and addresses were sent up to the throne, praying
for a commuted sentence: some, on the
curious ground of the effect the spectacle of an
executed clergyman would have on public
morals.

Through the whole of the dismal tragedy, the
figure of the king is distinct and conspicuous.
He is represented as long being in deep
distress, undecided, with pen in hand, and not
knowing what to do — whether to sign the fatal
warrant or not. Not long before, had been
hanged the two Perreaus, also for forgery; and
for whose lives pressing instance had been
made. An odd inference drawn from them
seems to have decided the fate of the luckless
Doctor Dodd. "If I spare him," said the
king, "I shall think myself guilty of the
murder of the Perreaus." Lord Mansfield
then came in, and the king, asking his advice,
was determined by his views, and taking up the
pen, signed the paper. It is plain from this in
what emergency the king was to exercise his
functions.

It was at that time the painful duty of the
monarch to sign the death-warrant with his own
hand: a custom which has since passed away,
with much more signing of commissions, and
anything that was signable, which must have been
one of the most serious duties that makes uneasy
the head that wears a crown. Thus the execution
flowed, technically, from the act of the
sovereign, without whose sanction the terrible
ceremony could not take place. Every particular
instance thus came individually under the
sovereign's notice, and that mere routine of signing
was not likely to be reduced to an habitual
form. Modern delicacy has forborne to burden
the crown with this ungrateful office, and it
falls into the daily round of common red-tape
duty.

Yet, since this function has been thus unavoidably
shifted to official shoulders, it will be seen
how materially its character has altered. It
surely never was intended that an officer of state,
burdened already with the whole interior economy
of an empire— conversant with minutes and
dockets and correspondence of the most
tremendous character — and very often, if we may
take the tremendous liberty to say so, an
exceedingly common-place personage, who would
find it matter of great difficulty to get a living
"out of his own head" — should have the duty
cast upon him of re-trying malefactors in his
bureau: becoming a court of appeal constituted
of a single judge. He is to trace his way
through all the mazes of a trial, to weigh the
various classes of evidence, presumptive and
circumstantial, and, by the force of his own
abilities, to reach a conclusion to which the
judge who tried the case by no means saw his
way. It is the destiny of this unaccredited
tribunal to be called on to interfere only where the
case is of the most perplexing sort; where the
balance is so even as to require a trained eye to
see the proper weight of both scale; where
much may depend on the legal value of the testimony,
which is only to be appreciated by an adept.
This delicate duty is precisely one cast on
the shoulders of her Majesty's Home Secretary.
But he will take counsel with experienced heads,
just as the third George was directed in the
Dodd affair by Lord Mansfield? That monarch
did not consult the great lawyer professionally,
or as to the conduct of the trial, but
merely as to the advisability on public grounds
of sparing the criminal's life. And who should
our Home Secretary consult? Say the person
most likely to be impartial, and to be most
thoroughly acquainted with the merits of the
case — the judge who presided at the trial. In
the Maclachlan case, the recorded opinion of the
judge was against the prisoner, and it is to be
presumed would not be altered when he was
consulted by the Secretary of State. If the revision
be openly assigned to a commissioner, as
in the same case, who is to take evidence and
receive fresh testimony, such a course practically
amounts to a new trial, and can only be
considered a very violent stretch of prerogative. If
new evidence be received, favouring the accused,
why is it not brought forward at a new and
regular trial, in due course of law, where the
accused would receive its full benefit in the
proper forms — perhaps leading to acquittal, instead
of a senseless and illogical commutation of
punishment? If it bear strongly against him,
why should he not have the opportunity of
regular cross-examination in open court, and a
fair jury of his countrymen, who shall judge of
its force? This becomes a really serious constitutional
question, and it may be doubted whether
it is not a practical invasion of the right of the
great British tribunal of twelve men sitting in a
jury-box to deal with the malefactors of the
State.

So comes on the true logical solution. Who
would say that if there were a legal court of
appeal, constituted with all forms, to decide
on such doubtful cases, it would be an
infringement of the royal prerogative? And yet,
if the present system be a right and proper
exercise of such prerogative by the Secretary of
State, there can be no question that such a
court would be a serious usurpation of its functions.
But no. The prerogative of mercy would
then recede within its proper limits. It would
simply take cognisance of the distressing
elements of a case, where sympathies may enter,
but where the law is obliged conscientiously to
be deaf and blind. Thus, in the case of William
Dodd, there might have been doubtful and
circumstantial evidence. Had there been such a
tribunal of appeal, the verdict might have been
laid before it, and canvassed calmly and publicly,
and with dignity. Afterwards would come the
season for the royal prerogative to interfere, if
there were reasonable ground, for interference.

Here, wonderful to relate, the Perfection of
Human Wisdom, which has been growing and
magnifying in divinest excellence, from the days
of the virtuous King Edward downward, is
surprisingly behind many petty states of Europe,
whose growth of legislation is contemptuously
held to be of a poor and earthy sort. There is