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A WEEKLY JOURNAL OF POLITICS,

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TMNT,

} LITERATURE

AND NEWS, -

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EDWARD

WHELAN]

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Chis is true Liberty, when Free~born Men, having to advise the Dublic, ‘may speali free.——-EURIPIDES.

Vou. VIL.

See SEE STN SS en eee [EDITOR ann PUBLISHER.

Ss —— — ae ~ “ilcralure, and being obliged to leave Lyndon and to have all my plans destroyed.” ‘ But no one was to know of it,” said Lucy, jeosily. “It was their dear little seeret, and they would ' Keep it sacred for a few days yet.” And the Colonel assented. Thus Lucy gained more breathing time.

rw ere err

LYNDON HALL.

IN SEVEN CHAPTERS. CHAPTER THE FIFTH. ( Continued.)

Norah and Edmund were frequentcompanions, This was hy Miss Lucy’s manewuvring. Having made up her mind| “ See, how beautiful it is,” said Edmund, standing on the that they were the two Halves of which the Germans speak, flight of steps leading to the lawn, # Will you not come out she did her best to fit them together. She hoped to accom-| into the garden, Miss Lyndon? Pray do! it is so deliciéus, plish her moral masonry before Gregory’s return; when it) and it will do you good.” would be too late to “ hark back.” _ He asked her earnestly; and Norah smiled, and stepped

« This is pleasant, Lucy,” said Norah,suddenly. She and | through the open window. They strolled on the lawn, her friend were sitting on the lawn; Edmund, half-lying at; Edmund talking as she loved to hear him, in that deep, their feet, reading aloud. Launce was away with the Colo-| gentle, half poetic, half metaphysical, and wholly vague and ael, inspecting some improvements. dreamy way of his, which, by its very vagueness seemed to

Luey looked down at Edmund. She saw his face flush,| open new worlds to Norah. She listening quietly and with and his eyes grow large and dark, a certain absorption to which poor Edmund gave a warmer

* Yes, very enjoyable,” she answered. ‘ What do you) parentage then simple intellectual pleasure. Interested and say, Edmund ?” “1 think enjoyable too cold a word,” said | unconscious, Norah by degrees drew towards the shrubbery. Edmund, raising his eyes to Norah. Still listening, she passed through the narrow path, and up

“Take my advice,” said Norah hastily. ‘* Do not despise | the long walk, to the garden-chair beneath the beech-trees. coldness, Do not strain after excess of expression or un-| ‘ Let us sit here,” said Edmund. bridled feeling. There is nothing like self-command. Mr.) Norah disregarded the omen of plaec, and sat down. Tle Thorold, believe me.” stopped speaking. Surprised at his silence, she looked up.

Lucy and Edmund exchanged looks; but Edmund's was| The look which met her’s—the plaintive, long, beseeching full of pain; in Lucy’s was a slight sneer, as she thought | look—surprised her still more. But she did not read it what a shamefal trick Fate had played them al!, to throw | correctly. him at the feet of one who had not strength or power enough | — ‘* May I speak to you candidly and without reserve ?” to love him: to waste all that fire and energy in watering! ‘ Yes,” answered Norah, perplexed. desert sand. Ah! if that same fate had but given Gregory | “Miss Lyndon—” he began; but his voice failed him. to her—his love would have met a far different return. e I am afraid of displeasing you,” he then said anxiously. “My view of life, and of love, is sympathy,” said‘ Ed-| ‘ O, no! you cannot displease me, Mr, Thorold, What mugd, gently. “Sympathy certainly cannot change our|have you to say? I am not afraid of any explanations with natures; it cannot make the passionate cold, or the cold | you,” and she smiled. passionate ; it cannot bend the strong, or nerve the weak;) “ Thank you—thank you for that word! Then you will but it can modify. Lf our uncontrolled impulses wound the | hear me patiently and quietly and without anger, whatever one we love, it seems to me the manifest duty of the man, | you may reply 2” who is the stronger, to fashion himself, so far as he can,into| “ Yes,” said Norah, with a frank but still perplexed such form as his friend would have him wear; and to check | expression, saying to herself: “ what can he mean 2” for her suke, all outward expression of what he may notbe| “ave I deceived myself?” he then began ; “ have T read able to destroy within him. I understand no self-assertion | your heart only by the light of my own? But, no! it cannot in the man who loves.” all be only the reflection of myself! You do feel for me

Norah did not answer. While Edmund spoke, she looked | kindly, affectionately, with sympathy—is it not so, Miss at him earnestly and-sorrowfuiiy, with something very like| Lyndon? You do!” tears in her eyes. But Norah’s tears seldom passed the} le spoke earnestly, but O! so gently—his soft voice boundary of her lids. |falling like music on the air, his manner so controlled, so

“Not many men are like you,” at last she said, with a respectful! gentle sigh. “Yes,” said Norah, looking frightened, ‘I do feel all

“Ol! he is such a gentle, loving creature!” said Lucy to | this for you.” her, when they were alone. “* Edmund always reminds me| ‘No more? Must I be content only with friendship ? of that statue ef the youthful genias yon are so fond of; | O, Norah! I can keep my secret no longer. Promised though and, by the bye, he is not unlike in feature; so gentle, so, you are to another—but promised to one you do not love, kind, so considerate to others, so full of rare right feeling.” |and with whom you are unhappy and ill-assorted—it is no She bent her eyes on the little creature earnestly. |disbonour to seek to free you. If you evn gain sufficient

“ Yes, he is a very interesting boy,’ Norah answered cor- | strength to break off your present engagement, Miss Lyndon. dially. “I never knew ove I liked to be with so much, or|the whole study of my life will be bow best to make you who put meso eatirely at my ease. And that is no slight | happy ; how best to shape my life to yours.” praise from such a nervous person as Iam!” she added,| He took her hand: it was cold and trembled. half laughing. ‘*T am sorry you have said all this,” Norah answered in a

Lucy reported her words to Edmund, and cost him a night's | low voice, “ for now | have lost my companion. I do not, rest thereby. It was not only the fulfilment of his own love | love you, Mr. Thorold, and 1 did not kiow that you loved —for he knew he loved heor—that he sought, but her deliver-; me. You were a prized companion—the first L have ever ance from a man who held her by force. and made her very | had—and I liked you and felt grateful to you ; but, indeed, life a burden to her. We all know what a terrible lever to| indeed, I do not leve you.” love is fanaticism, amd the belief that love is duty. Kdmend made no complaint. He only shivered, and

Norah saw nothing. She had been too long accustomed | turned paler than Norah herself, bis forehead and upper lip to the fiery noon of Gregory’s passion to see what forms were | standing thick with heavy drops. floating in the soft dim twilight of Edmond’s tender affection.| ‘* Then you love your cousin, who is expected back so soon Ureonsciously she encouraged what she did not recognize. —perhaps this very day—to claim you ?”

By her gentle kindnesss and ber evident preference; by her} Norah was silent.

siient friendship; by her girlish confidence, she aided hourly} I did not know that,” continued Edmund; “J did not’ in consolidating the fatal fancy she would have destroyed at | believe yeu loved him.” once, had she known of it. But it never occurred to her; Still she did not speak; she only shuddered slightly and) that he meant Jove when she meant only kindness, and that | looked down.

she was answering a passion when she gave back mere kind-| “ But you forgive me for my presumption ?” said the poor ness. Then, he was so young—such a mere boy!—-only | youth grievingly, doing his best to prolong the conversation just ber own age! |—the last he might ever have with her alone, or on that

Gregory had now been away three weeks. He wrote | dangerously dear topic. letters daily that might have been traced in fire: so fiercely, ‘* Forgive you?—yes!—but it is not presumption. I have loving and so full of burning anguish. They were less pain- | been to blame for not having understood your feclings better. ful to Norah than his presence; but, though only letters, | Forgive you? Indeed; yes! but there is no forgiveness they were singularly trying to her. She dreaded them in | needed 2 a weaker degree, but in the same manner as she used to; She spoke fast for her, and almost with warmth.

CHAPTER THE SIXTH.

| thing like justice ta the prisoner.

‘dread his visits and his passionate prayer: “ Norah, let me speak with yout”

He said nothing of his return, and nothing of his business. “The Colonel alone knew what that business was; and was Aliscreet. Thankfulness at his absence swallowed up curiosity in Norzh, and hope in Lucy; so thatdays and days wore on, and no mention was made of his return. And still Lucy’s

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He raised her hand to his lips, without any show of passion, in a quiet subducd manner only, then left her—very sadly, but patiently and calmly—Norah looking after him sadly, too—feeling as if she should never see that young slight form again.

“She was still looking after him when Gregory stood before her. Livid, haggard, worn, with a light in his eyes as in

CHARLOTTETOWN, PRINCE EDWARD ISLAND, MONDAY, FEBRUARY 1, 1858.

it of when I like. Better that chanee than refusing him, | Norah, Norah! I call on you now to fulfil your promise, and

to come!” | “Tonight, cousin? Secretly! Without my father’s knowledge? No, no!" said Norah, terrified.

Ife seized her in his arms.

Despair and terror nerved Norah. “ No, cousin, no,” she said, “ T cannot d6 this without my father’s consent.”

“Phen that ladspoke true. You do not love me,” groaned ‘Gregory, ‘ O! what prevents my killing you now, as you lie back upon my arm? What better death for both ?”’ he -tauttered, passing his hand inside his vest, und laying it on the handle of «a dagger always worn there.

‘You may kill me if you will, cousin,” said Norah, her terror lending her the semblance of courage.

“Kill you! Nota hair of that golden head should come

her head, ‘“ My life! my love! Harm from my hand? Never! Never! Harm to myself iirst. But you love me, too ?”

* No,” said Norah, “1 do not love you, cousin.”

“ You do not love me ? Then you love him ? Woe to him?”

* Cousin,” said Norah, faintly, “ [do not love him. I love no one?”

Norah never Knew, in after years, how much was true, and how much fancy, of what she thought she remembered of the time when her cousin leapt the meadow-hedge, and she told him, with the courage of despair, that she did not love him.

Twilight was drawing on. In a distant part of the park, Edmund Thorold was seen by a pair of watchful eyes to walk by the river side. The youth was thinking of the scene beneath the beech-trees; Jamenting over his ill-fortune ; grieving that he had tempted fate too soon; but, above all, grieving that he nrust leave the first and only woman he had yet found to realise his idea): that he must leave her to slavery and misery, while he went ous to desolation and despair. Le sat dowa on the branch of a tree overhanging the river, just where it ran most rapidly, through the arches of the bridge—where it was deepest, wildest, and noisiest, A stealthy step erept up to him as he sat ; but he saw nothing : his face was pressed upon his arms, and these were laid against the tree, and the rushing water deadened every sound. Suddenly he beard a ery. We started up. A dark face glared over him; a hand was on his throat; and he was swung through tho air like a child, then dashed heavily upon the rocks below. A slight moan, a faint stirring of the ligbs,

corpse. That night Lucy Thorold eloped with Gregory Lyndon.

(Te be contanued )

IN THE SUPREME COURT, JANUARY 12, 1838, TRIAL OF DONALD McNEILL FOR THE MURDER OF WILLIAM LANE,

(Concluded.)

Hon. F. Paumer then addressed the Jury for the prisoner. He stated that the Court having been pleased to assign hin as Counsel in behalf of the prisoner, he must cliim their attention to what he would have to offer in defence of his client. He re- yretted that he had not the advantage of a greater scope of time to have made himself acquainted with the prisoner’s case ; could not be supposed that in the midst of a busy Term— such as the present—and pre-engaged and closely occupied as

He, however, felt much re- lieved froin the responsibility under which he was placed, by the evidence of the case as it already disclosed itself in the evidence given on the part ef ihe Crown. Ho» hoped the fate of his anfortunate client would not be influenced by the sympa- thy whieh the Jury would naturally feel forthe afflicted parent and bereaved widow of the deceased—a young man cut off in the bloom of life, and to whom those relatives were doubtless fondly attached, The learned Attorney General had also pro-

| perly reminded them of this in his opening ; and he fully trusted

that their minds would be perfectly uubiassed by any feeling of this kind. They were called upon to convict the prisoner wholly upon what the law terms circumstantial evidence— a species of proof always to be received with the utmost caution. From the records of courts of justice and the history of criminal jurisprudence may be cited many instances wherein persons have been found guilty under circumstantial evidence and executed, when it has afterwards been discovered, by the most satisfactory and conclusive proo‘s, that they were quite innocent of the crime for which they had suffered. In their consideration of the case, he proposed that they would first have to satisfy themselves whether the deceased came to his death if they thowght he did, then came the question: under what circuinstances the blows were given? Might there have been given to the prisoner any sudden provocation, real or imaginary. And did he, or did he not, inflict the blews intending to take the life of the deceased ? or intending only to prevent, what at the moment he might have imagined, some fatal bodily injury te himself; and lastly and more particularly, provocation or no provocation—was the prisener when he committed the act, if it were done by his

by the hand of the prisoner.

to harm by me!” cried poor Gregory, pressing his lips upon |

the broken eddy boiling aiid-reatarg~for-a” moments then closing again; and the river ran reddened over a bleeding |

| prisoner s brother, who having asked the prisoner about certain forged

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his habit of talking to himself through the night, and when working by himself in the field—all led her to suppose and to remark that there was something wrong about him. Mrs. Lane, also,as appears by her testimony, had her suspicions about the prisoner’s state of mind. She stated that she could not account for those extraordinary changes of temper so fre- | quently discernable. Neither she, nor the deceased, that ever she was aware of, had given him the slightest cause to ruffle als temper. On the centrary both her and her deceased hus- vand had always treated him kindly. On the moraing of the accident she heard her husband call him up, but did not hear the least altercation between them, nor anything like grumbling by the prisoner, He was furnished with comfortable bedding on the loft, but yet he unnecessarily slept away some nights where his accommodations were not likely as good ; in fact, she was sensible that semething was wrong abowt the prisoner; she was always timid when he was about the house ; and several times communicated her apprehensions to her husband ; he, however, unfortunately paid no attention to them, but en- deavored to allay her fears by saying there was no danger. Considering these unaccountable symptoms and peculiarities in the man, he thought the Jury, if even the whole case rested en the testimony of the witnesses examined on the part of the Crown, would long hesitate before they convicted the prisoner. Some reliance appeared to be placed by the Jearned counsel for tho Crown on the fact of the prisoner*s capability of reasoning between right and wrong, as evinced by his conversation with the witness, Ed- ward Lane, in the jail, when ho put the hypothetical case of «a man going in and out of a shop, (McTsaac’s,) and money or goods being im- mediately afterwards missed, without the theft having been seen by the inmates; and that, therefore, the man could not, be punished because no person saw hitn take the money or goods. In the estimation of him, the learned counsel, this exhibited anything but sagaciiy or soundness of mind. Qn the contrary, it was the shallow cunning that so often characterizes the lunatic and the insane patient. It was indeed puerile and shallow in this instance; for while Mr. Lane was endeavouring to draw a confession from the prisoner, it must have been manifest to all who were listening to the conversation that the prisoner was artlessly convicting himself, by putting the case of a crime perpetrated, exactly like that charged against bimself, in the absence of an eye. witness. Mr. Lane further testified to a story ot the prisoner having been charged and tried for the murder of some person in or near Pictou, Nova Scotia; which he said he fully believed to be fact; if so, it seemed very strange that the prisoner received no punishment for his offence; from which it migit be fairly inferred that the prisoner must upon that occasion also have been deemed insane and unaccountable for bie actions. The testi- mony of Sabine, Collins, Fletcher and McRae, he thought of very little import. They had all met the prisoner, some more frequently than the others, and they never saw in him any acts sufficient in their jadgwent to believe him insane. They, however, fur the most part, had merely exchanged the eommonplaee salutations with him as they met him on the road; and had never in any manner tested, or had occasion to test the sanity of his mind, and but little weight ought to be given to such negative testimony. The evidence of Dr. Jenkins, the medical atten- dant of the jail, added he, the learned counsel, thought, little of any- thing to the weight of testimony against the prisoner. Dr. Jenkins, it must be observed, was a thorough stranger to the prisoner antil he Visited him in tuesail; he knew nothing of, and it seems did not inquire

with him on a few oecasions, and could not say that be discerned any thing whereby to pronounce the prisoner insane. Dr. Jenkins, however, should have been fairly made acquainted with the previous life of the pisoner. It recalled to his, the learned counsel’s mind, a case recorded in most of the works on medical jurisprudeace, wherein an eminent , physician, Dr. Munroe, who had charge of a celebrated Lunatic Asylum, | was prosecuted by a gentleman for having ordered him to be confined | as a lunatic, it being alleged he never was one. Qn the trial of the | ease the gentleman underwent a very long and searching examination

by the Court and Jury, to whom he appeared perfectly sane and ) rational, and the erxse seemed to be going very bard against the doctor, | Ile, however, never lost confidence in his own knowledge of the disease ; he knew his man; and when every person present was ready to pro- | nounce the gentieman right and the doctor wrong, Dr. Munroe coolly suggested thatthe gentleman should be asked whether he knew any- | thing of a certain foreign Princess. In answer to the question, he admitted he did, and that for a length of time he had had the honour of carrying on a secret correspondence with her by writing his letters | in cherry juice, and went on to describe the means used to convey the | letters, &c , and so proceeded with a fertility of imagination on thie delusion, which soon satisfied the Court of the reality of his insanity. So in the present case Dr. Jenkins was disposed to think the prisoner

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he was on various other important eauses, that he could do any | ne until bis Last visi¢ to him, when he was accompanied by the

Bills of Exchange, he immediataly related e. story about some imaginary case of forgery which had several! times brought him up to Charlotte- tuwn—confusing the tale with other unconneeted. cireumstances equatiy

| ridiculous and delusive, but suflicient quite, as Dr. Jenkins admitted, ' to shake the opinion he had previously formed of his sanity. Thus the

brother, dike Dr. Munree, being {rom experience thoroughly acquainted with the prisoner’s delusions, knew what chord to touch on to test his disordered imagination.

The learned Attorney General bad, in his open'ng, cited an authority, | from which he argued, that if the prisoner was conscious enough to! dis-

| tinguish right from wrong, he ought to be held accountable for his actions;

that rule, however, is the general one, and must haye a guarded xppli- , eation.. Insane people frequently evince perceptions between right and | wrong, and oecasionally great astutencss. With permission of the Court, | he would cite, on this subject, some cases from a revent (he believed the | latest) work on medical jurispradence, written by the present eminent | Dr, Taylor. El. 1854, at page 819. He says—“ In one case at Edin-

burgh some doubt existed whether a party was feigning insanity; and | some of those about him, and in charge of him in jail, from his clearness

and coherence, were satisfied that he was quite sane, and that what he | exhibited was merely eccentricity, or simulated attempts to act as a ‘madman. Ingaue he certainly was beyond all dowbt; but he fought the | point of his sanity most bravely in court, and made very clear and quick {remarks on the evidence of the medical men, who had no doubt of bis

entire insanity; and when one physician of great experience with insane

persons stated that he thought him quite incapable of giving inforaation | to counsel and agent fir condacting his defence, he said instantly — )* Then why did you advise me to apply to and sce counsel and agents?’ '” | Again, at page 854 of the same work, it is stated as follows:—* Most ‘lunatics have an abstract knowledgs that right is right, ard wrong wrong, but in irue insanity the voluntary power to eontrol thought an@ actions is impaired, limited, or overruled by insane motives. A fhainatic miy have the power of distinguishing right from wrong; but it is con- | tended, froma close observation of the insane, that he has not the power | of choosing right from wrong. A criminal is panishable not merely be-

' eause he has the power of distinguishing right from wrong, but beeause

into his previous conduct, habits and history; ‘Be bad merely conversed .

‘brothers stayed at Lyndon Hail, and Edmund’s soul went) those of a panther about to spring, he stood before Norah deeper beneath the waves which gave back nothing living. | like an evil spirit. Norah screamed, and started to her feet.

hands, a responsible bemg? _ Was he of sound or unsound | pe yoluntarily dees the wrong, haying the power to choose the right.”? mind? If, in the first position in whieh he, the learned | This may be further illustrated by a case cited in a work of the same

But Launce? O! good-tempered, genial, soft-hearted a aen, summoning all her self-possessien, she sat down again,

-Launee looked on and wondered; and, when he did not) slowly stiffening into the statue-like, passive, painful immo- “wonder, laughed. As for the Colonel, he thought his way | bility which was all that Gregory knew of her, was clear before him. Surely he had secured all the ap-| “I have heard your conversation,” said Gregory, bitterly. proaches! Surely she had not an inch of ground left for‘ Is this the way you keep your vow, Norah? Answer me_ defence or for retreat; but, more surely than all, she was at once, and without subterfuge, is this what you call willing to capitulate, and did not seek for defence or retreat. faithfulness 2?” a And he—he would be proud of his beautiful prize; he would} “I have broken no vow,” said Norah. parade her before the eyes of the world, as a priceless gem in a gorgeous setting. He was satisfied there were no flaws | I haye heard nothing ; perhaps it is a dream—a fancy—avd in the jewel, and that he would not be disgraced by wearing | young Edmund Thorold has made you no offer of his love. it. So, the sooner it was set upon his band the better for! Am [ mad, Norah? Am I dreaming? Have I my actual her, and the happier for him. But this was just what Lucy | senses, and yet you dare’ tell me to my face that you have did not want. It was premature and digorganising. The | kept your faith with me ?” explanation must be delayed at least till Norah’s affair was settled ; and yet the Colonel had grown so pressing. What | done so.” should she do? Foolish girl thet she had been !—why had ! she heaped up the coals so high? What she had lighted for love to you! That looks Jike woman’s faith, surely. 0 amusement in the first instance, threatened,conflagration now Norah, Norah!” he cried, dropping his bitter satire of his to all around; and no one was to blame but herself. She manner for the wild Jove natural to him, “ is it not maddening could have wept at seeing her mine sprung too quickly, and , for any man to have the thing he loves profuned by the love at her inability to stave off the dreaded hour. But weeping | of Rnother ? Is it not torture, think you, On returping home her spiteful tears, or smiliag her most blandishing smiles, it| to claim the treasure of one’s life, to find a rude hand laid was all one to fate and the Colonel: the hour came on in-| on the casket, and one’s very title disputed} Norah, what exorably. Colonel Lyndon of Lyndon Hall made hera formal | did 1 hear when my eager blood has flown to my heart. for offer of bis hand and fortune, in the bay-window of the draw- | joy to find myself so near you,—what did I bear, A boy Ing-room ; sitting on the ottoman, and offering this precious | telling you that you did not love me, and you suffering the prize in such a tone of provoking certainty, that Lucy could lie to go forth uncontradicted ! Not love me !—not love me! have boxed his ears with good-will. As she could not afford, Ay, before God and man, you do! Ihave come for you, herself that satisfaction, she accepted him, | Norah; I have come to bid you fly with me to-night; to

}

Counsel, had put the case, the Jury should conclade that the deceased fel] by the hands of the prisoner, then he must request their eareful consideration ef the case,as to whe'ber there

‘could have been provocation of any such description as to re~

duce the offence to manslaughter, supposing the prisoner to be

(of sound mind. Could they take it upon themselves to say, In

the absence of all positive testimony, that a sane man would fell to the ground e fellow creature in such an inhuman and barbarous manner, as the act appears to have been committed,

‘No? Then perhaps my ears have deceived me; perhaps | without the least provocation? It was a most hazirdous pre-

sumption to believe so, Sach an ect is so contrary to our nature, when possessed of our reason, that he did not perceive how

they could be justified in coming to such an opinion. He, |

however, would not dwell on the difficulty arising from this view of the case; he would proceed to that grownd of defence

‘on which all others are merged, namely : that the unfortunate

“ If you bave heard all, cousin, you will know that I have prisoner is now, and was when the act-was perpctrated, totally

‘ansourd in mind. Of the persons unhappily concerned tn, or Pp

« Proof of which, I find my rival pouring out words of sfected by the sad tragedy which has just been detailed, the prisoner at the bar, he thought, was most entitled to their sym-_

pathy and consideration: bereft of his reason—>f that noblest of the faculties with which our Maker bas endowed us—!1e was no !onger a being accountable fur his acts. From the evidence ‘to be adcuced on behaif of the prisoner, in addition to what ‘had been elicited from the witnesses on the part of the Crown, he, the Jearned Counsel, felt assured that the Jury would have litle difficulty in coming to a conciusion that the unfortunate /man was, and bad for many years been next before the act was committed, radically unsound in his mind. At times, it has been already in proof, that he was good-tempered and cheerfu', suddenly he is fouad sulky, ill-tempered and morose, but with- out any apparent cause. His conversations with the witness, Ann Hayden; his sudden resentment, calling her a har, when he imagined he was contradicted; his. inquiry of oer whether

| nature, at present under his hand, where it is stated that a genrleman ; once sitting in his bedroom with bis wife and two or three young children, | was seized with a homicidal mania which prompted him, with an invo- | luntery impulse, to take up the poker and slay his wife and children. | He struggled within himself for sone time, endeavoring to conquer the impulse, which at last became alinost irresistible, when, fortunately, he | shut his eyes tight, and, in a voice of thunder, ordered them all in- | Stantly to quit the room. They did so; and he afterwards used to say | that had they refused or hesitated, he eould not have eontrolled bimself | from perpetrating the act. Here we see the power of controlling thought and action was for atime so evenly balanced, the scale wasal- most as likely to turn one way as the other; but happily there was suf- ‘ficient power remaining to eontr:! the will, and thereby avert the | terrible catastrophe which would otherwise have occurred, | The learned Counsel having cited some other cases from the same work, proceeded to state the particulars of the prisoner's defence, rely- ing almost wholly on the fact of bis insanity, which, he said, woald be proved by a number of witnesses, whose character aud eredibility, he felt assured, would appear such in the estimation of the Jury as not for one moment to leave a word of their testimony in doubt, It would be seen that the unfortunate prisoper for «bout eight years now last, com- mencing with the destruction of his mother’s house by fire, had con- stantty been out of his mind, and for nearly two years of that time was | confined in chains, That there appeared, from the too visible evidence in the person of an elder brother of the prisoner, to bave b en hereditary insanity in the family, &c., de. As these partienlars are all detailed by the witnesses on the part of the defence, it will be unnecessary to set them out here. The learsied Counsel concluded his address by com- mending the prisoner’s case to the merciful consideration of the Court and Jury, by whom he felt assared he would be justly deait with. Be- | fore sitting down he cited to the Court the ease of Dadd, who was tried in England, in 1843, for the wurder of his father. He never would make any confession of the crime, but immediately it was committed | obtained a passport at the Foreign Office and fied to France. Le was snbsequently tried and acquitted on the gronnd of insanity.

Joux McMitLan—examined by Mr. Edward Palmer for prisoner— Resides on Lot 50; has resided there for last 20 years; has known the prisoner as long as he can recollect; his father is dead; prisuner was living with his mother after his father’s death; be has been dead «many years. At one time of prisoner’s life he was doing busingss for. his

, “At all events,” said Lucy to herself, “ if Gregory and leave all, and follow me, as you swore you would, do; to be the knife she was using was sharp; his suspected habit of fitner ana brother; this was some years ago; of late years he bas been Norah do marry, and I do not wish to tie myself to tnis old mine—indissolubly mine—before heaven and the world; gentleman—but Lyndon is a fine place !—I can always break never more to be taken from me—nover more to be separated.

secreting the table knives ; his iagena ry visits from the large very diferent as to hig state of mind. Formerly he went to Newfound. dog while he. slept in ghe stable lott; her furth@ account of land as supercargo for bis brother. We saw him after his returi very

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