the packet from London approached the witness box.
“And you recall delivering a packet franked from London to McGann’s Printers and Booksellers?” the Lord Advocate queried.
“Aye,” the caddie said, staring down at his shoes.
“And did the said packet look like this?” he asked, holding up the very wrappings in which the Fanny Hill illustrations had been sent.
“Aye. That’s the one.”
“And is the person to whom you handed this same packet—which the constable’s men swear contained the lewd drawings—present in this courtroom?”
“Aye,” the caddie replied.
“Will you tell the court who that is?” the Lord Advocate asked patiently.
“Aye… ’twas Sophie McGann over there, the bookseller’s daughter.”
“May it please the court, I call Sophie McGann to the witness box!”
Sophie gasped with horrified surprise.
“You must go!” William Creech whispered urgently. “Go up there, lass!”
Sophie stood up and made her way to the witness box like a sleepwalker. When she stood to face the spectators, she was even more unnerved to see that Lord Lemore had slipped into the courtroom and taken a seat in the back.
He’s come to see himself avenged, she thought bleakly, her legs so shaky that she clung for support to the top of the witness box.
“You are the accused’s daughter, are you not?” the Lord Advocate was saying.
“Aye, sir,” Sophie mumbled.
“And you were in the shop the day the caddie delivered the packet sent from a London book agent?”
“A-aye,” she repeated.
“And did you open this packet?” he asked loudly.
Sophie stared at Lord Lemore, stunned at the obscene cruelty of the man. She wasn’t the prettiest wench he could have coveted, or certainly the best tutored in the ways of debauchery. Why? Why her? Was it because Lemore was enslaved by simple lust or, rather, that he was a man who invariably got his way?
“Did you open the packet?” the Lord Advocate repeated sharply.
“Aye… I d-did,” Sophie stuttered, suddenly unable to control her words.
“And what was inside?” her inquisitor asked forcefully.
Sophie looked in the direction of her father standing in the dock and her eyes misted over.
“Eng-g-gravings,” she stuttered once more, alarmed that she could not seem to master her speech.
“Engravings of what?” the Lord Advocate demanded, his patience finally wearing thin.
“Of F-Fanny Hill,” she choked.
“Will you tell the court the complete title of this obscene work?”
“F-F-Fanny H-Hill,” she said, her voice sounding more strangled than ever, “M-Memoirs of a Woman of P-Pleasure.”
Something horrible had happened to her ability to speak out in the hearing chamber. She felt her throat close, and sweat beaded her upper lip.
“And were placards printed in your shop promoting lectures by one Thomas Sheridan, the so-called God of Elocution?” he asked thunderously.
“Y-y-yes,” Sophie agreed helplessly.
“My lords and gentlemen of the jury… what more can the man stand accused of? We believe there is but one God in this land! And McGann’s blasphemously crediting such powers to an actor is appalling beyond belief!”
Sophie bowed her head in abject misery, tears coursing down her cheeks.
“I think we have heard enough from this chit, m’lords,” the prosecutor said disdainfully, ordering her from the witness box. “The Crown versus Daniel McGann is ready to proceed to the worthy deliberations of the jury and my Lords of Justiciary.”
***
The verdict was not unexpected. Daniel McGann, printer and bookseller, was found guilty of obscene libel and blasphemy. Sentencing would be pronounced by mid-April, and while Sophie waited for the court’s decision, her sleepless nights were filled with anxiety that her father might well be hung.
On April 15, the Justiciary Court pronounced sentence: Daniel McGann would be publicly pilloried for his crimes and remanded to the Tolbooth for six months. The court had, in its
“And you recall delivering a packet franked from London to McGann’s Printers and Booksellers?” the Lord Advocate queried.
“Aye,” the caddie said, staring down at his shoes.
“And did the said packet look like this?” he asked, holding up the very wrappings in which the Fanny Hill illustrations had been sent.
“Aye. That’s the one.”
“And is the person to whom you handed this same packet—which the constable’s men swear contained the lewd drawings—present in this courtroom?”
“Aye,” the caddie replied.
“Will you tell the court who that is?” the Lord Advocate asked patiently.
“Aye… ’twas Sophie McGann over there, the bookseller’s daughter.”
“May it please the court, I call Sophie McGann to the witness box!”
Sophie gasped with horrified surprise.
“You must go!” William Creech whispered urgently. “Go up there, lass!”
Sophie stood up and made her way to the witness box like a sleepwalker. When she stood to face the spectators, she was even more unnerved to see that Lord Lemore had slipped into the courtroom and taken a seat in the back.
He’s come to see himself avenged, she thought bleakly, her legs so shaky that she clung for support to the top of the witness box.
“You are the accused’s daughter, are you not?” the Lord Advocate was saying.
“Aye, sir,” Sophie mumbled.
“And you were in the shop the day the caddie delivered the packet sent from a London book agent?”
“A-aye,” she repeated.
“And did you open this packet?” he asked loudly.
Sophie stared at Lord Lemore, stunned at the obscene cruelty of the man. She wasn’t the prettiest wench he could have coveted, or certainly the best tutored in the ways of debauchery. Why? Why her? Was it because Lemore was enslaved by simple lust or, rather, that he was a man who invariably got his way?
“Did you open the packet?” the Lord Advocate repeated sharply.
“Aye… I d-did,” Sophie stuttered, suddenly unable to control her words.
“And what was inside?” her inquisitor asked forcefully.
Sophie looked in the direction of her father standing in the dock and her eyes misted over.
“Eng-g-gravings,” she stuttered once more, alarmed that she could not seem to master her speech.
“Engravings of what?” the Lord Advocate demanded, his patience finally wearing thin.
“Of F-Fanny Hill,” she choked.
“Will you tell the court the complete title of this obscene work?”
“F-F-Fanny H-Hill,” she said, her voice sounding more strangled than ever, “M-Memoirs of a Woman of P-Pleasure.”
Something horrible had happened to her ability to speak out in the hearing chamber. She felt her throat close, and sweat beaded her upper lip.
“And were placards printed in your shop promoting lectures by one Thomas Sheridan, the so-called God of Elocution?” he asked thunderously.
“Y-y-yes,” Sophie agreed helplessly.
“My lords and gentlemen of the jury… what more can the man stand accused of? We believe there is but one God in this land! And McGann’s blasphemously crediting such powers to an actor is appalling beyond belief!”
Sophie bowed her head in abject misery, tears coursing down her cheeks.
“I think we have heard enough from this chit, m’lords,” the prosecutor said disdainfully, ordering her from the witness box. “The Crown versus Daniel McGann is ready to proceed to the worthy deliberations of the jury and my Lords of Justiciary.”
***
The verdict was not unexpected. Daniel McGann, printer and bookseller, was found guilty of obscene libel and blasphemy. Sentencing would be pronounced by mid-April, and while Sophie waited for the court’s decision, her sleepless nights were filled with anxiety that her father might well be hung.
On April 15, the Justiciary Court pronounced sentence: Daniel McGann would be publicly pilloried for his crimes and remanded to the Tolbooth for six months. The court had, in its
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