of the solicitor who set it up—and consequently watched the Vicar with scrutinizing intensity.

"Have you finished with your witness, Mr. Woollet?" his lordship inquired.

"Yes, my lord."

Maule then took him in hand, and after looking at him steadfastly for about a minute, said,—

"You say, sir, that you have been Vicar of this parish for four-and-thirty years?"

"Yes, my lord."

"And during that time I dare say you have regularly performed the services of the Church?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Did you have week-day services as well?"

"Every Tuesday, my lord."

"And did you preach your own sermons?"

"With an occasional homily of the Church."

"Your own sermon or discourse, with an occasional homily? And was this poor man a regular attendant at all your services during the whole time you have been Vicar?"

"Until he killed his wife, my lord."

"That follows—I mean up to the time of this Sabbath-breaking you spoke of he regularly attended your ministrations, and then killed his wife?"

"Exactly, my lord."

"Never missed the sermon, discourse, or homily of the Church, Sunday or week-day?"

"That is so, my lord."

"Did you write your own sermons, may I ask?"

"Oh yes, my lord."

Maule carefully wrote down all that our witness said, and I began to think the defence of insanity stood on very fair grounds, especially when I perceived that Maule was making some arithmetical calculations. But you never could tell by his manner which way he was going, and therefore we had to wait for his next observation, which was to this effect:—

"You have given yourself, sir, a very excellent character, and doubtless, by your long service in the village, have richly deserved it. You have, no doubt, also won the affection of all your parishioners, probably that of the Bishop of your diocese, by your incomparable devotion to your parochial duties. The result, however, of your indefatigable exertions, so far as this unhappy man is concerned, comes to this—"

His lordship then turned and addressed his observations on the result to me.

"This gentleman, Mr. Hawkins, has written with his own pen and preached or read with his own voice to this unhappy prisoner about one hundred and four Sunday sermons or discourses, with an occasional homily, every year."

There was an irresistible sense of the ludicrous as Maule uttered, or rather growled, these words in a slow enunciation and an asthmatical tone. He paused as if wondering at the magnitude of his calculations, and then commenced again more slowly and solemnly than before.

"These," said he, "added to the week-day services—make—exactly one hundred and fifty-six sermons, discourses, and homilies for the year." (Then he stared at me, asking with his eyes what I thought of it.) "These, again, being continued over a space of time, comprising, as the reverend gentleman tells us, no less than thirty-four years, give us a grand total of five thousand three hundred and four sermons, discourses, or homilies during this unhappy man's life."