Academic literature on the topic 'Women murderers Victoria'

If New Woman writing embraced everything from political reform, sexual freedoms, and economic and social independence to literary publishing, Lucy Bland and other historians have confirmed that New Woman debates often played out in terms of marriage, whether in Mona Caird's path-breaking 1888 essay on “Marriage” or her by-now familiar novel of 1894,The Daughters of Danaus. This title, taken from the myth of women in Hades condemned to haul water in leaky jars after murdering their husbands on their wedding nights, suggests both the futility of life for middle-class Victorian women and the latent, murderous recoil they could harbor. To fall back upon these two Caird works to exemplify New Woman writing, however, is in some ways to perpetuate a generic oversimplification that New Woman writing was a prose medium.

Abstract This poem is a creative response to contemporary true crime narratives about baby farming in Victorian times, namely Alison Rattle and Allison Vale’s The Woman Who Murdered Babies for Money: The Story of Amelia Dyer (London: André Deutsch, 2011); and the TV documentary, “Amelia Dyer: Martina Cole’s Lady Killers.”

Historians usually analyze changing gender constructions in the criminal courts after World War I through cases involving men and women. Using a different analytical lens this article explores two well-publicized murder trials involving war veterans and illegitimate children, one of a soldier who murdered his wife’s daughter from an adulterous affair and one who killed his own son. Although notions of masculinity had changed, the police, courts, and Home Office used traditional factors to assess punishments, including the degree of provocation, the behavior of the women involved, and the issue of deterrence. The press, however, was more sympathetic to the veterans, regarding them as victims of circumstances, much like women who committed infanticide. This new presentation did not succeed with the Home Office, especially as the war moved further into the past. By 1925, men’s war service had less influence on punishment than Victorian ideas of gender and criminal responsibility.

Charlotte Dacre's relatively neglected fictions create a unique space in the dialectic of violence that characterizes so much of British Romanticism. Her simultaneous attraction to and repulsion from violence is reflective of an era that apotheosized the sublime, which formed its imagination on the bloody Revolution in France and the increasingly visible brutalities of industrialism, and that made the Gothic its most popular literary commodity. But Dacre's peculiar contribution to this hermeneutic is to build through her four major novels a mythology by which violence emerges, most of all, from feminine libidinous drives. This essay, therefore, begins by contrasting Dacre's approach to feminine sexual desire with that of two other notable women writers of the period, Letitia Elizabeth Landon and Mary Tighe. The essay continues to explore Dacre's most purely Gothic expression, Zofloya (1806), particularly through the scene in which Victoria stalks, attacks, and murders a girl whom she perceives to be her sexual rival. And it concludes with an analysis of a lesser-known novel, The Passions (1811), and its vibrant anti-heroine, Appollonia Zulmer. Troped as noble hunter, ferocious goddess, social critic, and scorned woman, Appollonia is Dacre's most complex vision of the meaning of feminine violence. Still, Dacre's ultimate inclination is toward tragic irony: though she vigorously rewrites the conventional Gothic script (where women are the victims of demonic men), she does not envision anything like the comic release dreamed of, more than a century later, in Hélène Cixous's "The Laugh of the Medusa."

Using the theoretical framework of epistemic injustice articulated by philosopher Miranda Fricker as an analytic tool, we analyze recent victories of Indigenous feminist activism in gathering the stories of Indigenous women, challenging dominant meta-narratives and rewriting the herstory of Canada. We use the epistemic concept of the hermeneutic gap to consider the implications of this resistance in conjunction with the increased visibility of the intersectional positionality of Indigenous women. To illustrate our analysis, we focus on two case studies. Firstly, an individual perspective through the life journey of a feminist Anishinaabe Activist, Bridgett Perrier. Secondly, we conduct a systemic analysis of the recent Report on the National Inquiry into the Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls (MMIWG). We close with a discussion on how critical it is for social workers—especially non-Indigenous social workers—to relearn and document the meaning of the MMIWG issues. This includes recognizing Indigenous resistance, activism, and the newly formulated hermeneutic understandings that are emerging. Then, the final task is to apply these concepts to their practice and heed the calls to action which the report calls for.

Thomas Hardy was a very famous and the last important novelist of the Victorian age in England, his novels and poems have a great influence in the literature in 20 century. Tess of the D’Urbervilles is the most influential one among his works. This novel describes a miserable and hard life of one beautiful and pure girl named Tess after being seduced. The article reveals the society environment, the peasant poverty family, the inequality of gender and the false moral value at that time by describing Tess’ life. Tess’ tragic life is caused by many factors and it’s the result of the burden of society. Except this, her own weakness in character cannot be separated from her tragedy, because she obviously has the dual nature — resistance and compromise, which seems like the nature of many women. As a poor peasant girl, Tess once tried to fight with destiny, but she failed. In the end, she turned out to be a murderer and also the victim of society like all other things which disobey the rules at that time. Eventually, she was separated from her lover and hanged. A beautiful and pure girl came to such a miserable life and tragic ending.

Single-sheet, cheap-to-print publications popularized in urban centres in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, broadsides were used to disseminate knowledge and entertainment among the common reading classes of England. Murder broadsides were a particularly common genre during the Victorian period in the mid-to-late-nineteenth century, and while the majority of these focused on the downfalls of male criminals, a significant number of publications concerning female murderers survives. Studying how broadsides were produced, read, and shared, especially in London, this paper examines the significance of their representations of female murderers. Ultimately, murder broadsides about women embodied the anxieties of the Victorian age. In the city, social boundaries were pushed, crossed, and blurred relentlessly; broadsides and their representations of women were active expressions of and responses to such anxieties. But while the tendency of broadsides was towards “moral conservativism” which sought to condemn violent crime, promote sexual purity, and sanctify chaste mothers and wives, broadsides also afforded the women they portrayed a certain notoriety and voice, complicating the common reading of the broadside as a prescriptive or even repressive document.

On the night of 31 August, 1888, Mary Ann ‘Polly’ Nichols was found murdered in Buck’s Row, her throat slashed and her body mutilated. She was followed by Annie Chapman on 8 September in the year of 29 Hanbury Street, Elizabeth Stride in Dutfield’s Yard and Catherine Eddowes in Mitre Square on 30 September, and finally Mary Jane Kelly in Miller’s Court, on 9 November. These five women, all prostitutes, were victims of an unknown assailant commonly referred to by the epithet ‘Jack the Ripper’, forming an official canon which excludes at least thirteen other cases around the same time. As the Ripper was never identified or caught, he has attained an almost supernatural status in London’s history and literature, immortalised alongside other iconic figures such as Sherlock Holmes. And his killing ground, the East End suburb of Whitechapel, has become notorious in its own right. In this article, I will discuss how Whitechapel developed as a Gothic location through the body of literature devoted to the Whitechapel murders of 1888, known as 'Ripperature'. I will begin by speaking to the turn of Gothic literature towards the idea of the city as a Gothic space, before arguing that Whitechapel's development into a Gothic location may be attributed to the threat of the Ripper and the literature which emerged during and after his crimes. As a working class slum with high rates of crime and poverty, Whitechapel already enjoyed an evil reputation in the London press. However, it was the presence of Jack that would make the suburb infamous into contemporary times. The Gothic Space of the City In the nineteenth century, there was a shift in the representation of space in Gothic literature. From the depiction of the wilderness and ancient buildings such as castles as essentially Gothic, there was a turn towards the idea of the city as a Gothic space. David Punter attributes this turn to Robert Louis Stevenson’s 1886 novel The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. The wild landscape is no longer considered as dangerous as the savage city of London, and evil no longer confined only to those of working-class status (Punter 191). However, it has been argued by Lawrence Phillips and Anne Witchard that Charles Dickens may have been the first author to present London as a Gothic city, in particular his description of Seven Dials in Bell’s Life in London, 1837, where the anxiety and unease of the narrator is associated with place (11). Furthermore, Thomas de Quincey uses Gothic imagery in his descriptions of London in his 1821 book Confessions of an English Opium-Eater, calling the city a “vast centre of mystery” (217). This was followed in 1840 with Edgar Allen Poe’s story The Man of the Crowd, in which the narrator follows a stranger through the labyrinthine streets of London, experiencing its poorest and most dangerous areas. At the end of the story, Poe calls the stranger “the type and the genius of deep crime (...) He is the man of the crowd” (n. p). This association of crowds with crime is also used by Jack London in his book The People of the Abyss, published in 1905, where the author spent time living in the slums of the East End. Even William Blake could be considered to have used Gothic imagery in his description of the city in his poem London, written in 1794. The Gothic city became a recognisable and popular trope in the fin-de-siècle, or end-of-century Gothic literature, in the last few decades of the nineteenth century. This fin-de-siècle literature reflected the anxieties inherent in increasing urbanisation, wherein individuals lose their identity through their relationship with the city. Examples of fin-de-siècle Gothic literature include The Beetle by Richard Marsh, published in 1897, and Bram Stoker’s Dracula, published in the same year. Evil is no longer restricted to foreign countries in these stories, but infects familiar city streets with terror, in a technique that is described as ‘everyday Gothic’ (Paulden 245). The Gothic city “is constructed by man, and yet its labyrinthine alleys remain unknowable (...) evil is not externalized elsewhere, but rather literally exists within” (Woodford n.p). The London Press and Whitechapel Prior to the Ripper murders of 1888, Whitechapel had already been given an evil reputation in the London press, heavily influenced by W.T. Stead’s reports for The Pall Mall Gazette, entitled The Maiden Tribute of Modern Babylon, in 1885. In these reports, Stead revealed how women and children were being sold into prostitution in suburbs such as Whitechapel. Stead used extensive Gothic imagery in his writing, one of the most enduring being the image of London as a labyrinth with a monstrous Minotaur at its centre, swallowing up his helpless victims. Counter-narratives about Whitechapel do exist, an example being Henry Mayhew’s London Labour and the London Poor, who attempted to demystify the East End by walking the streets of Whitechapel and interviewing its inhabitants in the 1860’s. Another is Arthur G. Morrison, who in 1889 dismissed the graphic descriptions of Whitechapel by other reporters as amusing to those who actually knew the area as a commercially respectable place. However, the Ripper murders in the autumn of 1888 ensured that the Gothic image of the East End would become the dominant image in journalism and literature for centuries to come. Whitechapel was a working-class slum, associated with poverty and crime, and had a large Jewish and migrant population. Indeed the claim was made that “had Whitechapel not existed, according to the rationalist, then Jack the Ripper would not have marched against civilization” (Phillips 157). Whitechapel was known as London’s “heart of darkness (…) the ultimate threat and the ultimate mystery” (Ackroyd 679). Therefore, the reporters of the London press who visited Whitechapel during and immediately following the murders understandably imbued the suburb with a Gothic atmosphere in their articles. One such newspaper article, An Autumn Evening in Whitechapel, released in November of 1888, demonstrates these characteristics in its description of Whitechapel. The anonymous reporter, writing during the Ripper murders, describes the suburb as a terrible dark ocean in which there are human monsters, where a man might get a sense of what humanity can sink to in areas of poverty. This view was shared by many, including author Margaret Harkness, whose 1889 book In Darkest London described Whitechapel as a monstrous living entity, and as a place of vice and depravity. Gothic literary tropes were also already widely used in print media to describe murders and other crimes that happened in London, such as in the sensationalist newspaper The Illustrated Police News. An example of this is an illustration published in this newspaper after the murder of Mary Kelly, showing the woman letting the Ripper into her lodgings, with the caption ‘Opening the door to admit death’. Jack is depicted as a manifestation of Death itself, with a grinning skull for a head and clutching a doctor’s bag filled with surgical instruments with which to perform his crimes (Johnston n.p.). In the magazine Punch, Jack was depicted as a phantom, the ‘Nemesis of Neglect’, representing the poverty of the East End, floating down an alleyway with his knife looking for more victims. The Ripper murders were explained by London newspapers as “the product of a diseased environment where ‘neglected human refuse’ bred crime” (Walkowitz 194). Whitechapel became a Gothic space upon which civilisation projected their inadequacies and fears, as if “it had become a microcosm of London’s own dark life” (Ackroyd 678). And in the wake of Jack the Ripper, this writing of Whitechapel as a Gothic space would only continue, with the birth of ‘Ripperature’, the body of fictional and non-fiction literature devoted to the murders. The Birth of Ripperature: The Curse upon Mitre Square and Leather Apron John Francis Brewer wrote the first known text about the Ripper murders in October of 1888, a sensational horror monograph entitled The Curse upon Mitre Square. Brewer made use of well-known Gothic tropes, such as the trans-generational curse, the inclusion of a ghost and the setting of an old church for the murder of an innocent woman. Brewer blended fact and fiction, making the Whitechapel murderer the inheritor, or even perhaps the victim of an ancient curse that hung over Mitre Square, where the second murdered prostitute, Catherine Eddowes, had been found the month before. According to Brewer, the curse originated from the murder of a woman in 1530 by her brother, a ‘mad monk’, on the steps of the high altar of the Holy Trinity Church in Aldgate. The monk, Martin, committed suicide, realising what he had done, and his ghost now appears pointing to the place where the murder occurred, promising that other killings will follow. Whitechapel is written as both a cursed and haunted Gothic space in The Curse upon Mitre Square. Brewer’s description of the area reflected the contemporary public opinion, describing the Whitechapel Road as a “portal to the filth and squalor of the East” (66). However, Mitre Square is the former location of a monastery torn down by a corrupt politician; this place, which should have been holy ground, is cursed. Mitre Square’s atmosphere ensures the continuation of violent acts in the vicinity; indeed, it seems to exude a self-aware and malevolent force that results in the death of Catherine Eddowes centuries later. This idea of Whitechapel as somehow complicit in or even directing the acts of the Ripper will later become a popular trope of Ripperature. Brewer’s work was advertised in London on posters splashed with red, a reminder of the blood spilled by the Ripper’s victims only weeks earlier. It was also widely promoted by the media and reissued in New York in 1889. It is likely that a ‘suggestion effect’ took place during the telegraph-hastened, press-driven coverage of the Jack the Ripper story, including Brewer’s monograph, spreading the image of Gothic Whitechapel as fact to the world (Dimolianis 63). Samuel E. Hudson’s account of the Ripper murders differs in style from Brewer’s because of his attempt to engage critically with issues such as the failure of the police force to find the murderer and the true identity of Jack. His book Leather Apron; or, the Horrors of Whitechapel, London, was published in December of 1888. Hudson described the five murders canonically attributed to Jack, wrote an analysis of the police investigation that followed, and speculated as to the Ripper’s motivations. Despite his intention to examine the case objectively, Hudson writes Jack as a Gothic monster, an atavistic and savage creature prowling Whitechapel to satisfy his bloodlust. Jack is associated with several Gothic tropes in Hudson’s work, and described as different types of monsters. He is called: a “fiend bearing a charmed and supernatural existence,” a “human vampire”, an “incarnate monster” and even, like Brewer, the perpetrator of “ghoulish butchery” (Hudson 40). Hudson describes Whitechapel as “the worst place in London (...) with innumerable foul and pest-ridden alleys” (9). Whitechapel becomes implicated in the Ripper murders because of its previously established reputation as a crime-ridden slum. Poverty forced women into prostitution, meaning they were often out alone late at night, and its many courts and alleyways allowed the Ripper an easy escape from his pursuers after each murder (Warwick 560). The aspect of Whitechapel that Hudson emphasises the most is its darkness; “off the boulevard, away from the streaming gas-jets (...) the knave ran but slight chance of interruption” (40). Whitechapel is a place of shadows, its darkest places negotiated only by ‘fallen women’ and their clients, and Jack himself. Hudson’s casting of Jack as a vampire makes his preference for the night, and his ability to skilfully disembowel prostitutes and disappear without a trace, intelligible to his readers as the attributes of a Gothic monster. Significantly, Hudson’s London is personified as female, the same sex as the Ripper victims, evoking a sense of passive vulnerability against the acts of the masculine and predatory Jack, Hudson writing that “it was not until four Whitechapel women had perished (...) that London awoke to the startling fact that a monster was at work upon her streets” (8). The Complicity of Gothic Whitechapel in the Ripper Murders This seeming complicity of Whitechapel as a Gothic space in the Ripper murders, which Brewer and Hudson suggest in their work, can be seen to have influenced subsequent representations of Whitechapel in Ripperature. Whitechapel is no longer simply the location in which these terrible events take place; they happen because of Whitechapel itself, the space exerting a self-conscious malevolence and kinship with Jack. Historically, the murders forced Queen Victoria to call for redevelopment in Spitalfields, the improvement of living conditions for the working class, and for a better police force to patrol the East End to prevent similar crimes (Sugden 2). The fact that Jack was never captured “seemed only to confirm the impression that the bloodshed was created by the foul streets themselves: that the East End was the true Ripper,” (Ackroyd 678) using the murderer as a way to emerge into the public consciousness. In Ripperature, this idea was further developed by the now popular image of Jack “stalking the black alleyways [in] thick swirling fog” (Jones 15). This otherworldly fog seems to imply a mystical relationship between Jack and Whitechapel, shielding him from view and disorientating his victims. Whitechapel shares the guilt of the murders as a malevolent and essentially pagan space. The notion of Whitechapel as being inscribed with paganism and magic has become an enduring and popular trope of Ripperature. It relates to an obscure theory that drawing lines between the locations of the first four Ripper murders created Satanic and profane religious symbols, suggesting that they were predetermined locations for a black magic ritual (Odell 217). This theory was expanded upon most extensively in Alan Moore’s graphic novel From Hell, published in 1999. In From Hell, Jack connects several important historical and religious sites around London by drawing a pentacle on a map of the city. He explains the murders as a reinforcement of the pentacle’s “lines of power and meaning (...) this pentacle of sun gods, obelisks and rational male fire, within unconsciousness, the moon and womanhood are chained” (Moore 4.37). London becomes a ‘textbook’, a “literature of stone, of place-names and associations,” stretching back to the Romans and their pagan gods (Moore 4.9). Buck’s Row, the real location of the murder of Mary Ann Nichols, is pagan in origin; named for the deer that were sacrificed on the goddess Diana’s altars. However, Moore’s Whitechapel is also Hell itself, the result of Jack slipping further into insanity as the murders continue. From Hell is illustrated in black and white, which emphasises the shadows and darkness of Whitechapel. The buildings are indistinct scrawls of shadow, Jack often nothing more than a silhouette, forcing the reader to occupy the same “murky moral and spiritual darkness” that the Ripper does (Ferguson 58). Artist Eddie Campbell’s use of shade and shadow in his illustrations also contribute to the image of Whitechapel-as-Hell as a subterranean place. Therefore, in tracing the representations of Whitechapel in the London press and in Ripperature from 1888 onwards, the development of Whitechapel as a Gothic location becomes clear. From the geographical setting of the Ripper murders, Whitechapel has become a Gothic space, complicit in Jack’s work if not actively inspiring the murders. Whitechapel, although known to the public before the Ripper as a crime-ridden slum, developed into a Gothic space because of the murders, and continues to be associated with the Gothic in contemporary Ripperature as an uncanny and malevolent space “which seems to compel recognition as not of this earth" (Ackroyd 581). References Anonymous. “An Autumn Evening in Whitechapel.” Littell’s Living Age, 3 Nov. 1888. Anonymous. “The Nemesis of Neglect.” Punch, or the London Charivari, 29 Sep. 1888. Ackroyd, Peter. London: The Biography. Great Britain: Vintage, 2001. Brewer, John Francis. The Curse upon Mitre Square. London: Simpkin, Marshall and Co, 1888. De Quincey, Thomas. Confessions of an English Opium-Eater. Boston: Ticknor, Reed and Fields, 1850. Dimolianis, Spiro. Jack the Ripper and Black Magic: Victorian Conspiracy Theories, Secret Societies and the Supernatural Mystique of the Whitechapel Murders. North Carolina: McFarland and Co, 2011. Ferguson, Christine. “Victoria-Arcana and the Misogynistic Poetics of Resistance in Iain Sinclair’s White Chappell, Scarlet Tracings and Alan Moore’s From Hell.” Lit: Literature Interpretation Theory 20.1-2 (2009): 58. Harkness, Mary, In Darkest London. London: Hodder and Staughton, 1889. Hudson, Samuel E. Leather Apron; or, the Horrors of Whitechapel. London, Philadelphia, 1888. Johnstone, Lisa. “Rippercussions: Public Reactions to the Ripper Murders in the Victorian Press.” Casebook 15 July 2012. 18 Aug. 2014 ‹http://www.casebook.org/dissertations/rippercussions.html›. London, Jack. The People of the Abyss. New York: Lawrence Hill, 1905. Mayhew, Henry. London Labour and the London Poor, Volume 1. London: Griffin, Bohn and Co, 1861. Moore, Alan, Campbell, Eddie. From Hell: Being a Melodrama in Sixteen Parts. London: Knockabout Limited, 1999. Morrison, Arthur G. “Whitechapel.” The Palace Journal. 24 Apr. 1889. Odell, Robin. Ripperology: A Study of the World’s First Serial Killer and a Literary Phenomenon. Michigan: Sheridan Books, 2006. Paulden, Arthur. “Sensationalism and the City: An Explanation of the Ways in Which Locality Is Defined and Represented through Sensationalist Techniques in the Gothic Novels The Beetle and Dracula.” Innervate: Leading Undergraduate Work in English Studies 1 (2008-2009): 245. Phillips, Lawrence, and Anne Witchard. London Gothic: Place, Space and the Gothic Imagination. London: Continuum International, 2010. Poe, Edgar Allen. “The Man of the Crowd.” The Works of Edgar Allen Poe. Vol. 5. Raven ed. 15 July 2012. 18 Aug. 2014 ‹http://www.gutenberg.org/files/2151/2151-h/2151-h.htm›. Punter, David. A New Companion to the Gothic. Sussex: Blackwell Publishing, 2012. Stead, William Thomas. “The Maiden Tribute of Modern Babylon.” The Pall Mall Gazette, 6 July 1885. Sugden, Peter. The Complete History of Jack the Ripper. London: Robinson Publishing, 2002. Walkowitz, Judith R. City of Dreadful Delight: Narratives of Sexual Danger in Late-Victorian London, London: Virago, 1998. Woodford, Elizabeth. “Gothic City.” 15 July 2012. 18 Aug. 2014 ‹http://courses.nus.edu.au/sg/ellgohbh/gothickeywords.html›.

Patriarchy has undoubtedly scarred every possible aspect of human existence with its malicious claws; to the extent that even the speculated narrative around the dubious world of ghosts and spirits is loaded with gender bias and sexism. In most of the popular narrative, (books, TV shows, movies, etc.); ghosts, spirits, witches, and other such spooky manifestations are mostly women; and the ones most affected/possessed are also women more often than men. This sort of narrative is not new; it can be traced back to the (in)famous witch trials of the medieval world and the equally (in)famous ‘Madwoman in the Attic’ archetype popular in Victorian Literature. The same attitude can be observed in the Kannada film Apthamitra (2004), wherein the soul of a mistreated court dancer (Nagavalli) seeking revenge from a king, takes possession of the body-mind of a well-educated cheerful young woman (Ganga). The story is weaved in such a manner that the dancer (Nagavalli) is villainized and shown as evil for seeking revenge, while her persecutor (the king) is victimized. Also, the dancer’s lover, who was murdered along with her, is not shown seeking or turning into a ghost. The typical dichotomy of ‘the good, virtuous woman’ versus ‘the mad ranging monster’ can be observed in the behavior of Ganga, before and after she gets possessed. The cause of her getting possessed is attributed to her lonely childhood and the mental illness (split-personality) she developed as a result. Men are the ultimate saviors here - be they a revered priest, a renowned physiatrist, a loving husband or even a mere acquaintance. On the other hand, all the women of the house are subject to scrutiny and doubted to be under the influence of the evil spirit. Thus, the movie stands as an example of the sexist narrative around the paranormal world - which perpetuates irrational prejudices about women, such as their apparent emotional vulnerability, mental weakness, psychological volatility, lack of rationality, etc. - all of which are used as justifications for such biased portrayals.

The paper examines the concepts of public grief and social activism in the context of commemorative events, such as candlelight vigils. These candlelight vigils can be viewed as a form of leisure activity as individuals freely chose to attend the event during their free time. Attending such events has the potential to provide therapy to the attendees and contribute towards their wellbeing, similar to the phenomenon of individuals visiting roadside memorials and locally created shrines following an unexpected and/or violent death. The paper focuses on the candlelight vigils held to commemorate high profile murders of women as part of the violence against women focus in Victoria, Australia. These events also provide attendees with the opportunity to engage in social activism, reinforcing that these events provide the opportunity to engage in a blend of both private and public mourning; and may encourage social good via activism which also may be a form of therapeutic practice for wellbeing. The paper introduces the concept of grief leisure as a way to conceptualise the attendance at public event vigils as a therapeutic practice to help deal with grief.

This legend concerns the folklore of death, crime, and justice. A nail is discovered in a skull and this leads an investigator to a murderer: usually a woman who hammered a nail into her drunk husband's head.

This chapter emphasizes that long after the American victory at Yorktown in October 1781, the war in the southern backcountry was not over, because tory bandits remained at large, whigs engaged in violent retribution against their whig neighbors, and the Cherokees were still a military threat. It reiterates the book’s theme that the American Revolution was not simply a military struggle against the British, but also a struggle to establish law and order at home. Pickens’s brother John is captured by tories and murdered by Cherokees. Pickens pursues tory bandits and inflicts a decisive defeat on the Cherokees at Long Swamp, Georgia, in late September 1782, though he demands that his men refrain from killing Indian women, children, or old men.

This chapter analyzes the murderous war between American troops and the Tausug Moros on Jolo Island, 1903–1906. It begins by discussing Panglima Hassan’s failed efforts to nurture a working relationship with Sulu governor Hugh Lenox Scott. It goes on to list specific do’s and don’ts in fighting small wars. Governor Scott and Gen. Wood committed many of the “don’ts.” They initially failed to consider the centrality of arbitration to the Tausug datu system, how the abolition of debt peonage threatened datus, and how imposition of the cedula tax offended Tausug religious sensibilities. Despite numerous American victories against Hassan and other Tausug Moros, the insurgency grew and spread into a reign of terror. Its horrifying climax came in March 1906 with the massacre of 700–900 Moro men, women, and children on a volcanic peak called Bud (Mt.) Dajo.

Of all the arsenic murders, the Maybrick case is the most intriguing. On 7 August 1889 Florence Maybrick was found guilty of murdering her husband James and sentenced to death, only to be reprieved two weeks later and her sentence commuted to life imprisonment. There are those who believe she should have been acquitted because she was innocent. There are those who believe that even if she was guilty she did the world a service in that the man she killed was really Jack-the-Ripper. That somewhat dubious claim was made in the 1990s with the publication of an old diary supposedly written by James Maybrick. In the furore which followed the trial, Florence was seen as a martyr by two groups: the supporters of the Women’s Rights Movement, and those who campaigned for a Court of Appeal. The first of these saw her as a victim of a male-dominated legal system, and the second saw her as a prime example of injustice which the British legal system as it then stood was unable to rectify. The Women’s International Maybrick Society even enlisted the support of three US Presidents, but to no avail because, unbeknown to them, Queen Victoria had taken an interest in the case and believed Florence to be guilty. Until the Queen died, there was no possibility of her release from prison, although she was set free soon afterwards. Legal problems raised by the Maybrick trial centred on the summing-up of the Judge, Mr Justice Fitzjames Stephens. In its latter stages this became little more than a tirade of moralizing generalizations that dwelt on Florence’s admitted adultery, implying that a woman capable of committing such a sin was indeed capable of murder. (Nothing was said at the trial about her husband’s mistress and the five children that she had borne him.) The summing-up was flawed in other ways; for example the judge introduced material that was not produced during the trial and he read accounts of what witnesses had said from newspaper cuttings of their evidence because his own notes were in such a poor state.