"It might, my lord."
"And would not that in your judgment, instead of showing that he was insane, prove that he wasa very sensible man?"
The Vicar did not quite assent to this, and as he would not dissent from the learned Judge, said nothing.
"And," continued Maule, "that he was perfectly sane, although he murdered his wife?"
All this was very clever, not to say facetious, on the part of the learned Judge; but as I had yet to address the jury, I was resolved to take the other view of the effect of the Vicar's sermons, and I did so. I worked Maule's quarry, I think, with some little effect: for after all his most strenuous exertions to secure a conviction, the jury believed, probably, that no man's mind could stand the ordeal; and, further, that any doubt they might have, after seeing the two children of the prisoner in court dressed in little black frocks, and sobbing bitterly while I was addressing them, would be given in the prisoner's favour, which it was.
This incident in my life is not finished. On the same evening I was dining at the country house of a Mr. Hardcastle, and near me sat an old inhabitant of the village where the tragedy had been committed.
"You made a touching speech, Mr. Hawkins," said the old inhabitant.
"Well," I answered, "it was the best thing I could do in the circumstances."
"Yes," he said; "but I don't think you would have painted the little home in such glowing colours if you had seen what I saw last week when I was driving past the cottage. No, no; I think you'd have toned down a bit."
"What was it?" I asked.
"Why," said the old inhabitant, "the little children who sobbed so violently in court this morning, and to whom you made such pathetic reference, were playing on an ash-heap near their cottage; and they had a poor cat with a string round its neck, swinging backwards and forwards, and as they did so they sang,—
This is the way poor daddy will go!This is the way poor daddy will go!'
Such, Mr. Hawkins, was their excessive grief!"
Yes, but it got the verdict.
My first visit to Newmarket Heath had one or two little incidents which may be interesting, although of no great importance. The Newmarket of to-day is not quite the same Newmarket that it was then: many things connected with it have changed, and, above all, its frequenters have changed; and if "things are not what they seem," they do not seem to me, at all events, to be what they were "in my day."
Sixty years is a long space of time to traverse, but I do so with a very vivid recollection of my old friend Charley Wright.
It was on a bright October morning when we set out, and glad enough was I to leave the courts at Westminster and the courts of the Temple—glad enough to break loose from the thraldom of nothing to do and get away into the beautiful country.
Charley and I were always great friends; we had seen so much together, especially of what is called "the world," which I use in a different sense from that in which we were now to seek adventures. We had seen so much of its good and evil, its lights and shades, and had so many memories in common, that they formed the groundwork of a lasting friendship.
He was the only son of an almost too indulgent father, who was the very best example of an old English gentleman of his day you could ever meet. He also had seen a good deal of life, and was not unfamiliar with any of its varied aspects. He was intellectual and genial, and dispensed his hospitality with the most winning courtesy. To me he was all kindness, and I have a grateful feeling of delight in being able in these few words to record my affectionate reverence for his memory. It was at his house in Pall Mall that I met John Leech and Percival Leigh.
But I digress as my mind goes back to these early dates, and unless I break away, Charley and I will not reach Newmarket in time for the first race. It happened that when we made this memorable visit I had an uncle living at The Priory at Royston, which was some five-and-twenty miles from Newmarket, where the big handicap, I think the Cesarewitch, was to be run the following day, or the next—I forget which.
But an interesting episode interrupted our journey to the Heath. To our surprise, and no little to our delight, there was to be an important meeting of the "Fancy" to witness a great prize-fight between Jack Brassy and Ben Caunt.
Ben Caunt was the greatest prize-fighter, both in stature and bulk, as well as in strength, I ever saw. He looked what he was—then or soon after—the champion of the world.
Brassy, too, was well made, and seemed every whit the man to meet Caunt. The two, indeed, were equally well made in form and shape, and as smooth cut as marble statues when they stripped for action.
The advertisements had announced that the contest was to come off at, "or as near thereto as circumstances permitted" (circumstances here meaning the police), the village of Little Bury, near Saffron Walden.
At the little inn of the village some of the magnates of the Ring were to assemble on the morning of the fight for an early breakfast, to which Charley and I had the good fortune to be invited by Jack Brassy's second, Peter Crawley, another noted pugilist of his day.
It was different weather from that we enjoyed in the early morning, for the rain was now pouring down in torrents, and we had a drive of no less than fifteen miles before us to the scene of action. Vehicles were few, and horses fewer. Nothing was to be had for love or money, as it seemed. But there was at last found one man who, if he had little love for the prize-ring, had much reverence for the golden coin that supported it. He was a Quaker. He had an old gig, and, I think, a still older horse, both of which I hired for the journey—the Quaker, of course, pretending that he had no idea of any meeting of the "Fancy" whatever. Nor do I suppose he would know what that term implied.
If ever any man in the world did what young men are always told by good people to do—namely, to persevere—I am sure we did, Charley and I, with the Quaker's horse. Whether he suspected the mission on which we were bent, or was considering the danger of such a scene to his morals, I could not ascertain, but never did any animal show a greater reluctance to go anywhere except to his quiet home.
Your happiness at these great gatherings depended entirely upon the distance or proximity of the police. If they were pretty near, the landlord of the inn would hesitate about serving you, and if he did, would charge a far higher price in consequence of the supposed increased risk. He would never encourage a breach of the peace in defiance of the county magistrates, who were the authority to renew his licence at Brewster Sessions. So much, then, if the officers of justice werenear.
If they happened to be absent—which, as I have said, occasionally occurred when a big thing was to come off—there was then a dominant feeling of social equality which you could never see manifested so strongly in any other place. A gentleman would think nothing of putting his fingers into your pockets and abstracting your money, and if you had the hardihood to resent the intrusion, would think less of putting his fist into your eyes.
We were by no means certain, as I learned, that our fight would come off after all, for it appeared the magistrates had given strict and specific instructions to the police that no combat was to take place in the county of Essex. Consequently the parties whose duty it was to make preparations had fled from that respectable county and gone away towards Six Mile Bottom, just in one of the corners of Cambridgeshire, as if the intention was that the dons of the University should have a look in. Constables slept more soundly in Cambridgeshire than in Essex. Moreover, the Essex magistrates would themselves have a moral right to witness the fight if it did not take place in their county.
Thus we set out for the rendezvous. Charley soon discovered that our steed was not accustomed to the whip, for instead of urging him forward it produced the contrary effect. However, we got along by slow degrees, and when we came up with the crowd—oh!
Such a scene I had never witnessed in my life, nor could have conceived it possible anywhere on this earth or anywhere out of that abyss the full description of which you will find in "Paradise Lost."
It was a procession of the blackguardism of all ages and of all countries under heaven. The sexes were apparently in equal numbers and in equal degrees of ugliness and ferocity. There were faces flat for want of noses, and mouths ghastly for want of teeth; faces scarred, bruised, battered into every shape but what might be called human. There were fighting-men of every species and variety—men whose profession it was to fight, and others whose brutal nature it was; there were women fighters, too, more deadly and dangerous than the men, because they added cruelty to their ferocity. Innumerable women there were who had lost the very nature of womanhood, and whose mouths were the mere outlet of oaths and filthy language. Their shrill clamours deafened our ears and subdued the deep voices of the men, whom they chaffed, reviled, shrieked at, yelled at, and swore at by way offun.
Amidst this turbulent rabble rode several members of the peerage, and even Ministerial supporters of the "noble art," exchanging with the low wretches I have mentioned a word or two of chaff or an occasional laugh at the grotesque wit and humour which are never absent from an English crowd.
As we approached the famous scene, to which every one was looking with the most intense anticipation, the crowd grew almost frenzied with expectancy, and yet the utmost good-humour prevailed. In this spirit we arrived at Bourne Bridge, and thence to the place of encounter was no great distance. It was a little field behind a public-house.
Every face was now white with excitement, except the faces of the combatants. They were firm set as iron itself. Trained to physical endurance, they were equally so in nerve and coolness of temperament, and could not have seemed more excited than if they were going to dinner instead of to one of the most terrible encounters I ever witnessed.
To those who have never seen an exhibition of this kind it was quite amazing to observe with what rapidity the ropes were fixed and the ring formed; nor were the men less prompt. Into the ring they stepped with their supporters, or seconds, and in almost an instant the principals had shaken hands, and were facing each other in what well might be deadly conflict. There were illustrious members of all classes assembled there, members probably of all professions, men who afterwards, as I know, became great in history, politics, law, literature, and religion; for it was a very great fight, and attracted all sorts and conditions from all places and positions. Nothing since that fight, except Tom Sayers and the "Benicia Boy," has attracted so goodly and so fashionable an audience and so fierce an assembly of blackguards.
But in the time of the latter battle the decadence of the Ring was manifest, and was the outcome of what is doubtless an increasing civilization. At the time of which I am now speaking the Prize Ring was one of our fashionable sports, supported by the wealthy of all classes, and was supposed to contribute to the manliness of our race; consequently our distinguished warriors, as well as the members of our most gentle professions, loved a good old-fashioned English "set-to," and nobody, as a rule, was the worse for it, although my poor brother Jack never recovered his half-crowns.
We had been advised to take our cushions from the gig to sit upon, because the straw round the ring was soddened with the heavy rains, and I need not say we found it was a very wise precaution. The straw had been placed round the ring for the benefit of theélite, who occupied front seats.
The fight now began, and, I must repeat, I never saw anything like it. Both pugilists were of the heaviest fighting weights. Caunt was a real giant, ugly as could be by the frequent batterings he had received in the face. His head was like a bull-dog's, and so was his courage, whilst his strength must have been that of a very Samson; but if it was, it did not reside in his hair, for that was short and close as a mouse's back.
At first I thought Brassy had the best of it; he was more active, being less ponderous, and landed some very ugly ones, cutting right into the flesh, although Caunt did not appear to mind it in the least. Brassy, however, did not follow up his advantage as I thought he ought to have done, and in my opinion dreaded the enormous power and force of his opponent in the event of his "getting home."
With the usual fluctuations of a great battle, the contest went on until nearly ahundred roundswere fought, lasting as many minutes, but no decisive effect was as yet observable. After this, however, Brassy could not come up to time. The event, therefore, was declared in Caunt's favour, and his opponent was carried off the field on a hurdle into the public-house, where I afterwards saw him in bed.
Thus terminated the great fight of the day, but not thus my day's adventures.
The sport was all that the most enthusiastic supporters of the Ring could desire. It no doubt had its barbarous aspects, regarded from a humanitarian point of view, but it was not so demoralizing as the spectacle of some poor creature risking his neck in a performance for which the spectator pays his sixpence, and the whole excitement consists in the knowledge that the actor may be dashed to pieces before his eyes.
It was time now to leave the scene, so Charley and I went to look for our gig (evidence of gentility from the time of Thurtell and Hunt's trial for the murder of Mr. Weare).
Alas! our respectability was gone—I mean the gig.
In vindication of the wisdom and foresight of Charley and myself, I should like to mention that we had entrusted that valuable evidence of our status to the keeping of a worthy stranger dressed in an old red jacket and a pair of corduroy trousers fastened with a wisp of hay below the knees.
When we arrived at the spot where he promised to wait our coming, he was gone, the horse and gig too; nor could any inquiries ascertain their whereabouts.
Whether this incident was a judgment on the Quaker, as Wright suggested, or one of the inevitable incidents attendant on a prize-fight, I am not in a position to say; but we thought it served the Quaker right for letting us a horse that would not go until the gentleman in the red jacket relieved us of any further trouble on that account.
Mistakes are so common amongst thieves that one can never tell how the horse got away; but if I were put on my oath, knowing the proclivities of the animal, I should say that he was backed out of the field.
We were now, as it seemed, the most deplorable objects in creation: without friends and without a gig, wet through, shelterless, amidst a crowd of drunken, loathsome outcasts of society, with only one solitary comfort between us—a pipe, which Charley enjoyed and I loathed. Drink is always quarrelsome or affectionate, generally the one first and the other after. When the tears dry, oaths begin, and we soon found that the quarrelsome stage of the company had been reached.
Amidst all this excitement we had not forgotten that this little matter of the prize-fight was but an incident on our journey to Newmarket. We knew full well that our present appearance would have found no recognition in the Mall. But we cared nothing for the Mall, as we were not known by the fashion in the racing world; and as for the others, we should like to avoid them in any world.
You will wonder in these circumstances what we did. We waited where we were through the whole of that wet afternoon, and then, on a couple of hacks—how we obtained them I don't know; I never asked Charley, and nothing of any importance turns upon them—we arrived at our comfortable Royston quarters about eight o'clock, tired to death.
We were received with a hearty welcome by my uncle, who was much entertained with our day's adventures. He liked my description of the fight, especially when I told him how Brassy "drew Caunt's claret," and showed such other knowledge of the scientific practice that no one could possibly have learnt had he not read up carefullyBell's Lifefor the current week.
I am sure my uncle thought I was one of the best of nephews, and I considered him in reality "my only uncle." Long, thought I, may he prove to be; and yet I never borrowed a penny from him in my life.
On the next day, fully equipped, and with all that was necessary for our distinguished position, we set out for Newmarket Heath, even now the glory of the racing world, not forgetting Goodwood, which is more or less a private business and fashionable picnic.
I shall not attempt to describe Newmarket. No one can describe, the indescribable. I will only say it was not the Newmarket which our later generation knows. It was then in its crude state of original simplicity. There were no stands save "the Duke's," at the top of the town, and one other, somewhat smaller and nearer to the present grand stand. Those who could afford to do so rode on horseback about the Heath; those who could not walked if they felt disposed, or sat down on the turf—the best enjoyment of all if you are tired. We did all three: we rode, walked, and sat down. At last, after a thoroughly enjoyable outing, such as the Bar knows nothing of in these respectable times, we returned to our business quarters in the Temple.
Hearsay is not, as a rule, evidence in a court of justice. There are one or two exceptions which I need not mention. If you want, therefore, to say what Smith said, you cannot say it, but must call Smith himself, and probably he will swear he never said anything of the sort.
The Marquis of Salisbury, in the early days that I speak of, was a kind-hearted chairman, and would never allow the quibble of the lawyer to stand in the way of justice to the prisoner. In those days at sessions they were not so nice in the observances of mere forms as they are now, and you could sometimes get in something that was not exactly evidence, strictly speaking, in favour of a prisoner by a side-wind, as it were, although it was not the correct thing to do.
It happened that I was instructed to defend a man who had been committed to Hertford Quarter Sessions on a charge of felony. The committing magistrates having refused to let the man out on bail, an application was made at Judges' Chambers before Mr. Baron Martin to reverse that decision, which he did.
"Not a rag of evidence," said the attorney's clerk when he delivered the little brief—"not a shadder of evidence, Mr. 'Awkins. It's a walk-over, sir."
I knew that meant a nominal fee, but wondered how many more similes he was going to deliver instead of the money. But to the honour of the solicitor, I am bound to say that point was soon cleared up, and the practice of magistrates, supposed to be in their right minds, committing people for trial with no "shadder" of evidence against them, it now became my duty to inquire into. I asked how he knew there was no evidence, and whether the man bore a respectable character.
"Oh, I was up before the Baron," he answered. ("Yes," I thought, "but you must wake very early if you are up too soon for Baron Martin.") "And the Baron said, as to grantin' bail, 'Certainly he should; the magistrates had no business to commit him for trial, for there was not a rag of a case against the man.' So you see, sir, it's a easy case, Mr. 'Awkins; and as the man's a poor man, we can't mark much of a fee."
The usual complaint with quarter sessions solicitors.
Such were my instructions. I was young in practice at that time, and took a great deal more in—I mean in the way of credulity—than I did in after life. Nor was I very learned in the ways of solicitors' clerks. I knew that hearsay evidence, even in the case of a Judge's observation, was inadmissible, and therefore what the Baron said could not strictly be given; but I did not know how far you might go in the country, nor what the Marquis's opinion might be of the Baron. I therefore mentioned it to Rodwell, who, of course, was instructed for the prosecution; he was in everything on one side or the other—never, I believe, on both.
This stickler for etiquette was absolutely shocked; he held up his hands, began a declamation on the rules of evidence, and uttered so many Pharisaical platitudes that I only escaped annihilation by a hair's-breadth. He was always furious on etiquette.
Much annoyed at his bumptious manner, I was resolved now, come what would, to pay him off. I wanted to show him he was not everybody, even at Hertford Sessions. So when the case came on and the policeman was in the box, I rose to cross-examine him, which I did very quietly.
"Now, policeman, I am going to ask you a question; but pray don't answer it till you are told to do so, because my learned friend may object to it."
Rodwell sprang to his feet and objected at once.
"What is the question?" asked the Marquis. "We must hear what the question is before I can rule as to your objection, Mr. Rodwell."
This was a good one for Mr. Rodwell, and made him colour up to his eyebrows, especially as I looked at him and smiled.
"The question, my lord," said I, "is a very simple one: Did not Mr. Baron Martin say, when applied to for bail, that there was not a rag of a case against the prisoner?"
"This is monstrous!" said the learned stickler for forms and ceremonies—"monstrous! Never heard of such a thing!"
It might have been monstrous, but it gave me an excellent grievance with the jury, even if the Marquis did not see his way to allow the question; and a grievance is worth something, if you have no defence.
The Marquis paid great attention to the case, especially after that observation of the Baron's. Although he regretted that it could not be got in as evidence, he was good enough to say I should get the benefit of it with the jury.
All this time there was a continuous growl from my learned friend of "Monstrous! monstrous!"—so much so that for days after that word kept ringing in my ears, as monotonously as a muffin bell on a Sunday afternoon.
But I believe he was more irritated by my subsequent conduct, for I played round the question like one longing for forbidden fruit, and emphasized the objection of my learned friend now and again: all very wrong, I know now, but in the heyday of youthful ardour how many faults we commit!"
"Just tell me," I said to the policeman, "did the learned Judge—I mean Mr. Baron Martin—seem to know what he was about when he let this man out on bail?"
"O yes, sir," said the witness, "he knowed what he was about, right enough," stroking his chin.
"You may rely on that," said the Marquis. "You may take that for granted, Mr. Hawkins."
"I thought so, my lord; there is not a judge on the Bench who can see through a case quicker than the Baron."
The grumbling still continued.
"Now, then, don't answer this."
"You have already ruled, my lord," said Rodwell.
"This is another one," said I; "but if it's regular to keep objecting before the prisoner's counsel has a chance of putting his question, I sit down, my lord. I shall be allowed, probably, to address the jury—that is, if Mr. Rodwell does not object."
The noble Marquis, on seeing my distress, said,—
"Mr. Hawkins, the question needs no answer from the policeman; you will get the benefit of it for what it is worth. The jury will draw their own conclusions from Mr. Rodwell's objections."
As they did upon the whole case, for they acquitted, much to Mr.Rodwell's annoyance.
"Now," said the Marquis, "let the officer stand back. I want to ask what the Baron really did say when he let this man out on bail."
"My lord," answered the witness, "his lordship said as how he looked upon the whole lot as agang of thieves."
"You've got it now," said Rodwell.
"And so have you," said I. "You should not have objected, and then you would have got the answer he has just given."
I had been to Paris in the summer of 18— for a little holiday, and was returning in the evening after some races had taken place near that city. I had not attended them, and was, in fact, not aware that they were being held; but I soon discovered the fact from finding myself in the midst of the motley Crowds which always throng railway stations on such occasions, only on this particular day they were a little worse than usual. The race meeting had brought together the roughs of all nations, and especially from England. As it seemed to me, my fellow-countrymen always took the lead in this kind of competition.
I was endeavouring to get to the booking-office amongst the rest of the crowd, and there was far more pushing and struggling than was at all necessary for that purpose. Presently a burly ruffian, with a low East End face of the slum pattern and complexion, rolled out a volley of oaths at me. He asked where the —— I was pushing and what game I was up to, as though I were a professional pickpocket like himself. He had the advantage of me in being surrounded by a gang of the most loathsome blackguards you could imagine, while I was without a friend. I spoke, therefore, very civilly, and said the crowd was pushing behind and forcing me forward. The brute was annoyed at my coolness, and irritated all the more.
Hitherto his language had not been strong enough to frighten me, so he improved its strength by some tremendous epithets, considerably above proof. I think he must have enjoyed the exclusive copyright, for I never knew his superlatives imitated. He finished the harangue by saying that he would knock my head off if I said another word.
To this I replied, with a look stronger than all his language, "No, you won't."
My look must have been strong, because the countenances of the bystanders were subdued.
"Why won't I, muster?" he asked.
"For two reasons," I said: "first, because you won't try; and secondly, because you could not if you did."
He was somewhat tamed, and then I lifted my hat, so that he could see my close-cropped hair, which was as short as his own, only not for the same reason. "You don't seem to know who I am," I added, hoping he would now take me for a member of the prize-ring. But my appearance did not frighten him. I had nothing but my short-cropped hair to rely on; so in self-defence I had to devise another stratagem. To frighten him one must look the ruffian in the face, or look the ruffian that he was. He continued to abuse me as we passed on our way to the booking-office window, and I have no doubt he and his gang were determined to rob me. One thing was common between us—we had no regard for one another. I now assumed as bold a manner as I could and a rough East End accent. "Look-ee 'ere," said I: "I know you don't keer for me no more 'an I keers for you. I ain't afraid o' no man, and I'll tell you what it is: it's your ignorance of who I am that makes you bold. I know you ain't a bad un with the maulers. Let's have no more nonsense about it here. I'll fight you on Monday week, say, for a hundred a side in the Butts, and we'll post the money at Peter Crawley's next Saturday. What d'ye say to that?"
Peter Crawley, whom I have already mentioned as inviting me to breakfast, was like a thunderclap to him. I must be somebody if I knew Peter Crawley, and now he doubtless bethought him of my short hair.
I must confess if the fellow had taken me at my word I should have been in as great a funk as he was, but he did not. My challenge was declined.
* * * * *
A curious incident happened once in the rural district of Saffron Walden. It is a borough no doubt, but it always seemed to me to be too small for any grown-up thing, and its name sounded more like a little flower-bed than anything else. On the occasion of which I speak there was great excitement in the place because they had got a prisoner—an event which baffled the experience of the oldest inhabitant.
The Recorder was an elderly barrister, full of pomp and dignity; and, like many of his brother Recorders, had very seldom a prisoner to try. You may therefore imagine with what stupendous importance he was invested when he found that the rural magistrates had committed a little boy for trial for stealing aball of twine. Think of the grand jury filing in to be "charged" by this judicial dignitary. Imagine his charge, his well-chosen sentences in anticipation of the one to come at the end of the sitting. Think of his eloquent disquisition on the law of larceny! It was all there!
After the usual proclamation against vice and immorality had been read, and after the grand jury had duly found a true bill, the next thing was to find the prisoner and bring him up for trial.
We may not be sentimental, or I might have cried, "God save the child!" as the usher said, "God save the Queen!" But "Suffer little children to come unto Me" would not have applied to our jails in those miserable and inhuman times. Mercy and sympathy were out of the question when you had law and order to maintain, as well as all the functionaries who had to contribute to their preservation.
"Put up the prisoner!" said the Recorder in solemn and commanding tones.
Down into the jaws of the cavern below the dock descended the jailer of six feet two—the only big thing about the place. He was a resolute-looking man in full uniform, and I can almost feel the breathless silence that pervaded the court during his absence.
Time passed and no one appeared. When a sufficient interval had elapsed for the stalwart jailer to have eaten his prisoner, had he been so minded, the Recorder, looking up from behind theTimes, which he appeared to be reading, asked in a very stern voice why the prisoner was not "put up."
They did not put up the boy, but the jailer, with a blood-forsaken face, put himself up through the hole, like a policeman coming through a trap-door in a pantomime.
"I beg your honour's pardon, my lord, but they have forgot to bring him."
"Forgot to bring him! What do you mean? Where is he?"
"They've left him at Chelmsford, your honour."
It seemed there was no jail at Saffron Walden, because, to the honour of the borough be it said, they had no one to put into it; and this small child had been committed for safe custody to Chelmsford to wait his trial at sessions, and had been there so long that he was actually forgotten when the day of trial came. I never heard anything more of him; but hope his small offence was forgotten as well as himself.
I have been often asked whether I ever owned a racer. In point of fact, I never did, although I went as near to that honour as any man who never arrived at it—a racer, too, who afterwards carried its owner's colours triumphantly past the winning-post.
The reader may have been shocked at the story I told of those poor ill-brought-up children whose mother was murdered, from the natural feeling that if pure innocence is not to be found in childhood, where are we to seek it?
I will indicate the spot in three words—on the Turf.
True, you will find fraud, cunning, knavery, and robbery, but you will find also the most unsophisticated innocence.
I went as a spectator, a lover of sport, and a lover of horses; and took more delight in it than I ever could in any haunt of fashionable idleness.
I amused myself by watching the proceedings of the betting-ring, where there is a good deal more honesty than in many places dignified by the name of "marts."
But if there was no innocence on the turf, rogues could not live; they are not cannibals—not, at all events, while they can obtain tenderer food. And are there not commercial circles also which could not exist without their equally innocent supporters?
Experience may be a dear school, but its lessons are never forgotten. A very little should go a long way, and the wisest make it go farthest. If any one wants a picture of innocence on the turf, let me give one of my own drawing, taken from nature.
All my life I have loved animals, especially horses and dogs; and all field sports, especially hunting and racing. But I went on the turf with as much simplicity as a girl possesses at her first ball, knowing nothing about public form or the way to calculate odds, to hedge, or do anything but wonder at the number of fools there were in the world. I did not know "a thing or two," like the knowing ones who lose all they possess. Who could believe that men go about philanthropically to inform the innocent how to "put their money on," while they carefully avoid putting on their own? Tipsters, in short, were no part of my racing creed. I was not so ignorant as that. I believed in a good horse quite as much as Lord Rosebery does, and much more than I believed in a good rider. But there were even then honest jockeys, as well as unimpeachable owners. All you can say is, honesty is honesty everywhere, and you will find a good deal of it on the turf, if you know where to look for it; and its value is in proportion to its quantity. The moment you depart a hair's-breadth from its immaculate principle there is no medium state between that and roguery.
However, be that as it may, I was once the owner of a pedigree thoroughbred called Dreadnought, which was presented to me when a colt. Dreadnought's dam Collingwood was by Muley Moloch out of Barbelle. Dreadnought was good for nothing as a racer, and had broken down in training. As a castaway he was offered to me, and I gladly accepted the present.
As he was too young to work, I sent him down to —— Park, to be kept till he was fit for use. He was there for a considerable time, and was then sent back in a neglected and miserable condition.
I rode him for some time, until one day he took me to Richmond Park, and on going up the hill fell and cut both his knees to pieces and mine as well. This was a sad mishap, and, of course, I could have no further confidence in poor Dreadnought, fond of him as I was; so he was placed under the care of a skilful veterinary surgeon, who gave him every attention. His bill was by no means heavy, and he brought him quite round again.
In the course of time he acquired a respectable appearance, although his broken knees, to say nothing of his "past," prevented his becoming valuable so far as I was concerned. Certainly I had no expectation of his ever going on to the turf. How could one believe that any owner would think of entering him for a race?
One morning my groom came to me and said, "I think, sir, I can find a purchaser for Dreadnought, if you have no objection to selling him; he's a gentleman, sir, who would take great care of him and give him a good home."
"Sell him!" said I. "Well, I should not object if he found a good master. I cannot ride him, and he is practically useless. What price does he seem inclined to offer?"
"Well, he ain't made any offer, sir; but he seems a good deal took with him and to like the look of him. Perhaps, sir, he might come and see you. I told him that I thought a matter o'fifteen punmight buy un. I dunnow whether I did right, sir, but I told un you would never take a farden less. I stuck to that."
"No," said I, "certainly not, when the vet.'s bill was twelve pounds ten—not a farthing less, James."
When the proposed purchaser came, he said, "It's a poor horse—a very poor horse; he wants a lot of looking after, and I shouldn't think of buying him except for the sake of seeing what I could do with him, for I am not fond of lumber, Mr. Hawkins—I don't care for lumber."
It was straightforward, but I did not at the time see his depth of feeling. He was evidently intending to buy him out of compassion, as he had some knowledge of his ancestors. But I stuck to my fifteen pounds hard and fast, and at last he said, "Well, Mr. Hawkins, I'll give you all you ask, if so be you'll throw in the saddle and bridle!"
I was tired of the negotiations, and yielded; so away went poor Dreadnought with his saddle and bridle, never for me to look on again. I was sorry to part with him, and the more so because his life had been unfortunate. But I was deceived in him as well as in his new master. From me he had concealed his merits, only to reveal them, as is often the case with latent genius, when some accidental opportunity offered.
At that time Bromley in Kent was a central attraction for a great many second-class patrons of the sporting world. I know little about the events that were negotiated at Bromley and other small places of the kind, but there was, as I have been informed, a good deal of blackguardism and pickpocketing on its course and in its little primitive streets—lucky if you came out of them with only one black eye. They would steal the teeth out of your mouth if you did not keep it shut and your eyes open.
However, Bromley races came on some time after the sale of my Dreadnought…. The next morning my groom came with a look of astonishment that seemed to have kept him awake all night, and said,—
"You'll be surprised to hear, sir, that our 'oss has won a fifty-pound prize at Bromley, and a pot of money besides in bets for his owner."
"Won a prize!" said I. "Was it by standing on his head?"
"Won arace, sir."
"Then it must have been a walk-over."
"Oh no, sir; he beat the cracks, beat the favourites, and took in all the knowing ones. I always said there was something about that there 'oss, sir, that I didn't understand and nobody couldn't understand, sir."
I was absolutely dumbfounded, knowing very little about "favourites" or "cracks." My groom I knew I could rely upon, for he always seemed to be the very soul of honour. I thought at first he might have been misled in some Bromley taproom, but afterwards found that it was all true—he had heard it from the owner himself, in whom the public seemed to place confidence, for they laid very long odds against Dreadnought.
The animal was famous, but not in that name; he had, like most honest persons, an alias. How he achieved his victory is uncertain; one thing, however, is certain—it must have been a startling surprise to Dreadnought to find himself in a race at all, and still more astonishing to find himself in front.
"How many ran?" I asked.
"Three, sir; two of 'em crack horses."
At this time I took little interest in pedigrees, and knew nothing of the "cracks," so the names of those celebrated animals which Dreadnought had beaten are forgotten. One of them, it appeared, had been heavily backed at 9 to 4, but Dreadnought did not seem to care for that; he ran, not on his public form, but on his merits. My eyes were opened at last, and the whole mystery was solved when James told me thatall three horses belonged to the same owner!
From that time to this I never heard what became of Dreadnought, and never saw the man who bought him, even in the dock. It is strange, however, that animals so true and faithful as dogs and horses should be instruments so perverted as to make men liars and rogues; while for intelligence many of them could give most of us pounds and pass us easily at the winning-post.
Speaking of dogs reminds me of dog-stealers andtheirways, of which some years ago I had a curious experience. I have told the story before, but it has become altered, and the true one has never been heard since. Indeed, no story is told correctly when its copyright is infringed.
There was a man at the time referred to known as old Sam Linton, the most extraordinary dog-fancier who ever lived, and the most curious thing about him was that he always fancied other people's dogs to his own. He was a remarkable dog-finder, too. In these days of dogs' homes the services of such a man as Linton are not so much in request; but he was a home in himself, and did a great deal of good in his way by restoring lost dogs to their owners; so that it became almost a common question in those days, when a lady lost her pet, to ask if she had made any inquiry of old Sam Linton. He was better than the wise woman who indicated in some mysterious jargon where the stolen watch might or might not be found in the distant future, for old Sambroughtyou the very dog on aspecified day! The wise woman never knew where the lost property was; old Sam did.
I dare say he was a great blackguard, but as he has long joined the majority, it is of no consequence. There was one thing I admired about Sam: there was a thorough absence in him of all hypocrisy and cant. He professed no religion whatever, but acted upon the principle that a bargain was a bargain, and should be carried out as between man and man. That was his idea, and as I found him true to it, I respected him accordingly, and mention his name as one of the few genuinely honest men I have met.
The way I made his acquaintance was singular. I was dining with my brother benchers at the Middle Temple Hall, when a message was brought that a gentleman would like to see me "partickler" after dinner, if I could give him a few minutes.
When I came out of the hall, there was a man looking very like a burglar. His dress, or what you should call his "get-up," is worth a momentary glance. He had a cat-skin cap in his hand about as large as a frying-pan, and nearly of the same colour—this he kept turning round and round first with one hand, then with both—a pea-jacket with large pearl buttons, corduroy breeches, a kind of moleskin waistcoat, and blucher shoes. He impressed one in a moment as being fond of drink. On one or two occasions I found this quality of great service to me in matters relating to the discovery of lost dogs. Drink, no doubt, has its advantages to those who do not drink.
"Muster Orkins, sir," said he, "beggin' your pardon, sir, but might I have a word with you, Muster Orkins, if it ain't a great intrusion, sir?"
I saw my man at once, and showed him that I understood business.
"You are Sam Linton?"
It took his breath away. He hadn't much, but poor old Sam did not like to part with it. In a very husky voice, that never seemed to get outside his mouth, he said,—
"Yus, sur; that's it, Mr. Orkins." Then he breathed, "Yer 'onner, wot I means to say is this—"
"What do you want, Linton? Never mind what you mean to say; I know you'll never say it."
"Well, Mr. Orkins, sir, ye see it is as this: you've lost a little dorg. Well, you'll say, 'How do you know that 'ere, Sam?' 'Well, sir,' I says, ''ow don't I know it? Ain't you bin an' offeredfourteen punfor that there leetle dorg? Why, it's knowed dreckly all round Mile End—the werry 'ome of lorst dorgs—and that there dorg, find him when you wool, why, he ain't worth more'nfourteen bob, sir.' Now, 'ow d'ye 'count for that, sir?"
"You've seen him, then?"
"Not I," says Sam, unmoved even by a twitch; "but I knows a party as 'as, and it ain't likely, Mr. Orkins, as you'll get 'im by orferin' a price like that, for why? Why, it stands to reason—don't it, Mr. Orkins?—it ain't thedorgyou're payin' for, butyour feelinsas these 'ere wagabonds istradin' on, Mr. Orkins; that's where it is. O sir, it's abominable, as I tells 'em, keepin' a gennelman's dorg."
I was perfectly thunderstruck with the man's philosophy and good feeling.
"Go on, Mr. Linton."
"Well, Mr. Orkins, they knows—damn 'em!—as your feelins ull make you orfer more and more, for who knows that there dorg might belongto a lidy, and thenherfeelins has to be took into consideration. I'll tell 'ee now, Mr. Orkins, how this class of wagabond works, for wagabonds I must allow they be. Well, they meets, let's say, at a public, and one says to another, 'I say, Bill,' he says, 'that there dawg as you found 'longs to Lawyer Orkins; he's bloomin' fond o' dawgs, is Lawyer Orkins, so they say, and he can pay for it.' 'Right you are,' says Bill, 'and a d—— lawyershallpay for it. He makes us pay when we wants him, and now we got him we'll make him pay.' So you see, Mr. Orkins, where it is, and whereas the way to do it is to say to these fellers—I'll just suppose, sir, I'm you and you're me, sir; no offence, I hope—'Well, I wants the dawg back.' Well, they says; leastways, I ses, ses I,—
"'Lawyer Orkins, you lost a dawg, 'ave yer?'
"'Yes,' ses you, 'I have,' like a gennelman—excuse my imitation, sir—' and I don'tkeer a damn for the whelp!' That's wot you orter say. 'He's only a bloomin' mongrel.'"
"Very good; what am I to say next, Mr. Linton?"
"'Don't yer?' says the tother feller; 'then what the h—— are yer looken arter him for?'
"'Well,' you ses, Mr. Orkins, 'you can go to h——. I don't keer for the dawg; he ain't my fancy.'"
"A proper place for the whole lot of you, Sam."
"But, excuse me, Mr. Orkins, sir, that's for future occasions. This 'ere present one, in orferin' fourteen pun, you've let the cat out o' the bag, and what I could ha' done had you consulted me sooner I can't do now; I could ha' got him for afi'-pun noteat one time, but they've worked on your feelins, and, mark my words, they'll wanttwenty punas the price o' that there dawg, as sure as my name's Sam Linton. That's all I got to say, Mr. Orkins, and I thought I'd come and warn yer like a man—he's got into bad hands, that there dawg."
"I am much obliged, Mr. Linton; you seem to be a straightforward-dealing man."
"Well, sir, I tries to act upright and downstraight; and, as I ses, if a man only does that he ain't got nothin' to fear, 'as he, Muster Orkins?"
"When can I have him, Sam?"
"Well, sir, you can have him—let me see—Monday was a week, when you lost him; next Monday'll be another week, when I found him; that'll be a fortnit. Suppose we ses next Tooesday week?"
"Suppose we say to-morrow."
"Oh!" said Sam, "then I thinks you'll be sucked in! The chances are, Mr. Orkins, you won't see him at all. Why, sir, you don't know how them chaps carries on their business. Would you believe it, Mr. Orkins, a gennelman comes to me, and he ses, 'Sam,' he ses, 'I want to find a little pet dawg as belonged to a lidy'—which was his wife, in course—and he ses the lidy was nearly out of her mind. 'Well,' I ses, 'sir, to be 'onest with you, don't you mention that there fact to anybody but me'—because when a lidy goes out of her mind over a lorst dawg up goes the price, and you can't calculate bank-rate, as they ses. The price'll go up fablous, Mr. Orkins; there's nothin' rules the market like that there. Well, at last I agrees to do my best for the gent, and he says, just as you might say, Mr. Orkins, just now, 'When can she have him?' Well, I told him the time; but what a innercent question, Mr. Orkins! 'Why not before?' says he, with a kind of a angry voice, like yours just now, sir. 'Why, sir,' I ses, 'these people as finds dawgs 'ave their feelins as well as losers 'as theirs, and sometimes when they can't find the owner, they sells the animal.' Well, they sold this gennelman's animal to a major, and the reason why he couldn't be had for a little while was that the major, being fond on him, and 'avin' paid a good price for the dawg, it would ha' been cruel if he did not let him have the pleasure of him like for a few days—or a week."
Sam and I parted the best of friends, and, I need not say, on the best of terms I could get. I knew him for many years after this incident, and say to his credit that, although he was sometimes hard with customers, he acted, from all one ever heard, strictly in accordance with the bargain he made, whatever it might be; and what is more singular than all, I never heard of old Sam Linton getting into trouble.
Like most men who are not saints, I had the natural instinct for gambling, without any passion for it; but soon found the necessity for suppressing my inclination for cards, lest it should interfere with my legitimate profession. It was necessary to abandon the indulgence, or abandon myself to its temptations.
I owe my determination never to play again at cards to the bad luck which befell me on a particular occasion at Ascot on the Cup Day of the year 18—. I was at that time struggling to make my way in my profession, and carefully storing up my little savings for the proverbial rainy day.
Having been previously to the Epsom summer races, and had such extraordinary good luck, nothing but a severe reverse would have induced me to take the step I did. Good luck is fascinating, and invariably leads us on, with bad luck sometimes close behind.
I went to Epsom with my dear old friend Charley Wright, and we soon set to work in one of the booths to make something towards our fortunes atrouge et noir. The booth was kept by a man who seemed—to me, at all events—to be the soul of honour. I had no reason to speak otherwise than well of him, for I staked a half-crown on the black, and won two half-crowns every time, or nearly every time.
I thought it a most excellent game, and with less of the element of chance or skill in it than any game I ever played. My pockets were getting stuffed with half-crowns, so that they bulged, and caused me to wonder if I should be allowed to leave the racecourse alive, for there were many thieves who visited the Downs in those days.
But my friend Charley was with me, and I knew he would be a pretty trustworthy fellow in a row. This, however, was but a momentary thought, for I was too much engrossed in the game and in my good luck to dwell on possibilities. Nor did I interest myself in Charley's proceedings, but took it for granted that a game so propitious to me was no less so to him. He was playing with several others; who or what they were was of no moment to me. I pursued my game quietly, and picked up my half-crowns with great gladness and with no concern for those who had lost them.
Presently, however, my attention was momentarily diverted by hearingCharley let off a most uncontrollable "D—n!"
"What's the matter, Charley?" I asked, without lifting my head.
"Matter!" says Charley; "rooked—that's all!"
"Rooked! That's very extraordinary. I'm winning like anything. Look here!" and I pointed to my pockets, which were almost bursting.
"Yes," said he, "I see how it is: you've been winning on twos to one, and I've been losing on threes."
"Black's the winning colour to-day, Charley—noir; you should have backednoir. Besides, long odds are much too risky. I am quite content with two to one."
Here there was a general break-up of the party, because Charley being out of it as well as several others, it left only one, and, of course, the keeper of the booth was not so foolish, however honourable, to pay me two half-crowns and win only one. So there it ended.
That night I made this game a study, and the sensible conclusion came to me that if you would take advantage of the table you should play for the lower stakes, because you have a better chance of winning than those who play high. At least, that was the result of my policy; for while those who played high were ruined, my pockets were filled, and, by that cautious mode of playing, I was so lucky that, had there been enough at threes to one, I could have kept on making money as long as they had any to lose.
I changed my half-crowns with the booth-keeper for gold, and reached my chambers safely with the spoil. And how pleasant it was to count it!
It has occurred to me since that the keeper of the booth had carefully noted my proceedings (such was my innocence), and that he made his calculations for a future occasion. One thing he was quite sure of—namely, that he would see me again on the first opportunity there was of winning more half-crowns.
It is possible that a succession of runs of luck might have put an end to my professional career; it is certain that the opposite result put an end to my card-playing aspirations.
In about a fortnight, all eager for a renewal of my Epsom experience, I went down to the Ascot meeting, taking with me not only all my previous winnings, but my store of savings for the rainy day, and was determined to pursue the same moderate system of cautious play.
There was the same booth, the same little flag fluttering on the top, and the same obliging proprietor. He recognized me at once, and looked as if he was quite sure I would be there—as if, in fact, he had been waiting for me. After a pleasant greeting and a few friendly words, I thought it a little odd that a man should be so glad to meet one who had come to fill his pockets at the booth-keeper's expense—at least, I thought this afterwards, not at the time. He looked genuinely pleased, and down I sat once more, quite sure that two to one would beat three.
The proprietor kept his eye on my play in a very thoughtful manner, nor was it surprising that he knew his game as well as I; in fact, it turned out that he knew it better. To this day I am unable to explain how he manoeuvred it, how he adjusted his tactics to counteract mine; but that something happened more than mere luck would account for was certain, for, as often as the half-crown went on black, red was the lucky colour. But I persevered on black because it had been my friend at Epsom, and down went the half-crowns, to be swept up by the keeper of the booth. I cannot even now explain how it was done.
Intending to make a good day's work and gather a rich harvest, I took with me every shilling I had in the world—not only my previous winnings, but my hard-earned savings at the Bar. I began to lose, but went on playing, in the vain hope—the worst hope of the gambler—of retrieving what I had lost and recovering my former luck. But it was not to be; the table was against me. I forsook my loyalty to black and laid on red. Alas! red was no better friend. I lost again, and knew now that all my Epsom winnings had found their way once more into the keeper's pocket. A fortnight's loan was all I had of them. It was a pity they had not been given to some charity. But I kept on bravely enough, and did not despair or leave off while I had a half-crown left. That half-crown, however, was soon raked up with the rest into the keeper's bag.
I was bankrupt, with nothing in my pocket but twopence and a return ticket from Paddington.
Hopeless and helpless, I had learnt a lesson—a lesson you can only learn in the school of experience.
I little thought then that the only certain winner at the gaming-table isthe table itself, and made up my mind as I walked alone and disappointed through Windsor Park, on my way to the station, that I would never touch a card again—and I never did.
For the first time since setting out in the morning I felt hungry, and bought a pennyworth of apples at a little stall kept by an old woman, and a bottle of ginger-beer. Such was my frugal meal; and thus sustained I tramped on, my return ticket being my only possession in the world. I reached Paddington with a sorry heart, and walked to the Temple, my good resolution my only comfort; but it was all-sufficient for the occasion and for all time to come.
Having somewhat succeeded in my practice at Quarter Sessions, I enlarged my field of adventure by attending the Old Bailey, hoping, of course, to obtain some briefs at that court; and although I abandoned the practice as a rule, I was, in after-life, on many occasions retained to appear in cases which are still fresh in my memory. I was with Edwin James, who was counsel for Mr. Bates, one of the partners of Strahan and Sir John Dean Paul, bankers of the Strand, and who were sentenced to fourteen years' transportation for fraudulently misappropriating securities of their customers. I was counsel for a young clerk to Leopold Redpath, the notorious man who was transported for extensive forgeries upon the Great Northern Railway. The clerk was justly acquitted by the jury.
My recollection of this period brings back many curious defences, which illustrate the school of advocacy in which I studied. Whether they contributed to my future success, I do not know, but that they afforded amusement is proved by my remembering them at all.
Hertford and St. Albans were my chief places, my earliest attachments, and are amongst my pleasantest memories. It seems childish to think of them as scenes of my struggles, for when I come to look back I had no struggles at all. I was merely practising like a cricketer at the nets; there was nothing to struggle for except a verdict when it would not come without some effort.
But dear old Codd was the man to struggle. He struggled and wriggled; tie him up as tightly as you could, you saw him fighting to get free, as he did in the following great duck case. He was a very amiable old barrister, a fast talker—so fast that he never stayed to pronounce his words—and of an ingenuity that ought to have been applied to some better purpose, such as the making of steam-engines or writing novels, rather than defending thieves. He reminded me on this occasion of the man in the circus who rode several horses at a time. In the case I allude to, he set up no less thanseven defencesto account for the unhappy duck's finding its way into his client's pocket, and the charm of them all was their variety. Inconsistency was not the word to apply reproachfully. Inconsistency was Codd's merit. He was like a conjurer who asks you to name a card, and as surely as you do so you draw it from the pack.
This particular duck case was known long after as "Codd's Puzzle."
"First," says Codd, "my client bought the duck and paid for it."
He was not the man to be afraid of being asked where.
"Second," says Codd, "my client found it; thirdly, it had been given to him; fourthly, it flew into his garden; fifthly, he was asleep, and some one put it into his pocket." And so the untiring and ingenious Codd proceeded making his case unnaturally good.
But the strange thing was that, instead of sweeping him away with a touch of ridicule, the young advocate argued the several defences one after the other with great dialectical skill, so that the jury became puzzled; and if the defence had not been so extraordinarily good, there would have been an acquittal forthwith.
There had been such a bewildering torrent of arguments that presently Codd's head began to swim, and he shrugged his shoulders, meaning thereby that it was the most puzzling casehehad ever had anything to do with.
At last it became a question whether, amidst these conflicting accounts, there ever was any duck at all. Codd had not thought of that till some junior suggested it, and then he was asked by the Marquis of Salisbury, our chairman, whether there was any particular line of defence he wished to suggest.
"No," says Codd, "not in particular; my client wished to make a clean breast of it, and put them all before the jury; and I should be much obliged if those gentlemen will adopt any one of them."[A]
The jury acquitted the prisoner, not because they chose any particular defence, but because they did not know which to choose, and so gave the prisoner the benefit of the doubt.
The client was happy, and Codd famous.
[Footnote A: Sixty years after this event, in the reply in the great Tichborne case, Mr. Hawkins, Q.C., quoted this very defence as an illustration of the absurdity of the suggestion that one of severalOspreyspicked up Sir Roger Tichborne—as will hereafter appear.]