They Hanged My Saintly Billy

CHAPTER I

The Old Bailey: May 14th, 1856

The trial of William Palmer, aged thirty-one, surgeon and race-horse owner, began yesterday at the Old Bailey after a delay of nearly five months. He had been arrested on Friday, December 15th, 1855, by the police superintendent at Rugeley, Staffordshire—a town of which he is both a native and a resident—on a charge of having, three weeks before, feloniously, wilfully, and with malice aforethought, committed murder on the person of his friend and brother-sportsman John Parsons Cook. The arrest followed upon a verdict of wilful murder returned by a coroner’s court at Rugeley. Palmer was thereupon committed to Stafford Gaol, of which he has since been an inmate.

Popular excitement rose to such a pitch, when he was further accused of several other poisonings, that in the view of the county authorities he could not expect to meet with a fair trial at Staffordshire Assizes. An application for a trial in London having been granted, a special Act (19 Vict. cap. 16) was needed to regularize the procedure; and this having been hurried through Parliament, the Crown resolved that the prosecution should be conducted by Attorney-General Cockburn himself, rather than by any private person.

Yesterday, May 14th, the case was at last called at the Central Criminal Court, Old Bailey, before Lord Chief Justice Campbell, Mr Justice Cresswell and Mr Baron Alderson; the other Commissioners present being the Right Hon. the Lord Mayor of London, two Sheriffs, two Under-Sheriffs and seven aldermen—including Mr Alderman Sidney, late M.P. for Stafford, who happens also to be a native of Rugeley and, we understand, formerly well acquainted with the prisoner’s family.

Supporting Mr Attorney-General for the Prosecution, were Mr Edwin James, Q.C., Mr Bodkin, Mr Welsby and Mr Huddleston.

Mr Serjeant Shee had been appointed to conduct the Defence, with the assistance of Mr Grove, Q.C., Mr Gray, and Mr Kenealey.

To judge by the very numerous applications for admission to the Court, which were made so soon as ever the trial was appointed, and by the vain endeavours of large crowds to force their way into the building yesterday, despite an unseasonable chilliness of the weather, the keen interest which this case excited when first called to public attention has in no degree abated. Every entrance was besieged at a very early hour, and even the fortunate holders of admission cards had to pass the scrutiny of many stern janitors before they could be accommodated in the body of the Court. Among the distinguished visitors were the Earl of Derby, Earl Grey, the Marquis of Anglesey, Lord Lucan, Lord Denbigh, Prince Edward of Saxe-Weimar, with other peers of lesser rank. The Lord Advocate of Scotland sat beside the Attorney-General during the trial.

Punctually, at five minutes to ten o’clock, the learned judges entered, accompanied by the Lord Mayor, the aldermen, and the Sheriffs, and took their seats on the bench. A jury consisting largely of respectable City tradesmen was empanelled, after which the Lord Chief Justice ordered all witnesses, with the exception of medical men, out of Court.

The prisoner, on being called upon, pleaded ‘Not Guilty’ in a firm voice.

As a final earnest of the Crown’s intention to give the prisoner a scrupulously fair trial, it was demanded by Mr Serjeant Shee for the Defence, and granted by Mr Attorney-General for the Prosecution, that any juryman who might be either a proprietor or shareholder in any insurance company should be asked to withdraw. Frequent allusions to insurance companies, with which the prisoner had dealings, would be made in the course of the trial: particularly to The Prince of Wales, The Solicitors’ and General, and The Midland Counties.

No juryman, however, withdrew, and the Attorney-General thereupon began his speech for the prosecution.

***

Outside the Court, crowds still gathered thick, and included many Rugeley folk who had come up by train on the previous day in the full expectation of being admitted to witness the trial, and now expressed their disappointment most forcibly.

‘By what right have the Under-Sheriffs admitted those d—d nobs to satisfy their idle curiosity? There ain’t a Staffordshire man in the whole bunch, and I’ll wager not a one of them so much as knows Dr Palmer by sight!’

‘Did you see Lord Lucan? Him whom the Commander-in-Chief sent home from the Crimea? Perhaps his admission card should be regarded as a consolation prize for his military failures.’

‘Some pretty murders were done in the Crimea by these selfsame nobs, but it’s hardly likely that they’ll ever be brought to justice. Murder by neglect is more difficult to prove than murder by strychnine or prussic acid; and if charged, they would plead to be tried by their peers.’

‘A right denied, however, to house-breakers, pick-pockets and other criminals in a small way.’

‘A very shrewd hit, Sir!’

‘I am obliged for your agreement, Sir.’

‘Did you know Dr Palmer?’

‘Did I, indeed? I’m a near neighbour of his. James is my name: a book-seller of Rugeley. And you, Sir?’

‘I’m from Uttoxeter—a betting man, as you’ll have gathered from the cut of my jib. I wonder whether your impressions of Dr Palmer tally with mine? I cannot claim to have known him well, but I should say that he’s a good-principled man. Of course, he couldn’t pay when he didn’t have the money, and he had the ill-luck to be barred from the Ring at Tattersall’s, because of a failure in that respect. But, my dear Sir, he was a devil when it came to punting, as we call speculation on the Turf. And he knew as much about making a book as yourself—if I may be so bold! For though book-makers and book-sellers come close to each other in a dictionary, so also do card-makers and card-sharpers, ha, ha! and are equally ignorant of the other’s trade… They talk of his cleverness; I wouldn’t call him clever. Why, I’ve heard my fellow-Turfites wonder how he ever managed to win a penny… But what is your experience of him?’

‘Well, Sir, I should agree that he’s not a clever man. I should also add that neither is he a deep man. But he’s a very cool man. Though speculative, as you say, he never seemed to be either elated or depressed by the results of his speculation, as so many gentlemen of your profession unfortunately become at times. And from the cut of his jib, as you put it, nobody would ever guess him to be anything but a country surgeon…

‘He doesn’t drink, I understand?’

‘He drinks but little, and was only once seen the worse for liquor… At The Talbot Arms Hotel in Rugeley he would sit still and bite his nails, listening to the conversation of others; a habit which must have been of considerable profit to him, because in wine is truth; and I have seen betting men come reeling out of the Talbot, one after the other, when he was paying the score. In short, he’s a perfectly sober, cool man; kind and generous to all around. And here with me, Sir, is our Rugeley sexton to confirm what I have said.’

The old sexton removed his cloth cap in greeting, and sang out eagerly: ‘Yes, Sir, I’ve known Dr Palmer, man and boy, these thirty years. He’s the very last person in the town as I should have suspected of such an ungodly thing. He’s a religious gentleman, and many’s the time, when I’ve had a sup of ale too much, he’s chastised me for it. He’d say: Do keep yourself respectable, Jemmy, and don’t go to them public inns. If you wants a drink of ale, come by my house. And there’s Bill Hawton, used to be clerk in the saw-mill, which was Mr Palmer, Senior’s business. Bill Hawton fell ill last year and couldn’t come to The Yard for a long time. Well, Sir, the only member of the numerous Palmer family who sent him joints of meat and coal, and other things he might need, was the Doctor; and he lent him money into the bargain. He called it lending, Sir, but bless you! that was but his kind way of giving without causing poor Bill to regard it as a charity. Above ten pound, he gave Bill Hawton in money, apart from the value of the goods. And anyone at Rugeley will tell you that the Doctor was affectionate to his family, to his widowed mother in particular, though ’tis said that he had good cause to be ashamed of her giddy ways. And many’s the labouring man will regret what’s happening here today! For even if they acquit Dr Palmer of the charge—and, for myself, I’m prepared to swear him innocent—he’s ruined, and suspicion will always attach to him.’

The book-seller smacked the sexton on the back. ‘I like a man who speaks up for a friend in trouble. And, if you ask me, the special Act of Parliament, which was passed to let the judges try him here, conveys a hundred times more prejudice than it removes. Dr Palmer may have enemies in Staffordshire, but he also has many friends—and the friends outnumber the enemies. If he had been committed to the county assizes, the trial would have been conducted in a perfectly quiet and Christian atmosphere. You have only to ask the servants at the various hotels he frequented, within thirty miles in all directions of Rugeley: they will invariably speak of him as a nice, pleasant, decent sort of man—unless the Police have got at them, like some I know. And it’s the talk of good people of that sort that moulds public opinion far more than the newspapers, such as The Illustrated Times, which have already poisoned London against Dr Palmer.’

***

Inside, the Attorney-General had opened his speech for the prosecution. He set forth the complicated nature of the facts on which the Crown’s case rested, and begged the jurors to lend their patient attention to them, while discarding from their minds all prejudiced opinions which they had acquired either from hearsay or reading. This might be difficult in a case already so widely discussed throughout the country, but he begged them to make the effort.

‘Gentlemen,’ he then proceeded, ‘William Palmer, the prisoner at the bar, is by profession a surgeon. He practised as such at Rugeley in Staffordshire for some years, until he became addicted to Turf pursuits, and was gradually weaned away from his profession. During the last two or three years, I am informed, he had made over his practice to his assistant, by name Benjamin Thirlby, who was then and is now a chemist and druggist of Rugeley. He kept only one or two patients…’

Here the Attorney-General coughed, paused, and with an accent that seemed to some persons in Court unwarrantedly pointed, went on: ‘…patients in whose lives he had—shall I say?—a more immediate interest than in others.’

The Rev. Thomas Palmer, who loved his elder brother William with a sincere devotion, half-rose in his seat to protest; but their sister Sarah Palmer, a modest and beautiful young lady, who helps Thomas in his parochial duties, at Coton Elms in Derbyshire, tugged at his coat to restrain him. ‘Be patient, Tom,’ she whispered. ‘Take an example from William, who sits there no less calm and conscious of his innocence than Bishop Cranmer at the stake.’

The Rev. Thomas thereupon subsided in his seat, and the little scene passed unobserved by the Court officers, for all eyes were fixed on the prisoner at the bar. William Palmer certainly looks at least ten years more than his thirty-one, with which he is credited on the indictment. He is solidly built, very broad-shouldered and bull-necked, though not above the average height. His complexion is florid, his forehead high, his features somewhat mean, yet respectable enough. He has thin, lightish-brown hair, brushed back over an almost bald head, and whiskers inclining to red. Nothing in his appearance suggests either ferocity or cunning; and his manner is exceedingly calm and collected, without a trace of bravado, guilt or remorse. Shrewd observers, however, will notice a remarkable discrepancy between the ruddy coarseness of his face and the extreme prettiness of his hands—which are white, small, plump and dimpled, almost womanly in their appearance, and which he spends a deal of time admiring as he sits in the box, sometimes picking at his nails for lack of a pen-knife to trim them neatly. He is no longer allowed to wear wash-leather gloves as a protection for these hands against the sun, but little sunlight penetrated into the County Gaol and House of Correction at Stafford this last winter, and their colour seems to afford him great satisfaction.

The Attorney-General’s speech occupied the entire morning; and in it he gave a lucid and detailed account of what he intended should be established by the witnesses for the prosecution. The Rev. Thomas Palmer and Miss Sarah Palmer listened with set faces; their tightly compressed lips and narrowed eyes evinced disgust at what Miss Palmer was overheard to call, sotto voce, during a momentary pause in the speech: ‘A wicked bundle of hearsay, lies and scandal.’ When the speaker began to discuss the prisoner’s pecuniary difficulties which suggested a motive for the crime, and pronounced: ‘A man may be guilty of fraud, he may be guilty of forgery; it does not follow that he should be guilty of murder,’ a deep frown settled on both brows. Some offence was also felt by a gentleman in a back row, who exclaimed: ‘Give a dog a bad name and hang him, Sir!’; whereupon the Rev. Mr Palmer turned round in a fury, and shouted: ‘Who calls my brother a dog?’

The gentleman in the back row could not be discovered, but the Lord Chief Justice threatened to clear the Court if any further interruptions occurred. He would, indeed, have ordered the ushers to eject the Rev. Mr Palmer, but that Mr Alderman Sidney apprised him of the latter’s identity. Nor could he greatly object to the warmth of his rejoinder which, though officious, had been uttered in reproof of the unknown voice. He therefore contented himself with the dry warning: ‘Sir, if you respect my wig, I’ll undertake to respect your cloth.’ The Rev. gentleman duly apologized, and no further incident broke the dignity of the day’s proceedings.

Certainly, the Rev. Thos Palmer did not forget what he has since called ‘the one fatal instance on which my brother William infringed the commercial code of this country.’ But that had been many years before, and he now persuaded himself that William, a regular church-goer, who took the sacrament every Sunday, and contributed generously to all church charities, repented with all his heart of that lapse, which had been attended by strongly extenuating circumstances.

CHAPTER II

The Wiles of Jane Widnall

Dr Palmer’s immediate family consists of his elder brother Joseph, a former timber-merchant and colliery owner, now retired from business, and living with his wealthy wife at Liverpool; his younger brothers George, a Rugeley attorney, who married a rich ironmaster’s daughter and Thomas, a clergyman of the Established Church; and Sarah, an unmarried sister, who devotes her life to good causes. There was another younger brother, fourth in the list, named Walter, a bankrupt and drunkard, recently deceased; also a sister who married a Mr Heywood of Haywood and, after a life of indecent scandal, drank herself into the grave.

Old Mrs Palmer, the mother, a hale woman in her late fifties or early sixties, is still living at The Yard, in Rugeley, the house where all her seven children were born. It takes its name from the timber-yard which old Mr Palmer, the sawyer, used to manage. Joseph succeeded him for a while in the business, but presently abandoned it altogether. The Yard is a handsome, comfortable place, built of red brick. On one side, next St Augustine’s Church, a splendid ivy-tree climbs to the very roof, its dark foliage making the blind of the staircase window shine snowy white by contrast. On the other side, a bulging two-storey bow window, built of stone and overlooking the canal, has been awkwardly patched on to the original structure. The windows are glazed with plate-glass, and their gay wire blinds and rich silk curtains are very much in the fancy style of a prosperous public house. Another bow window, behind, is as old as the house, and has small diamond-shaped panes set in lead, like the stern lights of ancient ships. The entrance door is protected by a wide verandah, respectably painted in clean white but which, not being overgrown by clematis, honeysuckle, or other creeping plants, has a naked sort of aspect. Well-clipped box and privet enclose the front garden, so that anyone with half an eye can see that a gardener is kept here. The wharf, where the timber was formerly loaded on canal barges, and the yard where it was stacked, has of late been converted into a gently sloping lawn. A few shrubs line the gravelled carriage drive, but they are brown at the tips and look unhealthy. The great crane, which once creaked under the weight of heavy timber baulks, now rests idly at the water’s edge, planked over against the weather. Occasionally, long and narrow barges pass, each draught-horse forced slantwise by the strain on the tow rope. At the farther end of the timber-yard a few blackened planks remain, piled together in the form of a pent-house, which serves as a convenient roosting place for Leghorn fowls and a bantam or two.

The back premises are so foul that they charge the front with hypocrisy. Here the garden has been allowed to go out of cultivation—the flower beds trodden underfoot until they are as hard as the gravelled walks that surround them. A few dish-clouts hang up to dry. We noticed a water-butt with rusty hoops; and a coach-house and stable that even a London cabman would cough at. The black thatch of the stable is dripping away, and its woodwork seems too rotten even for kindling. Old Mrs Palmer, to be sure, no longer keeps a carriage.

‘The nearer the church, the farther from God,’ is a proverb of doubtful truth. But true it is that William Palmer, as a child, had two churches frowning down on him, and scores of graves around. He could take reading lessons from the inscriptions on the gravestones and vaults, such as the large one near the gate with its carved letters picked out in green moss:

Praises on tombs are trifles vainly spent;

A man’s good name is his best monument!

The gardener, by name Littler, once top-sawyer at The Yard, knew the family well and is ready, for a pint of ale, and a half-ounce of tobacco, to talk about them. Here is his account.

ROBERT LITTLER

Old Mr Palmer was very strict with the children generally: made them play in the grounds, or in the graveyard, and kept them out of the village lest they should run into mischief. When he died, however, they were allowed to run wild. Mrs Palmer, you see, is of a very different character from her late husband; but, being in her employ, I cannot say more than that. You must inquire elsewhere, if you are still curious. The old master never flogged William so often as he did the others, Walter in especial, and not because he was a particular favourite, but because he was careful to avoid trouble. Walter was very racketty, and the people hereabouts used to agree on William as the best of the bunch; though perhaps fear of the birch made him a trifle sly. He was Mrs Palmer’s darling, yet I never saw him fly into a pet, as Joseph was apt to do.

I often carried William through the fields in my arms and played at marbles with him—he was a capital aim at marbles, or ball, or tipcat. As a baby he was very fat and lusty, but so were all his brothers and sisters—not a one of them could walk before sixteen or eighteen months. When William reached the age of five he went as a day-scholar to the Free Grammar School, the next house along the road; that was in old Bonney’s time. Mr Bonney was reckoned a man of great discrimination, he could tell a boy’s character at a glance—a pity he’s dead! We had as many as eighty-three scholars in his day, come in from all the towns and villages around. We have only twenty-four at present, the new master not being of the same quality. Yes, William received a sound education under Mr Bonney. And he went of his own accord to take singing lessons from Mr Sheritt, him who’s now our Parish clerk and would take no boy unless he was of good character—he speaks highly of William still. Indeed, a better-tempered or more generous lad there never was; and a very nice young gentleman he became. In the case of a school row, he would always stand up for the weaker side, and use his fists to advantage. Perhaps that was why his school-fellows never took to him, as they did to his other brothers, but kept their distance. I have heard it said of late—since this wretched business started, I mean—that he would borrow money under false pretences from the men employed at The Yard, and not repay them; but he never tried such a trick on me, nor did I ever hear any complaint from my mates at the time. Well, William was just as generous when he grew up; he never forgot an old face. Why, whenever he met me or Mr Sheritt, he’d say: ‘Will you have a glass of something to drink?’ He gave a deal to the poor, and in a quiet way, too; as one who stores up treasures in Heaven, not with a sound of trumpets.

When he left school at the age of seventeen, his father apprenticed him to Messrs Evans & Sons, the wholesale chemists of Lord Street, Liverpool. There he behaved very well indeed for some months, and was attentive to his various duties, and caused every satisfaction; until, like Samson in the Good Book, he met his Delilah. William, you see, lodged a few streets away from the counting-house, with one Widnall. He could not be put up by his brother Joseph, because at that time Joseph was working a colliery at Cannock Chase, not many miles from here—a business, let me tell you, which lost him a few thousand pounds. William had hitherto lived an innocent life, and was still what they call a he-virgin when the landlord’s red-headed daughter Jane, who was William’s senior by two years—decoyed him into her bed. She thought William a pretty good catch, having heard that he possessed seven thousand pounds of his own, and was determined to lay her hands on it. After a few weeks had passed she pretended to be with child and, coming to him with eyes red from weeping, begged that he would marry her.

When he protested that this was out of the question, much as he loved her and regretted her plight, she demanded fifty pounds for the performance of an abortion. William replied that he had not above five pounds in his pockets, and would not enjoy his inheritance until the age of twenty-one.

‘Very well,’ said she, ‘if I cannot turn away the brat you have given me, then I must needs bear it; and my father will make you either marry or support me.’

William stood at a loss. ‘I am a respectable girl,’ she went on, ‘and you have seduced me.’

‘But where am I to find the fifty pounds?’ asks William. ‘That’s a deal of money,’ he says.

‘You have a rich brother,’ answers the red-haired lass. ‘Borrow from him.’

‘Joseph is the last man in the world I can approach,’ says William. ‘’Tis like this. My father, in the year of the Queen’s Coronation, comes home to dinner one day, eats and drinks with gusto, but falls dead of heart-failure with his bread and cheese still clutched in his hand. The will he left behind was unsigned; and Joseph, as the eldest son, might by law have taken all the property in his own right, bar the widow’s thirds. However, he was kind enough to execute a deed by which he should keep only seven thousand pounds, and we others should have the same sum apiece; and my mother, the remainder and the landed property, for her lifetime—on condition that she would not re-marry. And there’s a clause in the deed, my dear, which debars any of us from enjoying our inheritance if we marry before the age of twenty-one, or commit any grave fault. Joseph is a good-hearted man, but he’s also a severe one, and I don’t propose to vex him.’

‘Why did you hide all this from me?’ cries Jane Widnall in a rage. ‘I’d never have let you so much as kiss me, if I’d known how matters stood!’

‘You never asked me,’ says William.

Presently the lass goes off to an abortionist, or pretends to; then she comes back and takes to her bed for a few days. She tells William that all’s well, but that he must find two hundred pounds within six weeks, because she’s stolen that sum from her father’s strong-box, and there’ll be the Devil to pay if it’s not put back before he makes up his quarterly accounts. ‘I shall accuse you of the theft,’ she threatens William.

‘Why did you pay two hundred pounds, and not fifty?’ he asks, in surprise.

‘I couldn’t find the ready money,’ she explains, and says: ‘The wretch has threatened to inform my father, and I’ll be ruined.’

William is a greenhorn, and suspects nothing. He should have known that no abortionist would perform an operation except for cash on the nail, or afterwards run the risk of going to gaol for the crime of abortion and the equally serious crime of extorting money by threats. Then, on the advice of a fellow-apprentice, he backs a certainty at the Liverpool Races. It loses him five pounds. So he sells his gold watch, given him as a present by old Mrs Palmer when he left home, and with the five pounds it fetches, backs a certainty at the Shrewsbury Races. He loses again, and in despair resorts to other means of money raising.

Messrs Evans & Sons are troubled. Various customers write to say that they have paid their accounts owing to the firm, but have received no acknowledgements. What, then, has happened to the cash, which they are positive has been sent? It seems as if there are thieves at the Liverpool Post Office. Now, as I’ve heard the story, the merchants of Liverpool have their own letter-boxes into which letters addressed to them are placed by the Postmaster, as soon as the mails come in by coach or railway train. Confidential clerks go to collect these letters, which arrive much earlier this way than if they had been delivered by the penny-postman.

Well, complaints of lost money became more frequent, and the Liverpool Post Office denied responsibility; so Messrs Evans wrote to the General Post Office in London, and the authorities there sent an inspector down to Liverpool to lay a trap for the thief. But no thief was caught, and the missing letters remained a mystery, and fresh complaints came pouring in that money had been despatched by post, but had not been acknowledged. One customer had remitted twenty pounds, and another forty-two pounds, no less.

It occurred to Mr Evans, Junior, that, though the inspector had done all he could in tracing letters from the various country Post Offices to the one at Liverpool, it yet remained to trace them from the Liverpool mail-box to the counting-house in Lord Street. It happened to be the day when William went to fetch the letters—for he shared this task with a respectable senior apprentice—and Mr Evans, Junior, decided to watch him from a little distance so soon as ever he emerged from the Post Office. William was seen to finger and feel all the envelopes in turn, to make out if any of them had enclosures. One happening to be more bulky than the rest, he paused at the entrance to an alley-way, and opened it. But it contained only a wad of advertisements by some manufacturer of patent medicines, so he crammed it into his pocket and, finding the other letters lean and uninviting, took them to the counting-house. Meanwhile, Mr Evans, Junior, had hurried past the alley-way and reached Lord Street ahead of William. There he stood at the counting-house, waiting to receive the letters.

‘Why, Palmer,’ he exclaims, ‘these are not all that came today, surely?’

‘Certainly, Sir,’ answers William, lying with a good heart to save what he thought was the honour of the girl.

‘Where, then, is the letter which I saw you open in the alley and thrust into your pocket?’ Mr Evans asks him.

‘Oh, that!’ says William, readily. ‘I forgot about it. The fact was, I recognized the handwriting. It is the advertisement for patent medicines that comes regularly once a quarter. I thought no harm to open it and see what new lines they are offering.’

But Mr Evans, Junior, ain’t satisfied. He takes William before Mr Evans, Senior, and though William positively denies all guilt, he has been observed fingering and feeling all the letters. The Evanses don’t risk taking proceedings against the lad, for want of evidence that would convince a jury, but they immediately discharge him, and write to Mrs Palmer at The Yard about the matter.

Mrs Palmer, she fell in a great pother when she heard the news, and went complaining to all and sundry, myself included, that her dear son was unjustly accused of a crime that he did not have it in his heart to commit. She should have remembered the proverb ‘Least said, soonest mended.’ For, as I heard later from Mr Duffy, the linen-draper—but I reckon I should keep my mouth shut on the subject of Mr Duffy—William confessed everything to his mother, who came at once from Rugeley, accompanied by his brother Joseph, who happened to be there on a visit, and implored Mr Evans, Senior, to be merciful. Mr Evans tells her: ‘It don’t rest with us, Ma’am, but with our customers, whose money has been stolen to the tune of two hundred pounds or so. You must deal with them.’

‘Oh, that I’ll gladly do,’ says Mrs Palmer. ‘Pray give me the names and addresses, and the amount owing in each case! The poor boy borrowed the money to save a girl’s honour.’

They gave her the names and addresses and other particulars, and she made good the money stolen. William confessed his guilt to Mr Evans, saying that he was properly penitent, and begged that he might remain until his apprenticeship ran out.

Howsomever, they hardened their hearts, though it was a first offence; but to prevent the public scandal that would be caused if they cancelled the