florins stored in his house, whereas only three hundred and sixty florins were found in Forster's possession. Bavaria was dragged from north to south-even as far as Frankfort-on-the-Maine arrests were made; all friends of the murderer and his suspicious sister were examined, so were many convicts who had been his special intimates, but all this led to nothing.

It is difficult to see what more evidence could be wanted than was already in possession of the judges. Forster had been observed reconnoitring Bäumler's house before the murder; he had been identified as the man who remained in moody silence in the shop the very night of the crime; Bäumler's clothes, smeared with blood, had been found in his possession; his own sister had declared that he had confessed to her his committal of the act. The very axe (and the murderer had without doubt used an axe) that he had used had been found at his house; he had failed in proving any alibi; his boots had been seen stained with blood. Yet the German lawyers plodded on, till thirteen long examinations had given time for one thousand three hundred questions being put to the unwavering, inflexible, iron-hearted wretch. Obdurate as a Hindoo fakir, stubborn as an Indian chief, he stood for five or six hours together, without flinching or wavering. His deportment is graphically described by Feuerbach:

"All means of attack recoiled from his iron soul; neither the bloody clothes, nor the axe, nor confrontation with his sister and other witnesses could shake him. If a passing flush or paleness, or a downcast eye, occasionally betrayed surprise and embarrassment, it was but for a moment, and he quickly recovered his self-possession. When the axe was produced, his changing colour and rolling eye betrayed the fearful torture within; but his voice and his answers remained unshaken. Upon being confronted with his sister, Walburga, he seemed confused, his colour fled, and his hands trembled; but he still preserved so complete a command over himself as to look her full in the face whilst he denied the most manifest truths. During the whole special inquisition, the emotions he exhibited were those of a wild beast suddenly caught in a net, vainly seeking an outlet by which to escape from the hunters who surround him. When the judge animadverted upon his changing colour or embarrassed air, he replied with perfect truth, 'It is quite possible for an innocent man

to seem more embarrassed than a guilty one; the latter knows exactly what he has done, the former feels that he cannot prove his innocence.' He concealed his obstinacy under an assumption of calmness, gentleness, and piety, as if humbly submitting to a fate he did not deserve. 'I see plainly,' said he in his last examination, that I cannot escape unless the Schlemmers are taken. I have therefore nothing to do but to pray to God that he will enlighten my judges, and enable them to distinguish between guilt and innocence, between the possible and the impossible. In this case guilt and innocence touch, and I have no means of proving my innocence.' The following circumstance will give some idea of his cunning, hypocrisy, and dissimulation. During the trial, a certain John Wagner, who had formerly been in prison with him at Schwabach, was confronted with him to give evidence touching expressions which Forster had dropped concerning some scheme for future crimes. Wagner, on this occasion, accused him of stealing a pair of silk braces. Forster denied the charge, and even when the braces were produced in court and identified by Wagner, he persisted in his denial. But in the solitude of his prison, he reflected that he could turn this incident to good account, in giving an air of truth to his falsehoods respecting the murder. Accordingly, after an interval of two days, he requested an audience, appeared before the judge, with downcast looks and trembling hands, like one bowed down by shame and remorse, and confessed in a circumstantial manner that he had given way to the temptations of Satan, and that he had stolen Wagner's silk braces.' This confession was doubtless intended to convince the judge that one whose tender conscience could not bear even the burden of a stolen pair of braces, would be still less able to endure the remorse which must follow a double murder."

At last, on the 22nd of July, 1821, sentence was passed. Convicted of the murder of Bäumler and his_maid-servant, Forster was condemned to imprisonment for life in chains. His sister, Walburga, for aiding and abetting in the murder, received twelve months in the House of Correction, and Margaret Preiss was acquitted.

In prison Forster was like a bronze statue. He said to some of his fellow-prisoners, “If ever I get into trouble again I will persist in denial till my tongue turns black, and rots in my mouth, and my body is bent double."

The rascal had known perfectly well that unless he made a voluntary confession (for torture had been abolished in Bavaria in 1806) the Bavarian law did not allow him to be put to death. The being exposed in a pillory in chains, with a placard on his breast before Bäumler's shop, in the Königstrasse, did not shake for a moment his nerves of steel.

In 1817, during his imprisonment at Schwabach, this murderer had written a sentimental autobiography, which he entitled, The Romance of my Life and Loves. It seems that, as a boy, he had hung about public-houses, running errands for the citizens who came there to play loto. He had then become a foot-boy to a Prussian baron, with whose children he used to play. Refusing to become a shoemaker, he had turned gardener, till in 1807 he was drawn in the conscription, and enrolled in a regiment of the line. He made the campaign against Austria in 1809, was taken prisoner, and ransomed himself. Dismissed on furlough, he became a tavern keeper, and was punished for theft upon his guests. Twice deserting his regiment, the incorrigible man was sentenced to run the gauntlet three times backwards and forwards past one hundred and fifty men, and to return to military service for six additional years. On the very day of his punishment he again deserted, and again received the same sentence. In 1815 he was found guilty of desertion, fraud, and conspiracy, and drummed out of the regiment. He then turned day-labourer and thief alternately, and in 1816 was tried at Nüremberg for theft and house-breaking, and sentenced to three years and six months imprisonment in the House of Correction. In consequence of his good conduct in prison, however, Forster was released at the expiration of three-fourths of his time, exactly four weeks before the murder. The hypocritical and sentimental autobiography of Forster, in spite of some faults of spelling, displayed considerable cleverness, and was stuffed with texts of Scripture.

"Several anecdotes," says Feuerbach, "for instance, the account of his childish amour with a girl of eleven, of the name of Wilhelmina, and of his stealing out of the camp at Fürth, to visit his mistress, Babette, at Nüremberg, are told with a clearness, simplicity, and truth that would do credit to many a practised pen. But by far the greater part, and especially the long diffuse preface, is written in the pompous

In

inflated style of the worst romances. many places he has introduced songs and poems, borrowed from the best German authors, which, according to his own account, he sang or recited, on various occasions, and which he pretends to have composed himself! His head seems to have been crammed with sentimental phrases and romantic images, which excite disgust and horror in the mouth of such a being. This tiger, who, with a hand reeking with the blood of an old man, could murder an innocent and beautiful girl, can talk of departed souls that hold constant communion with him;' of the soft murmur of the evening breezes,' and of the melting harmony of the senses, which, after his death, would inform his beloved Margaretha, that he was near her." Of his "name, which would die away in the shadow of the grave, like the echo of the songs of love;" of the "glancing of the moonbeams upon the silver stream of the Pegnitz;" and of himself in his seventeenth year, as "a half-blown rose on a beautiful morning in spring." Who could have recognised the murderer Forster in the following passages? Ah! for one thing I praise God," says he in his preface, apostrophising Margaretha; "for this, that our child, the first fruit of our love, sleeps the sleep of peace! When he was torn from me I accused Heaven, and could not understand the inscrutable ways of God, but murmured against him. But now I shed tears of joy that he is safe, and I pluck the flowers of the valley to weave fresh garlands for his grave. Oh! do you remember how I planted the forget-me-nots upon his little green grave? Then my heart knew not God, and my tears flowed in the violence of my sorrow. I thought myself the most miserable of men. I now understand things better." Passages like these-and there are many such-merely prove the utter corruption of one who, cold and hardened as he was, could use the language of the most devout piety and ape the most tender sensibility. The high principle and love of virtue, of which he boasts, were as false as his sentiment. He could not have forgotten, while writing, that he was then in prison for theft; and yet he has the shameless effrontery to write these words in his preface: "Oh! Margaretha! tell daughter what present help in trouble is the innocence of the heart; how it inspires us with heroic strength to support the heaviest affliction." And who would not attribute the following phrase to a philosopher

rather than to a housebreaker? "I know not which best deserves the name of heroism that courage which enables a man to conceal his woes within his own breast, in order to spare pain and sorrow to others, or that which induces him to sacrifice himself for the preservation of another."

In the fortress of Lichtenau Forster seemed never tired of talking of this Margaretha, the woman whom he had intended to marry. He had tattooed on his breast, in red letters, the words "My heart is Margaretha's." To a fellow-prisoner he said, "I have but one wish, to see my dear mistress once more, and die." In sullen silence he bore his long years of imprisonment, perhaps indulging some hope that he might eventually, by such inflexible will, tire out his judges, and procure his liberty. When a prisoner (before his solitary cell was prepared) exhorted him to confess, he replied, "Steadfastness of purpose is the chief ornament of a man! One should not easily give up life; however wretched, life is a noble thing. Believe me, comrade, whenever I look at my chains and the ball attached to them, I feel proud to think that even on my death-bed my last breath shall be drawn with courage. In my earliest days, whatever I undertook, that I did. As I said before, steadfastness and secrecy are what adorn a man." He treated his heavy chains as badges of honour, and polished them at his leisure hours till they shone like silver. During the early period of his imprisonment at Lichtenau, where the most distinguished villains enthusiastically admired and revered him, he condescended to amuse them with stories of enchanted princes and princesses, fortunate robbers, &c., to shorten their long, dreary, evening hours. But one night he suddenly declared, "Gentlemen, from this time forth, I shall tell you no more stories. I see plainly that things look ill with me, and that among the bad I am supposed to be the worst of all." One of his fellowprisoners asked him whether any one had forbidden him to speak, or whether he had taken offence? But he answered, "No one but my own soul forbids me, and that has never counselled me amiss." Pride kept him true to his word; from that time forward he told no more stories, and answered only in monosyllables. Thus he stood alone, distinguished from the common herd of malefactors. He maintained this sullen silence for years in his solitary cell, asking nothing and uttering no complaint. He took

what was offered to him, suffered anything to be taken from him, bore everything in sullen silence and with apparent calmness. He even managed to give an appearance of quiet submission to the obstinate resistance which he offered to the orders of his superiors. His pride was to prove the inflexibility of his will. Once when a task was imposed upon him he refused to do it. He was punished with lashes, but he never stirred a muscle, never uttered a groan, and returned to his cell still refusing to work. No punishment could bend him, till lighter work was substituted, and that he performed with regularity. He acted the part of innocence and piety to the last. He frequently read his hymn-book, listened to the Sunday sermons, and received the sacrament on the usual festivals. If asked about his crimes he either begged not to be questioned, told his stock story of the two hopmerchants, or blamed the Nüremberg people for railing at him as a murderer, and driving him to tell his first and only falsehood, which had led his judge to disbelieve his subsequent true narrative. Hardened as he was, however, it appears that he did not altogether escape from the pangs of a guilty conscience; he frequently sighed deeply; and once, when a lawyer well acquainted with his whole case visited him in prison, vividly represented to him the heinousness of his crime, spoke to him of the heavy burden on his conscience, far heavier to bear in silence than the weight of his chains, then proceeded to describe the bloody scene of the 20th of September, 1820, and to bring before him the victims bleeding under the axe, and trodden under his feet, the sullen counte nance of the prisoner suddenly flushed scarlet, and a person present thought he saw tears in his eyes. Some months after this visit an organ was placed in the chapel of the prison, and the sacrament administered on the occasion. Forster, who had hitherto always displayed the most callous indif ference, was deeply affected. Approaching the altar, supporting his chains and bullet in both arms, he trembled in every limb, tears gushed from his eyes, and his loud sobs filled the chapel. What he thought or felt, whether the notes of the organ pealed in his ear like the "Dies iræ, Dies illa," could not be discovered. When he returned to his cell he was sullen and impenetrable as before.

Forster is described as having a vulgar, heavy countenance. The lower part of his

long narrow face was of unusual length. His expression, singularly animal, revolting and hard, never changed, so that his head seemed like that of a marble statue but for two large dark prominent eyes which were filled with rage and despair, and usually fixed on the ground. That Forster, impenitent to the last, died in prison long since, there can be no doubt, but Feuerbach, in his remarkable work, does not mention his death. We leave the murderer, then, in the deepening gloom of the prison cell, and in that ominous darkness part from the doomed wretch for ever.

senger, and Tibbie was ready to go any where. Yes, she would go in search of Paul Finiston, though she knew very well that he had gone to Camlough. After a long day's absence, she came back with her news; Paul had gone away for his own amusement, and no one in the country seemed to know when he would return.

Simon's rage at hearing this was extreme. Tibbie slunk away out of reach till his passion was exhausted, and then, when she found him feeble and prostrate, with neither voice nor breath left, she ventured again before him, and talked as she had a mind to talk. She told him that Paul Finiston never had intended to work

BY THE AUTHOR OF "HESTER'S HISTORY."

CHAPTER XXXV. SIMON DOES HIS OWN WORK.

In the mean time, Simon had been anxiously expecting his nephew, who strangely absented himself, instead of hastening to complete that engagement which he had almost entered into with his employer. The old man's head was now as busy with Scotch shepherds, as that of his ancient predecessor had been bewitched by the dream of multitudes of spreading trees. He wished to exterminate every peasant, and to cut down the idle woods. He wished to see herds of sleek animals grazing over his land, to have his money in large sums, and no risk about getting it.

He did not know what his nephew could mean by staying away so long, having expected the young man to return to him immediately, lest a terrible threat which had been uttered should be fulfilled without delay. Yet the weeks passed on, and Paul did not appear, while the old man chafed and fretted about his house, and roamed out into the woods, cursing his nephew and his own wretched fate, since he did not find one creature in the world whom he could trust.

Tibbie observed him from her secret hiding-place, and knew the cause of his anger; watched her opportunity, and presented herself before him. She had hung up her mandrake in a corner of the kitchen where it surveyed all her labours and her idlings. Confident in her possession of good luck, she did not fear Simon, and her shrewdness suggested the best way of dealing with her aggrieved master, who scarcely listened to her penitent speeches and professions of attachment, but seized on her offers of service with the greatest eagerness. He was in bad need of a mes

and that was all; laughing in his sleeve while he pretended to be his servant. Of course he was now the heir, and would amuse himself as he pleased till such time as his uncle's death should put him in possession of great wealth. Fine people were courting him, because of those riches which he boasted must be his; and he reckoned on having enough to spend in his lifetime without troubling himself about laying up an increase. Having made these statements, Tibbie went back triumphantly to her kitchen, no longer to hide, but to reign as in former times. Simon was glad to have her at hand, for, his rage expended, he was feverish with new plans. He would be king in his own kingdom, and Tibbie should for the moment be his minister. Tibbie should go in search of the bailiff, so that notices of ejectment might be served without delay; and if the people refused to move, why then Simon, having cast off Paul, would prove that he could yet do business without help from his unworthy kinsman. He would hire some stout assistants, who must at least do their duty by him for a day; but longer than one day he would trust no man again.

Tibbie set off on her errand on a merry summer morning, and she went greatly out of her way to carry her news across the mountains. Con followed after her heels, but he was busy watching the squirrels in the trees, and the leverets on the heath. The world was gay for the fool, and he grew merrier and noisier as he got nearer to the clouds. He knew that he was going a visiting to his friends up in the hills.

The first house they arrived at was happy Bid's! The old woman was preparing for a ramble through the country with her basket of wares. The basket sat on the

table full of little pictures in brass frames, pin - boxes, and pin - cushions, dressingcombs, and rosary-beads, tin brooches, and glass ear-rings, besides many other valuables fit to make eyes dance at her coming. By it lay her staff. The fire was raked on the hearth in preparation for a long absence of the householder from her home; that home of which she was so proud, and which had made her old age so honourable. The place looked as clean as a new pin, and she had got a chair for a visitor, and a little stool for herself, a very tiny table, and a dresser with some crockery. Three gaudy pictures, with brazen frames, were hung round the walls, and gave the place quite a splendid look. The first was the Nativity, the second the Crucifixion, the third the Resurrection of the Lord; and these made a history, which were as Scriptures for Bid, to whom the alphabet was but a string of hieroglyphics. All these delights she had tasted and enjoyed; but Tibbie had come to tell her that the feast was at an end.

Bid herself, queen of her castle, came forward to meet the visitors, brimming full of the good-humour of hospitality. She was dressed ready for travel in the usual long grey cloak and bright scarlet kerchief, she had also a new white cap, whose borders looked as fresh round her pleasant face as a spring hedge round a garden. By such signs of luxury one could see the change in her life. Well might she smile on visiting neighbours, even though Tibbie should come amongst them. She had not much to offer to any one, besides a seat on her chair and a sight of her pictures; but to Bid's manner of thinking this was no mean entertainment.

Tibbie was presented with the chair and Con with the stool, and Bid sat down on her floor which was well-nigh as clean as a satin couch.

"There'll be a bit of a note comin' to ye, by-an-bye," said Tibbie, "but maybe ye won't be able to read it."

"Deed an' I can't," said Bid. tell me what'll be in it ?"

"Ye'll

"That's aisy done," said Tibbie. "Ye'll be out o' this, bag an' baggage, before this day month."

Bid, who had been so happy, turned as white as her nice clean cap.

"Anan?" she said faintly; but she knew the whole story well.

yer lan'lord's land. Ye thought to sit here free because the old man was dotin', but he's not dotin' a bit, an' he's doin' his work himsel' these days. He'll be up wid ye in a fortnit's time, an' I advise ye not to sit waitin' for him."

Poor Bid listened with meekness; she was indeed overthrown from her glory; her old hands fell lax in her lap; her very cap-border hung limp by her cheeks.

"Because, having lifted me up Thou hast cast me down." So said Bid's dim eyes, which had no thought of rebellion in their sadness. She only found, suddenly, that she could no longer be a queen. It was plain that the Lord had not loved her in her pride.

"It's all right, ma'am," she said, plucking up her spirits; "on'y there's wan thing I would ax ye. Would a small trifle o' rent be like to make a differ? The basket has done beautiful wid me, an' by manes o' the pinch of hunger I could save up a little somethin'."

"Sorra bit o' differ," said Tibbie. "Simon wants the lan'. There's gran rich cattle fellas comin' to the hills; an it's not the likes o' you that's goin' to stan' in the road o' sheep an' fat bullocks. I'm thinkin' Simon's tired o' gettin' his money in ha' But I'm pence an' pence. too long talkin' to ye; I must be off to the widow Kearney's.'

At the sound of her friend's name the expression of Bid's meek face was changed. A look of lively terror came into her eyes.

"The Kearneys !" she cried. “Oh, ye niver meant the Kearneys. Yer niver goin' to them on the same arrant ye came to me ?"

"Maybe not," said Tibbie, "but I know my own business."

Con had been hovering about the cabin, looking at Bid's pictures, and hanging with rapture over the treasures in her basket. When Bid cried out "the Kearneys!" in a tone of anguish, he started and gazed at her, and his white face turned red. Then he looked at Tibbie, and his brows began to lower, and he went and took his stand by the side of Bid.

"Nan!" said the fool.

But Bid was too much afflicted to give any heed to him. Her eyes had now got fire in them, and her figure had lost its limpness. She got up and grasped her staff, and prepared to follow Tibbie.

"He threwn them out wanst," she said, an' will he threwn them out again! What