thirty-seven and a half cents, and Conklin refused to pay him more than twenty-five cents. DEPUY, dealing with the prisoner as Dr. BRIGHAM would, made peace by paying him the difference, and settled in the same way a difference between the prisoner and Mr. Murfey, the merchant.

The prisoner's mind was very unsteady during the winter. DEPUY continues: "He did not know half the time what he was doing; he would go up the street, and then turn and run violently in the other direction. He never commenced any conversation with any body, never asked a question; smiled without cause; got up out of his bed at night many times, sometimes two or three times in the same night, and on such occasions would sing irregularly, dance and spar, as if with a combatant; saying sometimes: 'By God! I'll see you out;' sometimes he would take a book and mumble words as if reading, but there was no sense in the words. When asked afterward what he got up nights for, he answered that he didn't know." The prisoner never talked with anybody after coming out of prison, unless to answer, in the simplest way, questions put to him.

Many persons remember the negro, with his saw, deaf, sad and sullen, seeking occupation about the wood-yards, during the halfyear of his enlargement. Few stopped to converse with him, but the report of all confirms what has been testified by DEPUY. Those who knew the prisoner at all, were chiefly persons of his own

caste.

MARY ANN NEWARK says that she saw him after he came out of prison, and he resided with her several days before the homicide. He did not recognize her in the street. "He sat still and silent when in the house, asked no questions, and answered quick and shortlike. His manner of acting was queer-like; he never mentioned any name or spoke of anybody."

NATHANIEL HERSEY, the prisoner's old friend, found him changed, had to speak loud to him; "he appeared to be quite stupid." HERSEY asked him what ailed him; "he said he was deaf, that they rapped him over the head at the prison."

ROBERT FREEMAN discovered that he appeared downcast when he first came out of prison. He spoke to the prisoner, who took no notice. Robert took hold of his hand and asked him how he did. The witness says, " He appeared more dull and downcast, and I could not tell what the matter was; could never establish any communication with him."

Old ADAM GRAY, who knew him as a "pretty cunning kind of a boy," testifies: "I think there is a change in him. It doesn't seem to me that he knows as much as he did before he went to prison. He doesn't seem to talk as much, to have so much life, nor does he seem so sensible. Last winter he boarded with me two months. He would get up nights, take his saw and go out as if he was going to work, and come back again and go to bed. On such occasions he would try to sing, but I couldn't understand what he said. He made a noise appearing as if he was dancing."

Some three weeks before the homicide, the prisoner was boarding at Laura Willard's. The truthful and simple-minded DAVID

WINNER, Seems to have been led by Providence to visit the house at that time. He says

he

I

"I saw him first at his uncle, Luke Freeman's. He then appeared to be a foolish man. I asked if that was Sally's son I did not know him. They told me it was. I said, he is very much altered. They said, he had just come out of State Prison. He had altered very much in his looks and behavior. He was sitting down in a chair in the corner, sniveling, snickering and laughing, and having a kind of simple look. I spoke to him; didn't speak; I saw nothing for him to laugh at. I staid three days and three nights at Laura Willard's, and slept with William in the same bed. At night he got up and talked to himself; I couldn't understand what he said. He appeared to be foolish. gave him a dollar to go down to Bartlett's to get a quarter of a pound of tea and two pounds of sugar, and to the market and get a beef steak. He went to market and got it all in beef steak. He got a dollar's worth of beef steak. When I asked what that was for, he said nothing, but laughed at me. He got up nights two or three times, and I felt cold and told Laura I wouldn't sleep with him any more, and I went and slept in the other room. I got afraid of him, and I wouldn't sleep with him any more. He sung when he got up nights, but you couldn't understand what he sung. ing in what he sung."

There was no mean

DEBORAH DEPUY says, After he came out of prison, there was a change. If I talked to him very loud he would talk, say very little only to answer me. He didn't act cheerful, but very stupid; never said anything until I talked to him. He never talked to me as he did before he went to prison. He had a strange smile. He would laugh very hearty without anything to laugh at. He would'nt know what he was laughing at. He would knock at the door, and I would let him in, and he would sit down and laugh. I would ask what he was laughing at; he said he didn't know. When I asked questions, he would either answer yes, or no, or don't know. I asked him how his hearing was hurt. He said they struck him on the head with a board, and it seemed as if the sound went down his throat. I have asked him why he was so stupid. I don't think he is in his right mind now, nor that he has been since he came out. The reason is that he never used to act so silly, and sit and laugh so, before he went to prison."

His mother, SALLY FREEMAN, describes the change which had come over her child, in language simple and touching: “I never knew he was foolish or dumpish before he went to prison. After he came out of prison, he didn't act like the same child. He was changed and didn't appear to know anything. As to being lively after he came out, I didn't see any cheerfulness about him. He was either sitting or standing when I afterwards saw him, and when I asked him a question he would answer, but that is all he would say. He appeared very dull. He never asked me any questions after he came out, only the first time he saw me he asked me if I was well. From that time to this he has never asked me a question at all. He didn't come to see me more than half a dozen times. When he came, perhaps he would ask me how I did, and then sit down and laugh. What he laughed at was more than I could tell. He laughed as he does now. There was no reason why he should laugh. He was laughing to himself He didn't speak of anything when he laughed. I never inquired what he laughed at. I didn't think he was hardly right, and he was so deaf I didn't want to. I asked him how he got deaf, and he told me his ear had fell down, or some such foolish answer he gave me. He would stay an hour or so. He generally sat still. I went to see him in the jail after he killed the Van Nest family, on the first day of the trial. He laughed when I went in, and said he was well. I talked to him. I asked him if he knew what he had been doing. He stood and laughed. I asked him how he came there. He didn't say much of anything, but stood and laughed. When I went away he didn't bid me good-bye nor ask me to come again. I have never been to see him since, and have never received any message from him of any kind since he has been in jail. I don't know that he noticed me when I was on examination before. I don't think he is in his right mind, or that he has been since he came out of prison. The reason is that he acts very foolish, and don't seem as though he had any senses."

You will remember that we have seen the prisoner a smart, bright, lively, cheerful, and playful youth, attending Deborah Depuy at balls, parties, and rides; for negroes enjoy such festivi.

ties as much and even more than white men

Deborah says he

no longer attends. But from the testimony of JOHN DEPUY we find him at a dance in the house of Laura Willard, on the night before the slaughter of the Van Nest family. The scene was the same as before. There was music, and gallantry, and revelry, and merriment, and laughing, and dancing. But while all others were thus occupied, where was the prisoner, and how was he engaged? He was leaning against the wall, sullen, gloomy, silent, morose; pressing with his hand the knife concealed in his bosom, and waiting his opportunity to strike to the heart his brother-in-law and benefactor.

This is the change which had come over the prisoner when he emerged from the State Prison, as observed by the few of his kindred and caste, who had known him intimately before. How many white men, who knew him in his better days, have we heard confirm this testimony, by saying that they lost sight of him when he went to prison; that they met him in the street afterwards, downcast and sullen, with his saw in his hand, seeking casual occupation; that they spoke to him, but he did not hear or did not answer, and they passed on! Only two or three such persons stopped to inquire concerning his misfortunes, or to sympathize with him.

WILLIAM P. SMITH says: "The first time I saw him after he came out of prison, was in November. I asked him how he did. He made no answer. A little black boy with him told me he was deaf. I spoke to him to try and induce conversation, and finally gave it up; I couldn't make him understand. He appeared different from what I had known him before; appeared dumpish; didn't say much, and seemed to stand around. I met him once or twice in the street-merely met him-he noticed nothing."

DOCTOR HERMANCE did not know him before he went to prison. His peculiarities attracted the Doctor's attention, and he inquired the cause. The prisoner answered that he had been five years in the State Prison, and he wasn't guilty, and they wouldn't pay him. The Doctor says: "I discovered that he was very deaf, and inquired the cause of his deafness. He stated that his ears dropped. I thought his manners very singular and strange; and what he said about pay very singular and strange. He spoke in a very gloomy, despondent state of mind. There appeared to be a sincerity in his manner. The tone of his voice was a dull and monotonous tone. I thought at the time that he was deranged."

To complete this demonstration of the change, I have only to give you the character of the negro now, as he is described by several of the witnesses, as well on the part of the people as of the prisoner, who have seen him in prison, and as he is admitted to be.

WARREN T. WORDEN, Esq., an astute and experienced member of the bar, visited him in his cell in the jail, and says: "I formed an opinion then, that he knew nothing, and I expressed it. I do not believe him sane. I don't believe he understands what is going en around him. He would laugh upon the gallows as readily and as freely as he did in

his cell. He would probably know as much as a dumb beast who was taken to the slaughter house, as to what was to be done with him. If that state of mind and knowledge constitute insanity, then he is insane."

DOCTOR FOSGATE, one of the soundest and most enlightened men in our community, who was his physician in the jail, and dressed his wounded hand, describes him as “insensible to pain, ignorant of his condition, and of course indifferent to his fate; grinning constantly idiotic smiles, without any perceptible cause, and rapidly sinking into idiocy." IRA CURTIS, who knew him in his youth, and has now carefully examined him in the jail, says: "He is incapable of understanding; he is part fool, bordering on idiocy; crazy and an idiot both, and crazy and insane both. If all the doctors in the world should say he was not a fool, I shouldn't believe them."

DOCTOR BRIGGS, who, it will be recollected, knew him at the age of eight or nine, examined him in the jail and says: "my opinion is and was, that he has less mind than when I knew him before-that his mind has become impaired."

the man.

WILLIAM P. SMITH, who knew him before he went to the State Prison and while there, patiently examined him in the jail, and says: "There was a change, a sensible change in He didn't appear to know as much, to have as many ideas about him, as many looks of intelligence. I don't know as I could describe it very well. There was a slowness, a dullness; I thought what little intellect he had seemed to sink lower down, from some cause or other. His physical strength and vigor were good in the prison. He appeared active, strong and energetic. Now, his manner appears more dull, stupid and inattentive."

Dr. VAN EPPS says: "Now he appears to have the intellect of a child five years old." ETHAN A. WARDEN, the prisoner's earliest and fastest friend, says: "I look at him now and when he lived with me. He appears different. I could not get any thing that peared like sorrow for what he had done, or feeling for the crime. I don't think in much above a brute."

JOHN R. HOPKINS says: "I think him in intelligence but little above the brute."

I need not pursue the parallel further.

to his present ignorance and debasement.

There is no dispute as

Dr. DIMON, a witness for the people, although he pronounces the prisoner sane, says he should think he has not as much intellect as a child of fourteen years of age; is in some respects hardly equal to a child of three or four," and in regard to knowledge compares him with "a child two or three years old, who knows his A, B, C, and can't count twentyeight."

DR. BIGELOW, a leading witness for the people, declares: "I believe him to be a dull, stupid, moody, morose, depraved, degraded negro, but not insane;' and Dr. SPENCER, swearing to the same conclusion, says: "He is but little above the brute, yet not insane."

I submit to you, Gentlemen of the Jury, that by comparing the prisoner with himself, as he was in his earlier, and as he is in his later history, I have proved to you conclusively that he is visibly changed and altered in mind, manner, conversation and action, and that all his faculties have become disturbed, impaired, degraded and debased. I submit also that it is proved: first, that this change occurred between the sixteenth and the eighteenth years of his life, in the State Prison, and that therefore the change thus palpable, was not, as the Attorney General contends, efected by mere lapse of time and increase of years, nor by the natual development of latent dispositions: Secondly, that inasmuch the convicts in the State Prison are absolutely abstemious from intoxicating drinks, the change was not, as the Attorney General supposes, produced by intemperance.

1

I have thus arrived at the third proposition in this case, which is, that

THE PRISONER AT THE BAR IS INSANE.

This I shall demonstrate, First, by the fact already so fully established, that the prisoner is changed; Secondly, by referring to the predisposing causes which might be expected to produce insanity; Thirdly, by the incoherence and extravagance of the prisoner's conduct and conversation, and the delusions under which he has labored.

And now as to predisposing causes. The prisoner was born in this village, twenty-three years ago, of parents recently emerged from slavery. His mother was a woman of violent passions, severe discipline, and addicted to intemperance. His father died of delirium tremens, leaving his children to the neglect of the world, from which he had learned nothing but its vices.

. Hereditary insanity was added to the prisoner's misfortunes, already sufficiently complicated. His aunt, Jane Brown, died a lunatic. His uncle, Sidney Freeman, is an acknowledged lunatic.

All writers agree, what it needs not writers should teach, that neglect of education is a fruitful cause of insanity. If neglect of education produces crime, it equally produces insanity. Here was a bright, cheerful, happy child, destined to become a member of the social state, entitled by the principles of our government to equal advantages for perfecting himself in intelligence, and even in political rights, with each of the three millions of our citizens, and blessed by our religion with equal hopes. Without his being taught to read, his mother, who lives by menial service, sends him forth at the age of eight or nine years to like employment. Reproaches are cast on his mother, on Mr. Warden, and on Mr. Lynch, for not sending him to school, but these reproaches are all unjust. How could she, poor degraded negress and Indian as she was, send her child to school? And where was the school to which Warden and Lynch should have sent him? There was no school for him. His few and wretched years date back to the beginning of my acquaintance here, and during all that time, with unimportant exceptions, there has been no school here for children of his caste. A school for colored children was never established here, and all the common schools were closed against them. Money would always procure instruction for my children, and relieve me from the responsibility. But the colored children, who have from time