from that time I have seen him often—I use the Camperdown coffee-house—I was present when he took the knife out to Ritter; and I assisted to put him out—on that occasion he appeared very strauge in his manner, and he has been more so lately—they called him Mad Marks behind his beak—they have several times passed the remark that Marks must be mad by all his ways—I have not heard them call him so in his presences—I have see him sitting before the fire, with his hands under his for head thinking and thinking, and moaning like.

Cross-examined. I never heard him eafled "Breach of Promise"—I go to the Camperdown most every Sunday, and sometimes during the week for the lost two years—I never heard anything about the breach of promise proceedings—I did not know that it was common talk in the Camperdown to call him "Breach of promise."

Mr. Crispe proposing to call-rebutting evidence. Mr. Straight objected', the only evidence the prosecution would he likely-to produce Would be that of the surgeons of the gaols in which the prisoner has been recently confined since the commission of the offence; and as no medical or scientific evidence had been called on the part of the prisoner, he submitted that it was not competion for the prosecution to give evidence of that character in reply, MR. BARON POLLOCK" The objection is new;—I do not myself recollect a case of this kind, in which no medical evidence at all has been called on the part of the prisoner but the issue before the jury is whether, at the time the prisoner committed this act, he was sane or insane. That is an issue which they are bound to find affirmatively or negatively in so many words, apart from the commission of the crime that being so, the means of proof affecting that issue may consist of a variety of things of facts proved by those who have known the prisoner for years, or of' evidence of those who have seen him recently, of those who have seen him in the ordinary relations of life, or those who have seen him with a special or scientific view anything that can throw light upon the issue, and is receivable in evidence, I am bound to lay before the jury."

The following witnesses were then examined in reply

THOMAS HENRY WATEKWORTH . I am surgeon of Horsemonger Lane Gaol—I am not quite sure of the date at which the prisoner was received there; it was immediately after the act was committed, about the 25th or 26th of October—I saw him while he was in the gaol, several times; repeatedly—he was there for about three weeks, until he was sent here—I conversed with him at times—I did not do so with a view of discovering his state of mind, I was not at that time aware of the probability of that question arising—I saw nothing of unsoundness about him—I have been present during the trial. (MR. AVORY proposed to ask 'the witness whether anything

in the evidence that had been given had induced him to alter his opinion MR. STRAIGHT objected, as it was asking the witness to do that which the Jury had to decide. MR. AVORY referred to the opinions of the Judges in McNaughten I case; he did nor propose to ask the witness whether in his opinion the evidena green on behalf of the prisoner was consistent with sanity or unsanity but whether his opinion as to the prisoner's state of mind when in goal had been altered by it. In that from MR. BARON POLLOCK considered he was entitled to put it) I have been present during the whole of this trial bitcherto, the evidence I have heard has in no way altered my opinion.

Cross-examined. I mean seriously to say that what I have heard does not alter my opinion; it is a serious question—I can't say how many times I saw him to speak to, serveral times—the conversations were not very long—I did not probe him as to the question of insanity especially I had not that question present to my mind at the time—I saw him in the ordinary discharge of my duty as prison surgeon to see whether he was in health or not and whether he wanted any attendance; I had no occasion to tread him medically.

JOHN ROWLAND GHOSON . I am surgeon to Newgate—the prisoner was received into the gaol on 14th November—I have seen him every day since that time—I have conversed with him daily—the first two or three days he would not enter into any conversation with are land the questions I pad to him he thought had rather a legal bearing them one relating to my particular department? he said if his religious adviser was present he should submit to an examination so Dr. Asocher the rabbi who visits our goal met me and I made a very searching examination which embraced tow hours I think——that was within two or three days of his coming in about the 17th November—there was also a medical gentleman present who came with Dr. Ascher he was likewise a Dr. Asher but the names are spelt differently Dr. Ascher. the rabbr, apells his name with a "c" "Ascher" the other is "Asher"—the examination had reference to the state of the prisoner's mind; I went thoroughly into the circumstances which led to the commission of the act with which the prisoner is charged; it was a very long examination as near two hours as possible and both those gentlemen were with me at the time—on that examination I could decent no delusions leading up to the commission of the act—I do not mean anterior in point of the time—my reason for forming that opinion was, the rational mode in which he conducted himself at that examination, the consistent consistent, connected account he gave me of the whole transaction which led to it—I have seen him every day subsequently; nothing has occurred to alter my opinion—I have been present during this trial—I cannot say that the opinion I formed in Newgage has been alfered by the evidence that has been given I think want I have heard might be explained either one way or the other—I don't give a positive opinion I say what is alleged that he did or said might be explained on the ground of sanity or insanity.

Cross-examined. The boundaries of sanity and insanity are very ill defined—it is a most difficult task to express a scientific opinion as to the state of a man's brain.

GUILTY

The Jury stated that they believed him to be of sound mind at the time the act was committed.

DEATH

Before Mr. Recorder.