The Sun. — 1849-08-27 (London, England)

WARD. It is customary to say nothing in reference to such cases before a public trial has made manifest the guilt or innocence of the accused ; by this most excellent rule we shall practically abide. We shall say not one word relative to the extent of the wretched prisoner's guilt. We content ourselves with recommending to public attention the evidence given before the magistrate. It contains a moral lesson more efficacious than a hundred homilies. We listen to an exordium on the evil effects of passion, we read elaborate argu ments on the value of self-command, we, perhaps, admit the excellence of the one and of the other, and then turn away and forget them both. Let us, however, contemplate this catastrophe. The lesson it teaches is written in letters of blood ; few, we should imagine, can peruse it unmoved, or, we should hope, unbenefited. We have heard of murders more appalling, and crimes more revolting in their details, but we remember none, in the simplicity of its horror, in the sad probability of all its circumstances, more impressive and more effective than this. Fiction seldom equals truth either in tenderness or pathos. No five act tragedy ever exceeded in mournful or appalling interest this tragedy, this life's history condensed into one scene. The husband returns home at evening, the wife has been out to purchase his supper ; they sit together by the fire-side. A discussion takes place, angry words follow ; on both sides, perhaps, there is wilful provocation, or a disposition to be displeased. So far is not the picture daily realised in many a home ? How many can lay their hands on their hearts and exonerate themselves while they cast a stone at these ? Comparisons are proverbially " odious," and such a comparison, to all concerned, will appear especially so,—the greater the truth the greater the libel. Nevertheless one good consequence should be derived from such calamitous scenes, the benefit of a warning example. Let none, therefore, shrink from the application of such an example as this. Angry words have passed between the husband and wife; we know not what provocatory language may have trembled upon her tongue, so soon to be stilled for ever ; we know not what indignant impulse may have stirred his heart, so soon to be rendered the home of very different feelings—we only know the catastrophe. The wretched man seizes the first implement in his way, and inflicts a blow which is death. If in the eyes of Him who readeth the heart a thought is as sinful as the committed act, how many are morally as guilty as this man ? We say this, not by way of extenuating his offence, but merely as an evidence of how " in the midst of life we are in death," and how insecure is the happiness, and even the existence, of those who give way to passion. "A soft answer turneth away wrath," we all admit, although few condescend to put their faith in practice. No housewife ever treasured up a more valuable receipt than this neglected proverb. Yet another scene of the tragedy has transpired, one hardly less melancholy than the preceding. The young child of the unhappy pair comes forward, in a voice broken by sobs and choked by tears, to recapitulate the sad details of her mother's death and her father's guilt, and the father, as he listens, covers his face and weeps aloud. Any comment upon such a scene must seem tame and cold to those who have already perused the detailed account ; to those who have not we can only say, they need not seek in the pages of a novel for the source of tears. No heart, even 'the most callous, could contemplate that young child's agony unmoved. This, then, is a case which, terrible and tearful though it be, we commend as a fit subject of consideration. The catastrophe is too appalling to be easily forgotten—the warning too much required to be passed over without notice.