when his testimony is needed, that it may be forthcoming. In cases of disputed property, or in cases where he has been a witness to crime, his testimony would be exceedingly valuable, and his not being forthcoming when wanted is a positive loss to society.

This punishment, too, is defective in variability. It consists of only one degree. Now even in murder there are many shades of crime. Some murders are committed under the influence of a morbid state of feeling, which might well be called insanity; many more under the impression on the part of the perpetrator that he has suffered great wrong from his victim; many simply on the impulse of the moment; many under the influence of the demon-like force of ungovernable passions; and many, many more, so totally without apparent motive, so mysterious in conception, so unintelligible in execution-that they might much more justly be considered the acts of madmen, than of men in their sane minds. Well, to all those shades of crime, some of which are caused by disease, some by real, or what is the same thing, imagined provocation, and some by madness, you apply but one remedy; and that remedy is to hang the offender up between the heavens and the earth, to be hooted by the brutal, to be pitied by the humane, and to be, in the tender and merciful spirit of our bloodloving law, an example to them all.

Again, this punishment is irremissible. It can never be revoked. Now, considering that human judgment is fallible, and not the less so by being placed on the bench of the judge or in the box of the juryman, it is an advisable, nay, a necessary consideration in the theory of punishment, that it should be remissible; otherwise, innocence has no chance against the force of circumstantial evidence. Unhappily this is no imaginary fear. Numbers of persons have suffered public execution whose innocence has been subsequently established; and the shame, ignominy, agony, reproach and loss that the surviving families have suffered, is but poorly recompensed by the reflection-a most melancholy one after all-that the man was innocent of the crime imputed to him. For every other punishment but death there is remission; and surely it requires some stronger argument than any that have been yet discovered, to persuade us that we ought to forego so desirable an advantage.

Further; the severity of this punishment is the cause of two great evils; first, it excites a hope of impunity, inasmuch as its infliction is uncertain; and secondly, it creates an antagonism to the law.

That the infliction of death is uncertain is capable of easy proof. During the three years from the 1st May, 1827, to the 30th April, 1830, 451 prisoners were sentenced to death, and only 55 were executed! This fact speaks volumes. It shows that in consequence of the severity of the penalty, there is a general disposition to let the criminal escape. The friends of a murdered man find an additional pang in the thought that a human being is to be deprived of life to satisfy their vengeance. They have had enough of death, and they would not have it inflicted again, even on the murderer. The witness holds back his testimony, because he feels that on his words hang the life of a fellow creature; he hesitates-he contradicts-nay, he frequently wilfully perjures himself (as I declare to God I would) rather than be the means of taking away the life he cannot give. The officers

and functionaries of the law exhibit a similar feeling. Many a hardened villain has been assisted to escape from justice by those who ought to have guarded him, because they have felt that the punishment is too awful to be inflicted by man on his fellow being. And if in the minds of the prosecutor and the witness this feeling is so powerful, how does its force accumulate in the minds of the jury; the men who by one word have the power to cut short the thread of life. This may be estimated by the number of malefactors who are pronounced "Not Guilty," or, if otherwise, are so strongly recommended to mercy that they are sure to be saved. Perjury actually appears meritorious in such cases, and to my mind infinitely preferable to recording a verdict that shall destroy the life which God alone can give. The barrister, again, who is to defend the prisoner, uses all his art, all his eloquence, all means, proper and improper; twists, turns and perverts evidence; intimidates, threatens, defames witnesses; tells the grossest falsehoods, commits sometimes the most fearful perjury, and all that the wretch at the bar may not suffer the horrible fate which threatens him; and the judge, whose business it is to pronounce the awful sentence of the law, sums up the case with an evident leaning towards the prisoner, gives the most favourable interpretation possible to the circumstances which militate against the accused, listens with eagerness to any mitigating fact, to any favourable point in the prisoner's former character, and uses every means to prevent his conviction. Or, should a verdict of "Guilty" be returned, should recommendations to mercy fail, and the wretch be left without chance of escape, even then we find him treated-not as a criminal-but as a compassionated unfortunate. Governor, keeper, gaoler, sheriff, chaplain, all unite to show him pity and respect. What he asks for he has; all his requests are granted with eagerness; he is visited by good and great; talked with like an equal; sympathised with as though he were a dying hero. His last brief day of life comes; he is led in procession into the chapel to hear a sermon composed for the occasion; a crowd of respectable gentlemen and ladies are there to see and pity him; the sympathy of some of the ladies is so acute that they cannot keep from faintingothers scream-all compassionate. It is impossible to over-estimate the evils resulting from such shows of morbid sympathy. False pity, dislike of the law, undue compassion, are engendered, and speedily diffuse themselves throughout the community.

But why does all this happen-for surely there is a cause? Would a man subject to transportation be so treated? Would ladies pity, Sheriffs soothe, Lord Mayors and Lady Mayoresses visit, and tenderhearted gentlemen compassionate him? Unquestionably not. Why then is the capital convict-the greater culprit-so distinguished? Mark well the answer: It is because the fate to which he is doomed shocks every mind to which it is vividly presented, and overturns every notion of right and wrong. Invent another punishment, as severe as you please, so long as you destroy not life, and you will no longer raise a morbid sympathy for the criminal, nor cause undue intercession on his behalf, but the law will be allowed and assisted to take its course.

While on this part of the subject, it would be wrong to omit from our consideration the sympathy which the crowd assembled to witness

an execution in most cases express for the criminal. Except in instances where the deed for which the convict suffers has been more than commonly revolting, it invariably happens that a strong sympathy is excited and exhibited on behalf of the sufferer. And is it wonderful? Can even we, sitting at home in our own parlours, we, who would shrink from beholding the spectacle-can we even read of an execution without feeling pity, commiseration, sympathy for the victim, malefactor though he be? And how much stronger must this feeling become in the breasts of the spectators of the scene, those who see before them the living man, strong, healthy, full of the breath of God, and then, in a moment, that same man a dangling corpse! Is it possible to refuse admission to the sympathy and pity that demand entrance into the mind? We are human beings, and we must shudder and heave when we see a fellow creature suddenly and violently destroyed. We must feel compassion and sorrow for the wretch, even though he be the vilest of the race.

Now, what effect can this have but to raise in us a hatred and horror of the law that orders the frightful exhibition, and the ministers and officers that carry it into effect? And the antagonism thus created against the law and its agents is a consideration that it behoves the legislator well to regard. It should be the aim of a government to make its subjects friendly to the law, and disposed to aid its carrying out-not to cause them to oppose it, and prevent its execution; for an opposition of this nature does more to weaken the dignity and destroy the power of governmental authority than anything else that can be imagined. It disaffects and alienates the subject from the ruler, makes the interests two which should be one, and, instead of reverence, raises up dislike.

But I have said enough on this portion of the subject, and now, in summing up my observations, to what conclusion should I come ? We have seen that instead of capital punishment being calculated to restrain from crime, it in its very nature incites to and tends to produce it; that in consequence of its extreme severity, it favours the escape rathert nan the conviction of the criminal, and encourages a hatred of the law and its ministers. We have perceived that it has a direct tendency, by invading life, to diminish men's regard for life, and thereby to produce sanguinary crimes. We have found that society endures a positive loss in the taking away of those who might be employed for its service and advantage; that it often happens, and from the very constitution of human tribunals is exceedingly likely to happen, that the innocent suffer instead of the guilty, and that reparation cannot be made when the error is discovered; that it foregoes the great and necessary principle of variability in punishment, giving to widely different shades of guilt the same award; and that it causes a sympathy with crime and a desire to prevent the law. I ask again, then, to what conclusion can we come? Surely to none but this: that as capital punishment is the source and cause of crime and evil, and utterly ineffective, either as a restraining or a preventing power, it is in the highest degree impolitic to inflict it.

I shall reserve for future occasions the higher and even more powerful arguments to be derived from morality and religion, against this horrible punishment.

13

MR. FERDINAND PIGSWIDDY.

In the year of our Lord eighteen-hundred and-Well
The date I've forgotten, but if you've at hand
A Robson's Directory, doubtless 'twill tell,-
Mr. Ferdinand Pigswiddy lived in the Strand.
Mr. Ferdinand Pigswiddy traded in coals,
And also in charcoal, and likewise in coke;

He was fond of Don Juan, pork chops and hot rolls,
And he thought he could sing, when he only could croak.
He was six feet in height,

Always thought he was right,

Each night after supper his meershaum would smoke,
Was partial to wearing a Mackintosh cloak;
Was his father's sole son,

Was in age twenty-one,

And by most of his friends he was call'd "a rum bloke."

Mr. Ferdinand Pigswiddy went out one night
To a party-or, speaking more strictly-a ball;
And there he became rather more than polite

To a charming young lady whose vestments were white,
And who seemed to his eyes the most lovely of all
The beautiful creatures who thronged on his sight.

A good deal of whispering, squeezing of fingers,
And such like, between this young couple took place;
And when Father Time-who 'tis known never lingers,
Not even for lovers-declared, with grave face,

That the moment was come when they ought to be moving,-
Poor Ferdinand felt,

As his eyes 'gan to melt,

At the fast-flitting form of enchantment and grace,-
That he'd taken a lesson in what is call'd loving.

When Ferdinand Pigswiddy got up next day,
He felt an unearthly strange pain at his chest;
His breakfast was banish'd untasted away,
Tho' his appetite mostly was one of the best.
Some low words he said

In dislike of his bread;
And he also did utter

Odd things 'bout the butter.

His singular pain caused him likewise to sigh;
And ere the sun said to the world it was noon,
He detected himself, with a tear in his eye,
Composing some very soft lines to the moon.
They were all about "radiant glory" and that;
And how the bright stars should be wondered at;
How the heavenly bodies were never at fault,
And how the blue sky was an azure vault.

And somehow or other the moon, and the skies,

And the stars, and all that, led to "zephyrs" and "sighs;"
And then followed" Cupid," and "heart-strings," and "ties,"
And "glances" and "blushes" and "very bright eyes ;"
Then came some remarks with regard to a walk

By the light of the 'fore-mentioned stars and the moon,
And next an intention to fall down and talk

To the maid of his soul, on his knees, very soon:
And the moral and end of the story was this,-
That if Fate interfered with his prospects of bliss,
He should lift up his voice in the midnight air,
And, addressing the moon, should most solemnly swear,
Or at all events promise and vow and declare,
By the light of its beams, so enchanting and fair,
That nothing should keep him from utter despair.

Mr. Ferdinand Pigswiddy ate not all day,
He tried some cold beef, but his stomach said-nay;
His tea-time arrived; not a crumb could he eat,
And all that he took was some tea-very sweet:
He really appeared the most wretched of men,
And he went up to bed at a quarter-past ten.

O! how Mr. Ferdinand Pigswiddy dreamed,
As he tossed on his restless lone bolster that night!
Round his couch eyes and faces in multitudes beamed,
And well-rounded figures in garments of light-
Especially one, who was dressed all in white;
And then came a shape which he fancied he knew,
A foreign young man in moustachios and rings,
Who courted the lady in white in his view,
And said in her ear such unspeakable things.

Then he waltzed with her; hang him! how nicely he did it;
Then he kissed her; good heavens! she did'nt forbid it;
He did it again-then more sweet things he spoke,
Then he led her away-and then Pigswiddy 'woke.

For days and for nights and for weeks this went on,
And Ferdinand grew very pallid and wan;
In vain Mr. Bluepill, the doctor, attended him,
Nothing he gave, or prescribed for him, mended him.
Thinner and thinner poor Ferdinand grew,
Sunken his eyes became, pallid his hue.

Mr. Ferdinand Pigswiddy had a Mamma,
A lady who knew the world's ways pretty well;
She was wise (as most ladies of middle age are),
And just forty-nine-it's no libel to tell.

This lady was sent for (she lived down in Surrey)
And she came up to town in a deuce of a hurry;

She was shocked-well she might be at sight of her son,