went morsel by morsel, and at last her health, which had been miserable from the first, failed her quite, and her sufferings were extreme. In this emergency she sent for Mr. Cooke, who ministered to her wants as far as he was able; and in the end, having, without consulting her, made repeated applications, but all to no purpose, spoke to her of the workhouse. It was a terrible announcement-it was a word of fearful omen. She was, indeed, so broken down on the occasion of his referring to it, that, even without such a prospect before her, the medical man who gratuitously prescribed for her gave it as his opinion, that she could not last many days. As it was, she went to her miserable bed immediately Mr. Cooke left her; and when the woman, a poor neighbour, that used to light her fire, and help to get her up, came next morning to perform her accustomed offices of charity, Martha Horne was dead. Poor wretch, it was a happy release for her; and if she did receive but a pauper's funeral, and was laid in a churchyard apart from that where the ashes of her kindred reposed, what was she the worse for it, or what cared either of those on whom nature had given her a claim for more?

Meanwhile, Charles finding that nothing better was to be done, followed the advice of his amiable relative, and established himself in the Three Bells. Whether he did well or ill there, the record has not been preserved; but it is certain that he became as abject to William, as we found him on previous occasions to be pugnacious; and that he derived the same benefits from the assumption of this new manner that he did from the old. Though he stood hat in hand to open the gate for his brother as he rode through, William never condescended to notice him; and as to assistance, pecuniary or otherwise, none such was ever tendered. They were a very singular pair these bad men; and both were regarded by the neighbourhood with disfavour.

While Charles thus conducted himself in the public-house, William, always mean, and selfish, and unneighbourly, fell more and more into habits of penuriousness and ferocity. He married, indeed, and,

strange to say, found a woman of some property to link her fate with his; but neither his wedding, nor the accession which the bride brought to his means, operated any change for the better on his disposition. He never had a good word to say of any one, nor any one a good word to say of him. The poor he oppressed and persecuted whenever a convenient opportunity presented itself. Never shooting, nor even coursing himself, he sued for penalties against all those round about him, who, not being duly qualified, kept dogs, or were seen with guns across their shoulders. The orphans' curse and the widows' ban attended him whithersoever he went; and he paid both back by driving them away from his door if by any mistake, or through the pressure of want, they betook themselves thither for relief. In like manner his domestic affairs, as well as the management of the farm, were conducted on the most niggardly principle. He dismissed all his domestic servants except one old housekeeper, and his stable-men and out-door helpers were brought down to the same scale of unity. He never gave employment to husbandmen or reapers, unless at seed-time and harvest. He kept one team of wagon-horses, with a wagoner and his mate to work his acres; though they numbered full a hundred. Of course, all things within and without the mansion fell into decay. The fences got out of repair, and were not mended. Great gaps might be seen in the hedge, which cut off the paddock from the parish-road. The gnarled oaks which adorned the broken and picturesque space of grass-land that fronted the house, cast branches to the ground every gale of wind that blew; and nobody took the trouble to gather them up. Rank weeds defiled the avenue from one extremity to another, and grew, and withered, and put forth a pestilential atmosphere, up to the very stone slab that lay before the porch. You never by any accident saw a substantial volume of smoke ascend from one of the chimneys; and if you wandered round to the back premises, decay and neglect were visible in every thing; from the stable doors, that for lack of fastenings shook and banged in every

breeze, to the posts and rails that surrounded the barn-yard, and rotted where they stood, through the absence of a little fresh paint. Never, in short, did human habitation, or the aspect of the things wherewith it was surrounded, bear clearer testimony to the penurious habits of an owner, and his total disregard to comfort, and even to his own interests; for the very corn-stacks took damage as often as the rain fell heavily; because the thatch wherewith they had been covered proved insufficient, and therefore melted away.

A man addicted to such tastes and pursuits as these soon makes enemies; and William Horne proved no exception to the general rule. Indeed, nobody seemed to recollect the time when it was otherwise; for their earliest reminiscences described him as a profligate and selfish creature, to whom more maidens in the district, and especially among his mother's domestics, owed their shame, than they could now enumerate. His father, it was said, had been ever indulgent to him. An elegant scholar himself-accounted, indeed, one of the best classics in the county -old Mr. Horne had professed an anxiety to cultivate similar tastes in his eldest son; but being, as not unfrequently happens with elegant classical scholars, weak of purpose, and guided more by the heart than by the head, he set about the business in a manner which could not fail of ensuring a defeat. While he advised and entreated William to study Tacitus, and spoke to him of the beauties of Horace or of Pindar, he set him up ere he had attained his ninth year with a pony; and could never say No, when his darling cried for permission to ride. Now riding is a far more pleasant exercise to a child of eight years old, than learning the rules of Latin syntax; and so William and his pony became such true and constant companions, that no room was left in the boy's affections for the classic musc.

It was marvellous to witness the ascendancy which that coarse and wilful child acquired over his father. Every demand that he made was acceded to; and every scrape into which he got, or fault which he committed, was explained away or ex

tenuated. By and by vice made its appearance; and the father, while he lamented, had hardly courage enough to reprove it. Thus the boy grew to manhood, in the habitual indulgence of the most debasing of the animal propensities; and gradually losing under its influence the small redeeming quality which is not unfrequently to be met in persons profligate only in a degree, we mean, indifference to the cost of a coveted good, and lavish expenditure on the ministers of their pleasures, it was said of this man that he was never known to do a generous action in all his life. But though the tide of public opinion ran strong against him, and his name was never uttered except with some accompaniment of reproach or condemnation, it was not till some little time subsequently to the old man's decease that deeper and darker whispers concerning him began to grow current.

It happened once upon a time, about three months after the burial of Martha, that Charles Horne was taken ill. His malady was a dangerous one, and he became exceedingly alarmed; and desired one day, amid a paroxysm of fear and terror, that Mr. Cooke the attorney might be sent for. Mr. Cooke, anticipating that some testamentary arrangements were to be made, obeyed the summons; and at the sick man's desire sent the attendant out of the chamber, and closed the door. They were a good while there closeted together, though what passed between them did not transpire, only Mr. Cooke, when going away again, was overheard, as he held the door of the apartment, ajar to say, "I tell you it is too serious a thing to be concealed. You are bound to state all that you have stated to me to a magistrate." What that all was, however, nobody found an opportunity of ascertaining, for Charles Horne recovered, and did not go before the magistrate; and as to the mystery, whatever it might be, it continued as dark and impenetrable as ever.

No, not quite so impenetrable. Strange and horrible tales began to be circulated, which men could not trace to any better authority than the statements of their neighbours, but which every body seemed to believe. The few that had heretofore

greeted Mr. William Horne at parish meetings or market, now seemed as if it were their wish to shun him. No more beggars came to his door, and his groom at a short notice left him. Mr. William Horne was not so blind but that he noticed this change in the general manner towards him, and he deeply resented it. If he had been harsh before, he was tenfold more harsh now; and entered, as it were, upon a crusade against all poachers. So passed several years, till Christmas 1758, when one James Roe, a tenant-farmer in the neighbourhood of Butterly, committed a slight trespass by following a hare, of which his greyhounds were in chase, across the march-line, and killing her on Horne's land. He was in the act of packing up the game when Horne, who had been watching behind a hedge, advanced to the spot. Roe was not alone. A good many of his friends were spending the day with him; and the weather being open, they had got up a sort of match with the greyhounds; but Horne cared little for that. They had trespassed on his land, at least Roe had, for all the rest were halted just beyond his land-mark; and he attacked the delinquent with such a volley of abuse as he was in the habit of pouring upon all who might be so unfortunate as to incur his displeasure. A violent altercation ensued, during which Roe let fall the expression, that "he had better keep a quiet tongue, for he was well known to be an incestuous old blackguard."

The face of the old man became livid, but he did not quail an inch. On the contrary, he doubled his fist, shook it in Roe's face, and told him that he should repent it.

William Horne was as good as his word. He caused proceedings to be instituted in the ecclesiastical court of Exeter against James Roe for defamation; and the latter being unable either to deny what he had spoken, or to bring evidence as to the truth of the charge, was cast in damages and costs, and obliged to do penance in public.

Meanwhile, Charles Horne, whether yielding to the remonstrance of Mr. Cooke, or becoming himself alarmed at certain hints which were dropped in his presence, by many

YOL. XXXIII. NO. CXCIII.

who frequented his house, had gone to a magistrate. That gentleman, as it came out in course of time, cautioned the defendant to say nothing farther, representing that the occurrence had long passed, that it was of a very serious nature, and that no good could arise out of a public disclosure to any one. Charles was accordingly silenced for a time. But no sooner did he become acquainted with the particulars of the quarrel between his brother and Mr. Roe, than he went before a second magistrate, to whom he made the same statement which he had done to the first, and who, as it afterwards appeared, proved to be, like his brother-functionary, very reluctant to move in the matter. This gentleman was not, however, so cautious as the other; for in the course of conversation somewhere, he made disclosures which soon took wind, and were carried, as might have been expected, to the very man to whom the avowal was likely to be acceptable. James Roe still writhed under the infliction of a fresh wound; and believing that the opportunity was presented of getting his revenge, he hastened to take advantage of it.

Roe went first to the house of Mr. Cooke, who told him all that Charles Horne had communicated to him five years previously. They then proceeded together to the residence of Mr. White, the last of the magistrates before whom Charles had desired to make a deposition; and having extracted from him a full avowal of all that had occurred between him and the younger of the two Hornes, they took their measures accordingly. It was evident to Mr. Cooke, that, be the cause what it might, the magistrates of Derbyshire were reluctant to interfere in the matter. He therefore advised Mr. Roe, if he were determined to pursue the case, to go and make his deposition before some magistrate for the county of Nottingham, and to get from him a warrant for the apprehension of Charles Horne, which none of the justices could refuse to back, and which must lead to the apprehension, and consequent examination in full, of the man on whose testimony the question assumed to be at issue depended. This was done accordingly; and Charles Horne being arrested, was

C

conveyed to the magistrates. The magistrate, however, who had given authority to the warrant, had a custom of attending to public business only one day in the week; and the prisoner having been brought up on a Wednesday (Tuesday being his justice day), directions were given that he should be allowed to go at large, and that on the following Tuesday the case would be entered into.

It was impossible that proceedings such as these could be kept secret. Far and near the tidings ran, reaching among others the party most deeply concerned in them. For the first time after a lapse of eleven years and more, William Horne sent for his brother. Charles obeyed the summons; and a colloquy ensued, which, were it not authenticated beyond the power of contradiction, no one would credit. It all came out after the catastrophe, that after his arguments had failed to lead his brother into an act of perjury, William Horne refused to give Charles five pounds wherewith to escape from the country. "I told him," said the brother, when questioned, "that if I spoke at all, I must speak the truth. I shewed him that there was an impulse upon me which I was unable to resist; but I added, 'There's a ship in Liverpool about to sail for America, and if you'll give me five pounds to carry me so far, I'll go on board of her, and you shall never hear of me more.' Would he do it? Not a bit of him. He told me he wouldn't give five pounds to save my worthless life; and that I might go and hang myself. I did go, but I didn't hang myself."

Charles Horne, strange to say, was not called up, as he expected to be, even on the Tuesday. The magistrates of the county seemed to have come to an arrangement among themselves that so horrible a case, if inves tigated at all, should not be investigated by them; but there are crimes so heinous, that it seems as if they could not go without their punishment, be the circumstances of the guilty ever so favourable to escape. Another Nottinghamshire justice was applied to, who granted a warrant against William Horne himself; and the same being countersigned, its execution was intrusted to the constable of Annesley, who chose James

Roe to be his assistant. We need scarcely stop to observe, that this selection was not made without the hearty concurrence of the object of it; indeed, Roe appeared to have imbibed such a deadly hatred for Horne, that on nothing less than the blood of his enemy could it be appeased; and the consequence was, that he pressed the legal proceedings forward with a vigour and pertinacity which overcame all difficulties.

About eight o'clock in the evening of a day in the middle of March, the constable and his assistant knocked at the door of Butterly Manor. They were peremptorily refused admittance; whereupon the constable, leaving Roe, with two stout fellows that attended him, to guard the house, retired for the night, and returned again at an early hour next morning. The groom, looking from a casement above the porch, assured the party, in answer to the summons, that his master was not within; but they would not believe him. They threatened to make good their entrance by force; whereupon the door was opened, and the house searched from garret to cellars, but without effect. The constable expressed an opinion that the bird was flown, and proposed to withdraw; but Roe, as if his spirit, in some previous state of existence, had animated the body of a bloodhound, insisted that he smelt him that he was not far off. They instituted a second search, and observed in one of the rooms through which they had previously passed a huge oak chest.

"What does that contain ?" said Roe to Horne's wife, who attended them.

"Only the household linen," replied she; "shirts, tableclothes, and suchlike."

"I should like to see what they're made of," rejoined the pertinacious man-hunter.

The woman objected, pleading various excuses, and the constable seemed disposed to coincide with her; but Roe was resolute.

old robe-de-chambre. He did not wait to be interrogated; he made no demand as to the cause of the intrusion; but cried, in a bitter, tone,

"It's a sad thing to hang me; for my brother Charles is as bad as I, and he can't hang me without hanging himself!"

To secure the prisoner and carry him before the magistrate, and to convey him thence to the gaol of Nottingham, in order that he might take his trial at the approaching assizes, was the work of a few hours. He did his best to be admitted to bail, and, obtaining a judge's warrant, was removed to London, where the nature of his offence, or supposed offence, was strictly investigated; but no bail was granted, neither was he permitted to traverse. When the next gaol delivery came round, he was placed at the bar on a most hideous charge, namely, the murder of his own child, the child being the fruit of an incestuous intercourse between him and his sister.

The particulars of the trial may be ascertained by all who will take the trouble to examine the records of the criminal court in the town of Nottingham; but we cannot pretend to give them. Our purpose is sufficiently served when we state, that the birth of the child took place at a period so remote as 1724; that William Horne was then forty-one years of age, his wretched sister barely nineteen; and that the living evidence of their guilt was disposed of in a manner to which the mother was no party, and of which she knew nothing till some time afterwards. On the third day from the birthwhich took place in Butterly, where his daughter and both his sons resided with old Mr. Horne, their mother having been for several years deadWilliam sought out Charles, and told him that, at ten o'clock that night, it was absolutely necessary that they should take a ride together. Ac

cording to Charles's statement, he did not entertain the most remote idea of the purpose that was intended, till his brother came to him in the stable, bearing an infant in his arms, well and warmly clad, which he thrust into a long linen bag; that William then saddled two horses and led them out, and that, carrying the sack by turns, they rode five good miles to Annesley in Nottinghamshire. When they

drew near the place, William alighted; and asking Charles whether the brat were still alive, and receiving an answer in the affirmative, he took it out of his brother's arms, enclosed in the bag as it was, and walked away with it. Charles waited some time, according to the instructions of the other, and, at last, William rejoined him; but there was neither child nor bag in his hand. Being questioned as to what he had done with them, he said that he had made a present of both to Mr. Chaworth of Annesley, and that the servants of that gentleman would find more than they bargained for snug under a haystack, when they came in the morning to fodder the cattle. No more passed between the brothers at that time. They rode home, put up the horses without attracting attention, went to bed, and heard, next day, that a dead child had been discovered, enclosed in a linen bag, exactly where William had stated that Mr. Chaworth's people would find one. It would appear that the coroners of those days had little of the spirit of Mr. Wakley among them, for there is no record that any inquest was held upon the babe, or that inquiries concerning it were pushed with diligence. Had the contrary been the case, it seems next to impossible that the truth should not have come to light at the moment. Nevertheless, as if the truth of the saying which affirms that murder will out must, even in so curious an instance, be confirmed, the people who made the discovery in 1724 were all alive to tell about it in 1759; and they corroborated the statement of the principal witness, in regard to the time of finding the body, and its dress and condition, in every particular. On this evidence, William Horne was found guilty, and condemned to be hanged.

It was the custom in those days to carry the sentence of death into execution against murderers on the day after that on which it had been pronounced; and, through a humane desire of allowing the criminal as much time as possible to make his peace with Heaven, the judges usually contrived to bring on such cases on a Saturday, so that Sunday, which, in the eye of the law, is a dies non, might be granted to the condemned as a season of preparation. In pursuance of this custom, Horne, having