Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 68, No. 421, November 1850

"Unquestionably, the mere fancying a series of injuries to have been received will not serve as an excuse for murder – for this plain reason, that, supposing it true that such injuries had been received, they would have furnished no excuse for the shedding of blood. On the other hand, however, such an illusion as depriving the pannel of the sense that what he did was wrong amounts to legal insanity, though he was perfectly aware that murder in general was a crime."

Responsibility more awful than is devolved upon all parties to the judicial investigation of this question can scarcely be imagined. A deliberate and thorough investigation of every – even the minutest – circumstance adduced, guided steadily by correct legal principles, is demanded imperiously by justice. Difficult – almost hopeless – as may be the attempt to grope into the turbid mind of a madman, to ascertain its true condition at a given moment of time, the attempt must be made, a decision must be pronounced – distinguishing between real and simulated imbecility or madness – between irresponsible insanity and responsible eccentricity. These are questions, we repeat, of infinite importance, of great difficulty; and the interests of the entire community, and of individual members of it, demand a steady adherence to the principles of a humane and enlightened jurisprudence. Recent dreadful instances have served to remove several sources of dangerous error, in dealing with these cases of criminal jurisprudence. No one dare now infer madness from the mere absence of motive, and from the very enormity of the act committed; nor accord immunity to the fancied victim of "uncontrollable impulse." That is, at all events, a point gained in favour of society. In England, at all events, we sternly repudiate this last sickly and spurious theory, which would place the innocent and virtuous entirely at the mercy of the most base and ruffianly impulses of our fallen nature. It would relax all the bonds of self-restraint, and afford a premium on the indulgence of ungovernable passions.

The recent lamentable case of Robert Pate affords a valuable illustration of the truth of these remarks; and Mr Baron Alderson's charge to the jury not only conduced to the firm administration of justice in the particular case, but was calculated to be of great and permanent public service, by dispelling the morbid and mischievous notions which have latterly prevailed, and exhibiting expressively the stern simplicity and common sense of English law. On the 27th June last, a gentleman, who had only recently sold his commission in the 10th Hussars, and was residing as a gentleman of fortune in London, suddenly struck her Majesty on the forehead a violent blow with a cane, which actually caused blood to flow! He could give no account of his reason for committing this unmanly and infamous outrage; but the defence set up for him was, simply, uncontrollable impulse; and evidence was adduced certainly showing him to be of a very eccentric character, and actuated by strange whims and delusions. He was tried on the 12th July last at the Old Bailey, before Baron Alderson, under statute 5 and 6 Vict. c. 51, § 2.40 The indictment contained three counts, charging him with striking the Queen "with an offensive weapon – that is, a stick," with intent (1st) to injure her person; (2d) to alarm her; (3d) to break the public peace. Again came the doctors – one speaking of "some strange sudden impulse, which he was quite unable to control;" and the other confidently pronouncing the prisoner to have been insane. The jury convicted the prisoner on the first and third counts, which the Judge told them had been clearly made out by evidence, discarding the defence of insanity; and the following was the summing-up of Mr Baron Alderson, in strict accordance with the principles laid down in 1843 by the Judges41: —

"The law throws on the prisoner the onus of proving that, at the time the offence was committed, he was in an unsound state of mind; and you will have to say, after hearing my explanation of the law, whether this has been made out to your satisfaction. In the first place, you must clearly understand that it is not because a man is insane that he is unpunishable: and I must say, that upon this point there exists a very grievous delusion in the minds of medical men. The only insanity which excuses a man for his acts is that species of delusion which conduced to, and drove him to commit, the act alleged against him. If, for instance, a man, being under the delusion that another man would kill him, killed that other, for, as he supposed, his own protection, he would be unpunishable for such an act; because it would appear that the act was done under the delusion that he could not protect himself in any other manner: and there the particular description of insanity conduced to the offence. But, on the other hand, if a man has a delusion that his head is made of glass, that will be no excuse for his killing a man. He would know very well that, although his head were made of glass, that was no reason why he should kill another man, and that it was a wrong act; and he would be properly subjected to punishment for that act. These are the principles which ought to govern the decision of juries in such cases. They ought to have clear proof of a formed disease of the mind – a disease existing before the act was committed, and which made the person accused incapable of knowing, at the time he did the act, that it was a wrong act for him to do. This is the rule which I shall direct you to be governed by. Try the case by this test. Did this unfortunate gentleman know, at the time, that it was wrong to strike the Queen on the forehead? Now, there is no doubt that he was very eccentric in his conduct; but did that eccentricity disable him from judging whether it was right or wrong to strike the Queen? Is eccentricity to excuse a man for any crime he may afterwards commit? The prisoner is proved to have been perfectly well aware of what he had done immediately afterwards, and in the interview which he had had since with one of the medical gentlemen, he admitted that he knew perfectly well what he had done, and ascribed his conduct to some momentary uncontrollable impulse. The law does not acknowledge such an impulse, if the person was aware that it was a wrong act he was about to commit; and he is answerable for the consequences. A man might say that he picked a pocket from some uncontrollable impulse; and in that case, the law would have an uncontrollable impulse to punish him for it. What evidence is there, then, in this case to justify you in coming to the conclusion, that when the prisoner struck the Queen he did not know it was a wrong act – in fact, that what he was doing was wrong? – [Mr Baron Alderson then read over the whole of the evidence for the defence, commenting upon it as he proceeded.] – That the prisoner is an object of commiseration is quite clear; and that he should also have been taken better care of is equally true: but the question you have here to decide is, Are you satisfied that, at the time, he was suffering from a disease of the mind which rendered him incapable of judging whether the act he committed towards the Queen was a right or a wrong act for him to do? If you are not satisfied of this fact, you must say that he is guilty; but if you think he was not aware what he was about, or not capable of distinguishing between right and wrong, you will then say that he is not guilty, on the ground of insanity."

If the case of M'Naughten had been thoroughly tried out – if the medical witnesses, above all, had been checked, and restrained within their proper province, as they were by Baron Alderson – and if the summing up by the Chief-Justice had been in accordance with that of Baron Alderson in Pate's case – we do not venture to say what would have been the result: but whatever it might have been, it would have satisfied the country. Whether, at the moment when M'Naughten took out his long-prepared pistol, and, after a fortnight's watching, fancied he had found Sir Robert Peel, and deliberately shot his victim in the back – whether M'Naughten was, at that awful moment, insanely ignorant of what he was doing – utterly unaware that he was doing wrong – is a question which there exist no longer any human means of determining; but it is open to us to examine the principles applicable to such an investigation in a court of criminal justice.

Upwards of seven years have elapsed since the trial of M'Naughten, and upwards of ten years since that of Oxford; and both of them are at the present moment inmates of Bethlehem Hospital. Since commencing this article, we have been permitted, through the courtesy of the acute and able physician to whom the superintendence of that important institution has been for some years intrusted, to see and converse with the two persons with whose fate we have herein so anxiously concerned ourselves. Neither knew of our going; and we were accompanied by the gentleman in question.

M'Naughten was standing in the courtyard, dressed in the costume of the place, (a pepper-and-salt jacket and corduroy trousers,) with his hat on, knitting. He looks about forty years old, and in perfect health. His features are regular, and their expression is mild and prepossessing. His manner is tranquil. Usually he wears his hat somewhat slouched over his eyes, and sidles slowly away from any one approaching him, as if anxious to escape observation; but on this occasion he at once entered into conversation with our companion, calmly and cheerfully, and afforded us a full opportunity of watching him. Had we seen him casually elsewhere, and as a stranger, we should have thought his countenance indicative of a certain sort of cheerful quiet humour, especially while he was speaking; but to us it seemed certainly to exhibit a feeble intellect, shown chiefly by a faint flickering smile, even when he was speaking on the gravest subjects. When asked what had brought him where he was, he replied, "Fate." "And what is fate?" "The will of God – or perhaps," he added quickly, "of the devil – or it may be of both!" and he half-closed his eyes, and smiled. – [The reader will bear in mind what was deposed at the trial, as to his infidel tendencies.42] – When told that Sir Robert Peel was dead, he betrayed no emotion, nor exhibited the slightest interest. "One should have thought that, considering what has happened, you would have felt some interest in that gentleman." He looked rather quickly at the speaker, and said calmly, with a faint smile, "It is quite useless to talk to me on that subject: you know quite well I have long and long ago made up my mind never to say one word about it. I never have, and I never will; and so it would be quite childish to put any questions."43 … "How are you, M'Naughten?" He slightly sighed, and said, "I am very uncomfortable. I am very ill-used here; there is somebody [or something] always using me ill here. It is really too bad! I have spoken about it many, many times; but it is quite useless. I wish I could get away from this place! If I could just get out of this place, and go back to Glasgow, my native place, it is all I would ask for: I should be quite well there! I shall never be well or happy here, for there is always some one ill-using me here." "Well, but what do they do to you?" "Oh," shaking his head, and smiling, "they are always doing it; really it is too bad." "Who are they?" "Oh, I am always being ill-used here! My only wish now is, to get away from this place! If I could only once get to Glasgow, my native place!" This is the continual burthen of his song. It is needless to say that his complaints are altogether unfounded: he is treated with the utmost kindness consistent with his situation; and, as he has never exhibited violence nor ill-behaviour, it has never been necessary to resort to personal coercion, with one exception. Two or three years ago, he took it into his head that, as he could not get away, he would starve himself; and he persevered for such a length of time in refusing all kind of food that he began to lose flesh fast. At length he was told by the physician that, since he would not eat voluntarily, he must be made to eat; and it was actually necessary to feed him for a considerable time mechanically, by means of the stomach pump. Under this treatment he presently regained his flesh, in spite – as it were – of himself; and at length suffered himself to be laughed out of his obstinacy, and has ever since taken his food voluntarily. He seemed himself to be tickled by a sense of the absurdity of which he was guilty. Not a doubt of his complete insanity was entertained by my acute companion, who has devoted much observation to the case. Shortly after we had quitted him, and were out of his sight, he put away his knitting, placed his hands in his jacket pockets, and walked very rapidly to and fro, his face bent on the ground; and he was apparently somewhat excited. Whatever may have been the state of M'Naughten at the time to which our inquiries have been directed in this article, we entertain little, if any doubt, that he is now in an imbecile condition.

Oxford was in another part of the building, standing alone, at the extremity of a long corridor, gazing through a heavily-grated window, towards the new Houses of Parliament. His hat was on; he was dressed like M'Naughten, and his jacket was buttoned. We scarcely recognised him, owing to the change of his dress. He is fond of attracting the notice of anybody; and conversed about himself and his offence in the most calm and rational manner conceivable. He has lost much of his hair – a circumstance which he appeared somewhat to regret – for the front of his head is bald; but he looks no older than his real age, thirty. He is mortally weary of his confinement, and says he has been terribly punished for "his foolish act." "Foolish!" we exclaimed – "is that all you can say of your attempt to shoot her Majesty?" He smiled, and said, "Oh, sir, I never attempted to shoot her; I never thought of such a thing. I aimed at the carriage-panels only." "Then why did you put balls in your pistols?" "I never did," he replied quickly. "I never dreamed of such a thing. There were no balls." "Oh, then you have not heard of the discovery that has just been made – eh?" "Discovery – what?" "The bullets." "Oh, there have been more found than ever I used at least; for I assure you I never used any!" "What made you do what you did?" "Oh, I was a fool; it was just to get myself talked about, and kick up a dust. A good horse-whipping was what I wanted," he added, with a faint sigh. These were his very words. "Should you have done it, if you had thought of coming here?" "No, indeed I should not; it has been a severe punishment!.. I dare say public opinion says nothing about me now; I dare say it thinks I have got what I very well deserve – and perhaps I have; but possibly if I were put quietly out of the way, and sent abroad somewhere, public opinion might take no notice of it." He has taught himself French, Italian, and German, of which he has a fair knowledge. He also used to draw a little, and began to write a novel; but it proved a sorry affair, and, being discouraged, he threw it up. "Do you recollect hearing the condemned sermon preached to Courvoisier?" "Oh, yes, very well. It was a most excellent sermon." "Did Courvoisier seem to attend to it?" "Oh yes, very much; and he seemed very much affected. It was certainly a very appropriate sermon; I liked it much." "Did not you think that it might soon be your fate to sit where he was?" "What, in the condemned seat?" "Yes." "Oh, no; that never occurred to me. I never expected to be condemned for high treason. Some gentleman – I forget who he was – said I should be transported for fourteen years. I thought that was the worst they could do to me; for I knew I had never meant to do any harm, nor tried to do it." "Yes; but the judge and jury thought very differently." "Oh, I was very fairly tried; but I never expected to be brought in mad. I was quite surprised at that, for I knew I was not mad, and I wondered how they were going to prove it." We asked him if he had ever seen us; to which he replied, gazing steadily, "Yes, I think I have – either at the Privy Council, or in Newgate Chapel." "Where did you sit on the Sunday when the condemned sermon was preached to Courvoisier?" "I sate on the steps near the altar." "How were you dressed?" "Oh, a blue surtout, with velvet collar;" and he proceeded to describe his dress almost exactly as we have described it at the commencement of the article. He exhibits considerable cleverness: whatever he does, whether in playing at fives, or working, (e. g. making gloves, &c.) he does far better than any one else, and shows considerable tact and energy in setting his companions to work, and superintending them. He admits that he committed a very great offence in having done anything to alarm the Queen, and attributes it entirely to a mischievous and foolish love of notoriety. He said, "I thought it would set everybody talking and wondering;" but "never dreamed of what would have come of it – least of all that I was to be shut up all my life in this place." … "That list of conspirators, and letters from them, that were found in your lodgings – were they not real?" "Oh, no," he replied, with rather an anxious smile, "all mere sham – only nonsense! There was never anything of the sort!" "Then, why did you do it?" "It was only the folly of a boy; I wasn't nineteen then – it was very silly no doubt." "And their swords and dresses, and so forth – eh?" "Entirely nonsense! It was a very absurd joke. I did not think it would come out so serious. I did not appreciate the consequences, or I never would have done it." The word "appreciate" he used with a very marked emphasis.

We entertain no doubt whatever of his perfect sanity; and, if so, as his crime was great, so his punishment is fearful.

ANNA HAMMER. 44

The literature of Germany at last shows signs of revival from the torpor consequent on the late political convulsions, and the Leipzig book-catalogue for Michaelmas 1850 is far more promising than any of its predecessors since the revolutions of 1848. Out of a number of meritorious German books that have recently come before us, we have been much interested by the first instalment of a series of Zeitbilder– sketches of German social and political life during the second quarter of the present century. Anna Hammer is certainly the best we have seen of the numerous German novels of a political tendency published within the last two years. Its object is the exposure, in the course of a fictitious narrative, of the oppression and injustice which, in many German states, the people have long endured; of the wanton insolence of the military and aristocracy, the servility and corruption of the courtiers and placemen, and the frequent tyranny of the sovereigns. The book is a picture of misrule; and if, here and there, high colouring may be suspected, on the other hand most of the abuses shown up are but too real and notorious. It is written with temper and moderation, and points to redress of grievances and to constitutional government – not to subversion and anarchy. The author is no experienced novelist, nor does he pretend to that character; but he writes with a thorough knowledge of his subject, and also with much spirit and dramatic effect, preferring short sentences and pointed dialogue to the long-winded paragraphs and tedious narrative common amongst the romance-writers of his country, to whom he has evidently preferred for his models those of France and England. We augur favourably of this escape from the trammels of custom, and hope to see the example followed by others. In the present instance, the result has been a very lively tale, more than one of whose chapters would stand alone as detached and independent sketches of German life. Annexed to the tolerably intricate plot, are episodical scenes, the actors in which are dismissed without ceremony when they have fulfilled the purpose of their introduction – this purpose being the exhibition of the character and peculiarities of the classes they typify. Thus, for instance, of the persons in the second chapter of the novel we hear no more until the third volume; of some of them nothing is seen until the closing scene of all, when they appear – without, however, being dragged in – to figure in the final group on which the curtain falls. There is certainly a want of art in the construction of Anna Hammer; but this is in some degree atoned for by vividness and character, much rarer qualities with German novelists. An idea of its merits will be best conveyed by extract, for which it is well adapted by its abundant incident and desultory nature. We commence with the opening pages, a graphic sketch of garrison life.

On a warm April afternoon, three cavalry officers were seated together in the only inn of a small German town. Two of them sat at the table. One of these had one leg crossed over the other; his companion had both legs stretched out at full length before him. The third sat at the window. All three were smoking; two of them cigars, the third a huge meerschaum pipe. All three were silent. He whose legs were crossed played with his spur, and spun the rowel till it rang again. Number Two gazed at his great pipe, and at the clouds that he puffed from it. Number Three looked through the window at the clouds which the wind drove across the sky.

A weary life is that of cavalry officers in small garrisons. One hour of the twenty-four is passed in the riding-school; another in drilling recruits; a quarter of an hour is consumed in inspection of stables – and then the day's work is done, and all the other hours are before them, vacant, but heavy as lead. Only one squadron is there; it comprises, at most, but four or five officers. These were at the military school together. Their subjects of conversation – horses and dogs, women, and the army-list – are long since worn out. The nearest garrison is too remote for friendly visits. With non-commissioned officers, discipline and etiquette forbid their association. The little town affords them no society. The small, quiet, and often narrow-minded family circle of burghers and officials shuns intimacy with the officers. They meet them at the tavern and bowling-alley, and at the club, if there is one: in public places, with their wives and children, they do not willingly consort with them; and in their houses they receive them not. There are certainly a few noble families in the neighbourhood; but these are not all sociable; and those who would gladly be hospitable have been too much so, and can be so no longer. Now and then comes an invitation to a shooting party – but there is no shooting in April.

The three officers – all lieutenants and young men, of graceful figures and energetic countenances – sat for a long while still and silent. The postman entered the low-roofed apartment. He laid upon the table the latest newspaper from the capital, and departed, without a word. The officers neither moved nor spoke. At last one of them stretched out his arm and took up the paper, slowly, almost mechanically; the two others gave no heed. The former glanced over the paper, – beginning at the last page, with the deaths, marriages, and advertisements. In a few minutes he had got to the end – that is to say, to the beginning – and he threw the paper lazily upon the table.

"Nothing new!" said he, gaping; and again he twirled his spur-rowel.

"As usual!" said his neighbour.

The third took no notice.

For a while longer they sat mute and motionless, till the cigars were finished, and the meerschaum-bowl smoked out. Fresh cigars were then lighted, and again the pipe was filled. At the same time the officers rose from their seats, and took a few steps through the apartment.

"Slow work!" said one.

"Damned slow!" replied another. The third looked wearily at his boots. Then they all three relapsed into their seats and their silence.

The sun set. Its last rays illumined the shifting masses of cloud, which piled themselves up into fantastical forms, displaying rich variety of tint. It grew dark in the dingy tavern-room. The clouds from the great meerschaum could scarcely be discerned. The ennui increased.

A waiter brought in two dimly-burning tallow candles, and placed them upon the table. The ennui did not diminish.