Versailles. While he was there, the prisoner was
brought to the same place. he was in a fit when
he came, and remained speechless the whole of
that day and the next night. When he awaked
in the morning he looked wild and disturbed.
He said that he had been asleep for a long time,
but that at last he had awaked. Being asked
what countryman he was, he said, "I came from
London. I am King George." He was quite
serious, and, having got a looking-glass before
him, he put his hand up to his head, saying,
"That he was feeling for his crown." He
repeated that he was King George, and said
that he lived as king in Red Lion-street,
Clerkenwell.

The prisoner's brother said that Hatfield had
been confined once or twice every year since his
wounds in Flanders. He was affected by
hot weather, the changing of the moon, and
crowded rooms. When he was going off, he was
always gloomy, sour, and disobliging; they then
put him in confinement. From looking in his
brother's face he could tell the time of the moon
as well as if he looked at an almanack. They
were just about to confine him, when the
unfortunate event took place, and God Almighty
grant they had!  In how many of these cases
there is the same tardy repentance.

Several other witnesses having been examined,
Lord Kenyon here stopped the proceedings,
considering Hatfield's insanity amply
proved. A verdict of "Not guilty, on the plea
of insanity," was returned, and the prisoner, now
perfectly cool and collected, was driven back to
Newgate in a hackney-coach.

Not long after Hatfield was in Bedlam, he killed
another madman named Benjamin Train, by a
blow which struck him over a form. He afterwards
contrived to escape, but was recaptured
at Dover and sent for a time to Newgate. He
several times petitioned parliament for release,
but lingered, soured in temper, and pining for
liberty, through many years. He made straw
baskets, which he sold to visitors, and he was
dexterous and ingenious in their manufacture.
Government allowed him sixpence a day for his
military service. He died in Bedlam.

Bannister Truelock, the mad prophet, was
treated with much consideration at Bedlam,
where he had a room at the top of the house
that commanded a fine view of Surrey. The
walls were covered with his prophecies, and he
kept a great number of canary-birds, which he
bred for sale. He persisted to his death in the
assertion that the Messiah was to be spiritually
born from his mouth.

Peg Nicholson and James Hatfield were the
only two persons who attempted the life of
George the Third, numerous as were the plots
that developed themselves during the oppressions
of Sidmouth and Castlereagh. George
the Fourth, his unworthy son, was once shot
at as he drove to Westminster, and his coach
was often pelted. An old crazed pensioner flung
a stone at honest William the Fourth at Ascot;
and then came a series of miserable imbeciles,
who from time to time endeavoured to secure
board and lodging in a madhouse for life, by
threatening the life of our gracious Queen,
whom God preserve!

RUFUS HELSTONE.

TROUBLES, calamities, judgments of God—
ay, sir, they seem terrible when they come one
after another on a man's head; but, to my
thinking, the most terrible thing of all that can
happen to a bad man is that the Almighty
should forget him, and let him alone. Sit down,
sir, and let me tell you what happened in this
very house, and round about it, when I was a
lad, and what has happened since; all winding
from one clue into one piece.

Right away from this spot to the abbey
was forest then; the house had been the lodge,
and is called so yet. When the plough goes
over the land, you may trace to this day the
black circles where the great oaks stood and
were cut down, and their roots charred to
rot. Up the steep broken ground at the
back were twisted, knotted, bearded crab-
trees. I cannot tell you how many generations
may have said in spring that the rosy blossoms
of them were lovely, nor how many may have
set their autumn teeth on edge with the sour
wild fruit—orchard it was once; perhaps the
sweet veins of the apple-grafts had run dry,
and the natural stocks had put forth savage life
again in their neglect. I cannot tell. The rift
that goes down to the Southampton Water is
just what it was—morass at bottom, and up the
sides clothed with hollies, firs, bracken, and all
luxuriant greennesses.

As far back as my memory serves me, the
Lodge Farm was tenanted by a family of the
name of Helstone, and it is of my master, Rufus
Helstone, that I am going to speak as a man
God let alone. The Lodge has been gutted by
fire since his time, but it was then kept in good
repair, and looked outside much as it must have
looked in old days, when ladies on a journey,
whom the monks might not entertain in the
abbey, rode up to its door and claimed a night's
lodging and hospitality. There is enough of
the ancient walls left to suggest what it was
originally, but only just enough; and inside all
the fine old stonework and woodwork are gone.
But the shafts of the oriel window stood the
fire, and that was re-glazed, and there it is—a
grand window, sir, and most beautiful for seeing
the moonlight on the water. It was and is the
dormitory for the farm-servants.

I must ask you to go back with me to one
night at the end of the last century, when there
was everywhere upsetting, overturning, and
war in the world, and we were  fighting the
French at sea. It was harvest-time, and the
moon was nearly at full. The oriel window let
in the light broad as day, but a more wakeful
light. I can sleep in the sun, but the moon
shining on my face is like a bad dream to me
even now. I had my straw mattress in the
darkest corner, but a very little stir would