Do you remember you and your uncle carrying away a woman?—I do.
So you have been guilty of one abduction, five murders, and one burning; what else did you do? Would you suggest any other crime in the catalogue, of which you were not guilty?
Judge Torrens: Did you commit a rape?—No.
Mr. Hatchell: Were any of your brothers convicted of a rape?—Yes.
Were you not charged with holding the unfortunate woman while your brother committed the rape?—No, but another brother was.
Mr. Hatchell: That would be too shabby an offence. When you came to Walsh’s house, you lifted one of the Ryans up in the roof?—Yes.
Did you know there were women in the house?—I partly guessed there were.
Did you mind how many innocent people might have been burned?—I did not care. (Great sensation.)
Judge and Counsel, with great disgust, ordered the wretch off the table.
In these days of Motor Cars, any gossip about their progenitors must be of interest. On 7 Aug., a steam carriage, carrying 16 persons, belonging to the General Steam Company, was tried between the York and Albany, Regent’s Park, and the Manor House at Tottenham—i.e., along the Camden Road to Finsbury Park—doing the distance in rather less than half-an-hour. Another ran on 13 Sep. from Deptford to Sevenoaks, about 21 miles, in 2 hours 37 minutes, but there were small accidents by the way. Later on in the month the first-named carriage performed about Windsor, Frogmore and Dachet, and frequently reached a speed of 18 to 20 miles an hour; and on Oct. 1 it was shown to the Queen and Prince Albert, the latter expressing himself highly pleased with it. It then only did 16 miles an hour.
On 9 Sep. Vauxhall Gardens, which had been a place of amusement since the time of Charles I., were sold for £20,000. In _Punch_ of 14 Aug. we find a sad account of a last visit:
“Impelled by a sense of duty, we wended our way to the ‘Royal property,’ { 169a} to take a last look at the long expiring gardens. It was a wet night—the lamps burnt dimly—the military band played in the minor key—the waiters stalked about with so silent, melancholy a tread, that we took their towels for pocket handkerchiefs; the concert in the open _rain_ went off tamely—dirge-like, in spite of the ‘Siege of Acre,’ which was described in a set of quadrilles, embellished with blue fire and maroons, and adorned with a dozen double drums, thumped at intervals, like death notes, in various parts of the doomed gardens. The _divertissement_ was anything but diverting, when we reflected upon the impending fate of the ‘Rotunda,’ in which it was performed.