Just before my time the punishment of death was inflicted for almost every offence of stealing which would now be thought sufficiently dealt with by a sentence of a week's imprisonment. The struggle to turn King's evidence was great, and it was almost a competitive examination to ascertain who knew most about the crime; and he, being generally the worst of the gang, was accepted accordingly.
I remember when I was a child three men, named respectively Marshall, Cartwright, and Ingram, were charged with having committed a burglary in the house of a gentleman named Pym, who lived in a village in Hertfordshire, Marshall being at that time, and Cartwright having previously been, butler in the gentleman's service. Ingram had been a footman in London.
The burglary was not in itself of an aggravated character. Plate only was stolen, and that had been concealed under the gravel bed of a little rivulet which ran through the grounds.
No violence or threat of violence had been offered to any inmate of the house, yet the case was looked upon as serious because of the position of trust which had been held by the two butlers.
Ingram was admitted as King's evidence. The butlers were convicted, sentenced to death, and hanged, whilst Ingram was, according to universal practice, set at liberty. Before the expiration of a year, however, he was convicted of having stolen a horse, and as horse-stealing was a capital offence at that time, he suffered the penalty of death at Hereford.
It was a curious coincidence that only a year or two afterwards a man named Probert, who had given King's evidence upon which the notorious Thurtell and Hunt were convicted of the brutal murder of Weare and executed, was also released, and within a year convicted of horse-stealing and hanged.
An old calendar for the Assize at Lincoln, which I give as an Appendix, reminds me of the condition of the law and of its victims at that time. At every assize it was like a tiger let loose upon the district. If a man escaped the gallows, he was lucky, while the criminals were by no means the hardened ruffians who had been trained in the school of crime; they were mostly composed of the most ignorant rural labourers—if, indeed, in those days there were any degrees of ignorance, when to be able to read a few words by spelling them was considered a prodigious feat.
Jurors often endeavoured to mitigate the terrors of the law by finding that the stolen property, however valuable it might be, was of less value than five shillings. May the recording angel "drop a tear over this record of perjury and blot it out for ever."
It was in those days that Mr. Justice Graham was called upon to administer the law, and on one occasion particularly he vindicated his character for courtesy to all who appeared before him. He was a man unconscious of humour and yet humorous, and was not aware of the extreme civility which he exhibited to everybody and upon all occasions, especially to the prisoner.
People went away with a sense of gratitude for his kindness, and when he sentenced a batch of prisoners to death he did it in a manner that might make any one suppose, if he did not know the facts, that they had been awarded prizes for good conduct.
He was firm, nevertheless—a great thing in judges, if not accompanied with weakness of mind. I may add that there was a singular precision in his mode of expression as well as in his ideas.
At a country assize, where he was presiding in the Crown Court, a man was indicted for murder. He pleaded "Not guilty." The evidence contained in the depositions was terribly clear, and, of course, the judge, who had perused them, was aware of it.
The case having been called on for trial, counsel for the prosecution applied for a postponement on the ground of the absence of a most material witness for the Crown.
I should mention that in those days counsel were not allowed to speak for the prisoner, but the judge was always in theory supposed to watch the case on his behalf. In the absence of amaterialwitness the prisoner would be acquitted.
The learned Mr. Justice Graham asked the accused if he had any objection to the case being postponed until the next assizes, on the ground, as the prosecution had alleged, that their most material witness could not be produced. His lordship put the case as somewhat of a misfortune for the prisoner, and made it appear that it would be postponed, if he desired it, as a favour tohim.
Notwithstanding the judge's courteous manner of putting it, the prisoner most strenuously objected to any postponement. It was not for him to oblige the Crown at the expense of a broken neck, and he desired above all things to be tried in accordance with law. He stood there on his "jail delivery."
Graham was firm, but polite, and determined to grant the postponement asked for. In this he was doubtless right, for the interests of justice demanded it. But to soften down the prisoner's disappointment and excuse the necessity of his further imprisonment, his lordship addressed him in the following terms, and in quite a sympathetic manner:—
"Prisoner, I am extremely sorry to have to detain you in prison, butcommon humanityrequires that I should not let you be tried in the absence of an important witness for the prosecution, although at the same time I can quite appreciate your desire to have your case speedily disposed of; one does not like a thing of this sort hanging over one's head. But now, for the sake of argument, prisoner, suppose I were to try you to-day in the absence of that material witness, and yet, contrary to your expectations, they were to find you guilty. What then? Why, in the absence of that material witness, I should have to sentence you to be hanged on Monday next. That would be a painful ordeal for both of us.
"But now let us take the other alternative, and let us suppose that if your trial had been put off, and the material witness, when called, could prove something in your favour—this sometimes happens—and that that something induced the jury to acquit you, what a sad thing that would be! It would not signify to you, because you would have been hanged, and would be dead!"
Here his lordship paused for a considerable time, unable to suppress his emotion, but, having recovered himself, continued,—
"But you must consider what my feelings would be when I thought I had hanged an innocent man!"
At the next assizes the man was brought up, the material witness appeared; the prisoner was found guilty, and hanged.
The humane judge's feelings were therefore spared.
At the Old Bailey he was presiding during a sessions which was rather light for the times, there being less than a score left for execution under sentence of death. There were, in fact, only sixteen, most of them for petty thefts.
His lordship, instead of reading the whole of the sixteen names, omitted one, and read out only fifteen. He then politely, and with exquisite precision and solemnity, exhorted them severally to prepare for the awful doom that awaited them the following Monday, and pronounced on each the sentence of death.
They left the dock.
After they were gone the jailer explained to his lordship that there had beensixteenprisoners capitally convicted, but that his lordship had omitted the name of one of them, and he would like to know what was to be done with him.
"What is the prisoner's name?" asked Graham.
"John Robins, my lord."
"Oh, bring John Robins back—by all means let John Robins step forward. I am obliged to you."
The culprit was once more placed at the Bar, and Graham, addressing him in his singularly courteous manner, said apologetically,—
"John Robins, I find I have accidentally omitted your name in my list of prisoners doomed to execution. It was quite accidental, I assure you, and I ask your pardon for my mistake. I am very sorry, and can only add that you will be hanged with the rest."
The old glories of the circuit days vanished with stage-coaches and post-chaises. If you climbed on to the former for the sake of economy because you could not afford to travel in the latter, you would be fined at the circuit mess, whose notions of propriety and economy were always at variance.
Those who obtained no business found it particularly hateful to keep up the foolish appearance of having it by means of a post-chaise. You might not ride in a public vehicle, or dine at a public table, or put up at an inn for fear of falling in with attorneys and obtaining briefs from them surreptitiously. The Home Circuit was very strict in these respects, but it was the cheapest circuit to travel in the kingdom, so that its members were numerous and, I need not say, various in mind, manner, and position.
But it was a circuit of brilliant men in my young days. Many of them rose to eminence both in law and in Parliament. It was a time, indeed, when, if judges made law, law made judges.
I should like to say a word or two about those times and the necessary studies to be undergone by those who aspired to eminence.
In the days of my earliest acquaintance with the law, an ancient order of men, now almost, if not quite, extinct, called Special Pleaders, existed, who, after having kept the usual number of terms—that is to say, eaten the prescribed number of dinners in the Inn of Court to which they belonged—became qualified, on payment of a fee of £12, to take out a Crown licence to plead under the Bar. This enabled them to do all things which a barrister could do that did not require to be transacted in court. They drew pleadings, advised and took pupils.
Some of them practised in this way all their lives and were never called. Others grew tired of the drudgery, and were called to the Bar, where they remainedjuniorbarristers as long as they lived, old age having no effect upon their status. Some were promoted to the ancient order of Serjeants-at-Law, or were appointed her Majesty's Counsel, while some of the Serjeants received from the Crown patents of precedence with priority over all Queen's Counsel appointed after them, and with the privilege of wearing a silk gown and a Queen's Counsel wig.
There was, however, this difference between a Queen's Counsel and the holder of a Patent of Precedence: that the former, having been appointed one of her Majesty's Counsel, could not thenceforth appear without special licence under the sign-manual of the Queen to defend a prisoner upon a criminal charge. The Serjeant-at-Law is as rare now as a bustard.
I mention these old-fashioned times and studies, not because of their interest at the present day, but because they produced such men as Littledale, Bayley, Parke (afterwards Lord Wensleydale), Alderson, Tindal, Patteson, Wightman, Crompton, Vaughan Williams, James, Willes, and, later, Blackburn.
The contemplation of these legal giants, amongst whom my career commenced, somewhat checked the buoyant impulse which had urged me onward at Quarter Sessions, but at the same time imparted a little modest desire to imitate such incomparable models. Those of them who were selected from the junior Bar were good examples of men whose vast knowledge of law was acquired in the way I have indicated, and who were chosen on their merits alone.
But even these successful examples, however encouraging to the student, were, nevertheless, not ill-calculated to make a young barrister whose income was small, and sometimes, as in my case, by no meansassuredto him, sicken at the thought that, study as he liked, years might pass, and probably would, before a remunerative practice came to cheer him. Perhaps it would never come at all, and he would become, like so many hundreds of others of his day and ours, a hopeless failure. All were competitors for the briefs and even the smiles of solicitors; for without their favour none could succeed, although he might unite in himself all the qualities of lawyer and advocate.
The prospect was not exhilarating for any one who had to perform the drudgery of the first few years of a junior's life; nevertheless, I was not cast down by the mere apprehension, or rather the mere possibility of failure, for when I looked round on my competitors I was encouraged by the thought that dear old Woollet knew more about a rate appeal than Littledale himself, while old Peter Ryland, with his inimitable Saxon, was quite as good at the irremovability of a pauper as Codd was in accounting for the illegal removal of a duck, and both in their several branches of knowledge more learned than Alderson or Bayley. But here I was, launched on that wide sea in which I was "to sink or swim," and, as I preferred the latter, I struck out with a resolute breast-stroke, and, as I have said, never failed to keep my head above water. It was some satisfaction to know that, if the judges were so learned, there was yet more learning to come; much yet to come down from, the old table-land of the Common Law, and much more from the inexhaustible fountain of Parliament.
The Quarter Sessions Court was the arena of my first eight years of professional life. I watched and waited with unwearied attention, never without hope, but often on the very verge of despair, of ever making any progress which would justify my choosing it as a profession. My greatest delight, perhaps, was the obtaining an acquittal of some one whose guilt nobody could doubt. All the struggle of those times was the fight for the "one three six," and the hardest effort of my life was the most valuable, because it gave me the key which opened the door to many depositories of unexplored wealth.
There were many men who outlived their life, and others who never lived their lives at all; many men who did nothing, and many more who would almost have given their lives to do something.
There was, however, one man of those days whom I cannot here pass over, as he remained my companion and friend to his life's end, and will be remembered by me with affection and reverence to the end of my own. It was old Bob Grimston, whom I first met at the benefit of "the Spider," one of the famous prize-fighters of the time. The Hon. Bob Grimston was known in the sporting world as one of its most enthusiastic supporters, and acknowledged as one of the best men in saddle or at the wicket. But Bob was not only a sportsman—he was a gentleman of the finest feeling you could meet, and the keenest sense of honour.
Having thus spoken of some of the eminent men of my early days, I would like to mention a little incident that occurred before I had fairly settled down to practise, or formed any serious intention as to the course I should pursue—that is to say, whether I should remain a sessions man like Woollet, or become a master of Saxon like old Peter Ryland, a sportsman like Bob Grimston, or a cosmopolitan like Rodwell, so as to comprehend all that came in my way. I chose the latter, for the simple reason that in principle I loved what in these days would be called "the open door," and received all comers, even sometimes entertaining solicitors unawares.
Accordingly I laid myself open to the attention of kind friends and people whose manner of life was founded on the Christian principle of being "given to hospitality."
But before I come to the particular incident I wish to describe, I must briefly mention a remarkable case that was tried in the Queen's Bench, and which necessarily throws me back a year or two in my narrative.
It was a case known as "Boyle and Lawson," and the incident it reveals will give an idea of the state of society of that day. I am not sure whether it differs in many respects from that of the present, except in so far as itshonouris concerned, for what was looked upon then as a flagrant outrage on public morality is now regarded as an error of judgment, or a mistake occasioned by some fortuitous combination of unconsidered circumstances. Such is the value in literature and argument of long words without meaning.
However, the action was brought against the proprietors of theTimesnewspaper for libel. The libel consisted in the statement that the respectable plaintiff—a lady—had conspired with persons unknown to obtain false letters of credit for large sums of money.
The hospitable friends I refer to lived in excellent style in Norwich. How they had attained their social distinction I am unable to say, but they were, in fact, in the "very best set," which in Norwich was by no means the fastest.
I was travelling at this time with Charles Willshire and his brotherThomas, who was a mere youth. There was also an undergraduate ofCambridge of the name of Crook with us, and another who had joined ourparty for a few days' ramble.
We were enjoying ourselves in the old city of Norwich as only youth can, when we received an invitation to pass an evening in a very fashionable circle. How the invitation came I could not tell, but we made no inquiry and accepted it. Arrived at the house, which was situated in the most aristocratic neighbourhood that Norwich could boast, we found ourselves in the most agreeable society we could wish to meet. This was a group of exalted and fashionable personages arrayed in costumes of the superb Prince Regent style. Nothing could exceed this party in elegance of costume or manners. You could tell at once they were, as it was then expressed, "of the quality." Their cordiality was equalled only by their courtesy, and had we been princes of the blood we could not have received a more polite welcome. There was an elegance, too, about the house, and a refinement which coincided with the culture of the hosts and guests. Altogether it was one of the most agreeable parties I had ever seen. There were several gentlemen, all Prince Regents, and one sweet lady, charming in every way, from the well-arranged blonde tresses to the neatest little shoe that ever adorned a Cinderella foot. She was beautiful in person as she was charming in manner. You saw at once that she moved in the best Norwich society, and was the idol of it. Crook was perfectly amazed at so much grace and splendour, but then he was much younger than any of us.
I don't think any one was so much smitten as Crook. We had seen more of the world than he had—that is to say, more of the witness-box—and if you don't see the world there, on its oath, you can see it nowhere in the same unveiled deformity.
We enjoyed ourselves very much. There was good music and a little sweet singing, the lady being in that art, as in every other, well trained and accomplished. If I was not altogether ravished with the performance, Crook was. You could see that by the tender look of his eyes.
After the music, cards were introduced, and they commenced playingvingt-et-un, Crook being the special favourite with everybody, especially with the ladies. I believe much was due to the expression of his eyes.
As I had given up cards, I did not join in the game, but became more and more interested in it as an onlooker. I was a little surprised, however, to find that in a very short while, comparatively, our friend Crook had lost £30 or £40; and as this was the greater part of his allowance for travelling expenses, it placed him in a rather awkward position.
Some men travel faster when they have no money; this was not the case with poor Crook, who travelled only by means of it. Alas, I thought,twenty-oneandvingt-et-un! It was a serious matter, and the worse because Crook was not a good loser: he lost his head and his temper as well as his money; and I have ever observed through life that the man who loses his temper loses himself and his friends.
He was disgusted with his bad luck, but nurtured a desperate hope—the forlorn hope that deceives all gamblers—that he should retrieve his losses on some future occasion, which he eagerly looked for and, one might say, demanded.
The occasion was not far off; it was, in fact, nearer than Crook anticipated. His pleasant manner and agreeable society atvingt-et-unprocured us another invitation for the following night but one, and of course we accepted it. It was a great change to me from the scenery of the Elm Court chimney-pots.
Whatever might be Crook's happily sanguine disposition and hope of retrieving his luck, there was one thing which the calculator of chances does not take into consideration in games of this kind. We, visiting such cultured and fashionable people, would never for a moment think so meanly of our friends; I mean the possibility of their cheating, a word never mentioned in well-bred society. A suspicion of such conduct, even, would be tantamount to treason, and a violation of the rules that regulate the conduct of ladies and gentlemen. It was far from all our thoughts, and the devil alone could entertain so malevolent an idea. Be that as it may, as a matter of philosophy, the onlooker sees most of the game, and as I was an onlooker this is what I saw:—
The elegant ladyexchanged glances with one of the players while she was looking over Crook's hand! Crook was losing as fast as he could, and no wonder. I was now in an awkward position. To have denounced our hosts because I interpreted a lady's glances in a manner that made her worse than a common thief might have produced unknown trouble. But I kept my eye on the beautiful blonde, nevertheless, and became more and more confirmed in my suspicions without any better opportunity of declaring them.
The charming well-bred lady thus communicating her knowledge of Crook's cards, I need not say he was soon reduced to a state of insolvency; and as the party was too exclusive and fashionable to extend their hospitality to those who had not the means of paying, it soon broke up, and we returned to our rooms, I somewhat wiser and Crook a great deal poorer.
Such was the adventure which came to my mind when I saw in the Queen's Bench at Westminster the trial of "Boyle and Lawson" against theTimesfor calumnious insinuations against the character of a lady and others, suggesting that they obtained false letters of credit to enable them to cheat and defraud.
Thiswas the select party which Norwich society had lionized—the great unknown to whom we had been introduced, and where Crook had been cheated out of his travelling-money!
The lady was the fair plaintiff in this action, seeking for the rehabilitation of her character; and she succeeded in effecting that object so far as the outlay of one farthing would enable her to do so, for that was all the jury gave her, and it was exactly that amount too much. Her character was worth more to her in Crook's time.
Speaking of a man running society on his fees—that is, endeavouring to cope with the rich on the mere earnings of a barrister, however large they may be—I have met with several instances which would have preserved me from the same fate had I ever been cursed with such an inclination. The number of successful men at the Bar who have been ruined by worshipping the idol which is called "Society," and which is perhaps a more disastrous deity to worship than any other, is legion. This is one unhappy example, the only one I intend to give.
While I was living in Bond Street, and working very hard, I had little time and no inclination to lounge about amongst the socially great; I had, indeed, no money to spend on great people. The entrance-fee into the portals of the smart society temple is heavy, especially for a working-man; and so found the bright particular star who had long held his place amidst the splendid social galaxy, and then disappeared into a deeper obscurity than that from which he had emerged, to be seen no more for ever.
He was a Queen's Counsel, a brilliant advocate in a certain line of business, and a popular, agreeable, intellectual, and amusing companion. He obtained a seat in Parliament, and a footing in Society which made him one of its selected and principal lions. In every Society paper, amongst its most fashionable intelligence, there was he; and Society hardly seemed to be able to get along without him.
One Sunday afternoon I was reading in my little room when this agreeable member of theélitecalled upon me. My astonishment was great, because at that time of my career not only did I not receive visitors, butsucha visitor was beyond all expectation, and I wondered, when his name was announced, what could have brought him, he so great and I comparatively nothing. It is true I had known him for some time, but I knew him so little that I thought of him as a most estimable great man whose career was leading him to the highest distinction in his profession.
Another extraordinary thing that struck me long after, but did not at the time, was that the business he came upon made no particular impression on my mind, any more than if it had been the most ordinary thing in the world. That to me is still inexplicable.
My visitor did not let troubles sit upon him, if troubles he ever had, for he seemed to be in the highest spirits. Society kept him ever in a state of effervescent hilarity, so that he never let anything trouble him. At this time he was making at the Bar seven or eight thousand a year, and consequently, I thought, must be the happiest of men.
His manner was agreeable, and his face wore a smile of complacency at variance with the nature of his errand, which he quickly took care to make known by informing me that he was in a devil of a mess, and did not know what he should do to get out of it.
"Oh," I said quite carelessly, "you'll manage." And little did I thinkI should be the means of fulfilling my own prophecy.
"The fact is, my dear Hawkins," said the wily intriguer, for such he was, "I'll tell you seriously how I stand. To-morrow morning I have bills becoming due amounting to £1,250, and I want you to be good enough to lend me that sum to enable me to meet them."
I was perfectly astounded! This greatness to have come down to £1,250 on the wrong side of the ledger.
"I have no such amount," said I, "and never had anything like it at my bank." I must say I pitied him, and began to wonder in what way Icouldhelp him. He was so really and good-naturedly in earnest, and seemed so extremely anxious, that at last I said, "Well, I'll see what I can do," and asked him to meet me in court the following morning, when I would tell him whether I could help him or not.
His gratitude was boundless; my kindness should never be forgotten—no, as long as he lived! and if he had been addressing a common jury he could not have used more flowers of speech or shed more abundant tears to water them with. I was the best friend he had ever had. And, as it seemed afterwards, very foolishly so, because he told me he had not one farthing of security to offer for the loan. A man who ought to have been worth from fifty to a hundred thousand pounds!
However, I went to my bankers' and made arrangements to be provided with the amount. I met him at the place of appointment, and was quite surprised to see the change in his demeanour since the day before. He was now apparently in a state of deeper distress than ever, and thinking to soothe him, I said, "It's all right; you can have the money!"
Once more he overwhelmed me with the eloquence of a grateful heart, but said it was of no use—no use whatever; that instead of £1,250 he had other bills coming in, and unless they could all be met he might just as well let the others go.
"How much do youreallywant to quite clear you?" I asked, with a simplicity which astonishes me to this day.
"Well," he said, "nothing is of the least use under £2,500."
I was a little staggered, but, pitying his distress of mind, went once more to my bankers' and made the further necessary arrangements. I borrowed the whole amount at five per cent., and placed it to the credit of this brilliant Queen's Counsel.
The only terms I made with him on this new condition of things was that he should, out of his incoming fees, pay my clerk £500 a quarter until the whole sum was liquidated. This he might easily have done, and this he arranged to do; but the next day he pledged the whole of his prospective income to a Jew, incurred fresh liabilities, and left me without a shadow of a chance of ever seeing a penny of my money again. I need not say every farthing was lost, principal and interest. I say interest, because it cost me five per cent, till the amount was paid.
His end was as romantic as his life, but it is best told in the words of my old friend Charley Colman, who never spares colour when it is necessary, and in that respect is an artist who resembles Nature. Thus he writes:—
"What a coward at heart was ——! He allowed himself to be sat upon and crushed without raising a hand or voice in his defence of himself. When he returned from America he accepted a seat in —— office—in the office of the man who urged Lord —— to prosecute him.
"After your gift to him—a noble gift of £3,000—he called at my chambers, spoke in high terms of your generosity, and wished all the world to know it, so elated was he. I was to publish it far and wide. He went away. In half an hour he returned, and begged me to keep the affair secret. 'Too late,' said I. 'Several gentlemen have been here, and to them I mentioned the matter, and begged them to spread it far and wide.' His heart failed him when he thought he would be talked about.
"He was a kind-hearted fellow at times—generous to a fault, always most abstemious; but he had a tongue, and one he did not try to control. He used to say stinging things of people, knowing them to be untrue.
"What a life! What a terrible fate was his! Turned out of Parliament; made to resign his Benchership; his gown taken from him by the Benchers; driven to America by his creditors to get his living; not allowed to practise in the Supreme Court in America. At forty-five years of age his life had foundered. He returns to England—for what! Simply to find his recklessness had blasted his life, and then—?
"Sometimes, in spite ofall, I feel a moisture in my eye when I think of him. Had he been true to himself what a brilliant life was open to him! What a practice he had! Up to the last he told me that he turned £14,000 a year. He worked hard, very hard, and his gains went to —— or to chicken-hazard! Poor fellow!"
I was retained at Hertford Assizes, with Peter Ryland as my leader, to prosecute a man for perjury, which was alleged to have been committed in an action in which a cantankerous man, who had once filled the office of High Sheriff for the county, was the prosecutor. Wealthy and disagreeable, he was nevertheless a henpecked tyrant.
Mrs. Brown, his wife, was a witness for the prosecution in the alleged perjury—which was unfortunate for her husband, because she had the greatest knowledge of the circumstances surrounding the case; while Mr. Brown had the best knowledge of the probable quality of his wife's evidence.
When we were in consultation and considering the nature of this evidence, and arranging the best mode of presenting our case to the jury, Brown interposed, and begged that Mr. Ryland should call Mrs. Brown as thelastwitness, instead of first, which was the proper course. "Because," said he, "if anything goes wrong during the trial or anything is wanting, Mrs. Brown will be quite ready to mop it all up."
This in a prosecution forperjurywas one of the boldest propositions I had ever heard.
I need not say that good Mrs. Brown was called, as she ought to have been, first. The lady's mop was not in requisition at that stage of the trial, and the jury decided against her.
I was sometimes in the Divorce Court, and old Jack Holker was generally my opponent. He was called "Long Odds." In one particular case I won someéclat. It is not related on that account, however, but simply in consequence of its remarkable incidents. No case is interesting unless it is outside the ordinary stock-in-trade of the Law Courts, and I think this was.
The details are not worth telling, and I therefore pass them by. Cresswell was the President, and the future President, Hannen, my junior.
We won a great victory through the remarkable over-confidence and indiscretion of Edwin James, Q.C., who opposed us. James's client was the husband of the deceased. By her will the lady had left him the whole of her property, amounting to nearly £100,000. The case we set up was that the wife had been improperly influenced by her husband in making it, and that her mind was coerced into doing what she did not intend to do, and so we sought to set aside the will on that ground.
Edwin James had proved a very strong case on behalf of the validity of the will. He had called the attesting witnesses, and they, respectable gentlemen as they undoubtedly were, had proved all that was necessary—namely, that the testator, notwithstanding that she was in a feeble condition and almost at the last stage, was perfectly calm and capable in mind and understanding—exactly, in fact, as a testator ought to be who wills her property to her husband if he retains her affection.
The witnesses had been cross-examined by me, and nothing had been elicited that cast the least doubt upon their character or credibility. Had the matter been left where it was, the £100,000 would have been secured. But James, whatever may have been his brilliance, was wanting in tact. He would not leave well alone, but resolved to call the Rev. Mr. Faker, a distinguished Dissenting minister.
In fiction this gentleman would have appeared in the melodramatic guise of a spangled tunic, sugar-loaf hat, with party-coloured ribbons, purple or green breeches, and motley hose; but in the witness-box he was in clerical uniform, a long coat and white cravat with corresponding long face and hair, especially at the back of his head. A soberer style of a stage bandit was never seen. He was just the man for cross-examination, I saw at a glance—a fancy witness, and, I believe, a Welshman. As he was a Christian warrior, I had to find out the weak places in his armour. But little he knew of courts of law and the penetrating art of cross-examination, which could make a hole in the triple-plated coat of fraud, hypocrisy, and cunning. I was in no such panoply. I fought only with my little pebblestone and sling, but took good aim, and then the missile flew with well-directed speed.
I had to throw at a venture at first, because, happily, there were no instructions how to cross-examine. Not that I should have followed them if there had been; but I might have got afactor two from them.
It is well known that artifice is the resource of cunning, whether it acts on the principle of concealing truth or boldly asserting falsehood. Here the reverend strategist did both: he knew how a little truth could deceive. You must remember that at this point of the case, when the Rev. Faker was called, there was nothing to cross-examine about. I knew nothing of the parties, the witnesses, the solicitors, or any one except my learned friends. It would not have been discreditable to my advocacy if I had submitted to a verdict. I will, therefore, give the points of the questions which elicited the truth from the Christian warrior; and probably the non-legal reader of these memoirs may be interested in seeing what may sometimes be done by a few judicious questions.
"Mr. Faker," I said.
"Sir," says Faker.
"You have told us you acted as the adviser of the testatrix."
"Yes, sir."
"Spiritual adviser, of course?"
A spiritual bow.
"You advised the deceased lady, probably, as to her duties as a dying woman?"
"Certainly."
"Duty to her husband—was that one?"
A slight hesitation in Mr. Faker revealed the vast amount of fraud of which he was capable. It was the smallest peephole, but I saw a good way. Till then there was nothing to cross-examine about, but after that hesitation there was £100,000 worth! He had betrayed himself. At last Faker said,—
"Yes, Mr. Hawkins; yes, sir—her duty to her husband."
"In the way ofprovidingfor him?" was my next question.
"Oh yes; quite so."
"You were careful, of course, as you told your learned counsel, to avoid any undue influence?"
"Certainly."
"The will was not completed, I think, when you first saw the dying woman—on the day, I mean, of her death?"
"No, not at that time."
"Was it kept in a little bag by the pillow of the testatrix? Did she retain the keys of the bag herself?"
"That is quite right."
"Had it been executed at this time? I think you said not?"
"Not at this time; it had to be revised."
"How did you obtain possession of the keys?"
"I obtained them."
"Yes, I know; but without her knowledge?"
It was awkward for Faker, but he had to confess that he was not sure. Then he frankly admitted that the will was taken out of the bag—in the lady's presence, of course, but whether she was quite dead or almost alive was uncertain; and then he and the husband spiritually conferred as to what the real intention of the dying woman in the circumstances waslikely to be, and having ascertained that, they madeanother will, which they called "settling the former one" by carrying out the lady's intentions, the lady being now dead to all intentions whatsoever.
This was the will which was offered for probate!
Cresswell thought it was a curious state of affairs, and listened with much interest to the further cross-examination.
"Had you ever seen any other will?" I inquired. It was quite an accidental question, as one would put in a desultory sort of conversation with a friend.
"Er—yes—I have," said Faker.
"What was that?"
"Well, it was a will, to tell you the truth, Mr. Hawkins, executed in my favour for £5,000."
"Where is it?"
"I have not the original," said the minister, "but I have a copy of it."
"Copy! But where is the original?"
"Original?" repeats Faker.
"Yes, the original; there must have been an original if you have a copy."
"Oh," said the Rev. Faker, "I remember, the original was destroyed after the testatrix's death."
"How?"
"Burnt!"
Even the very grave Hannen, my ever-respected friend and junior, smiled; Cresswell, never prone to smile at villainy, smiled also.
"The original burnt, and only a copy produced! What do you mean, sir?"
The situation was dramatic.
"Is it not strange," I asked, "even inyourview of things, that the original will should be burnt and the copy preserved?"
"Yes," answered the reverend gentleman; "perhaps it would have been better—"
"To have burnt the copy and given us the original, and more especially after the lady was dead. But, let me ask you,whydid you destroy the original will?"
I pressed him again and again, but he could not answer. The reason was plain. His ingenuity was exhausted, and so I gave him the finishing stroke with this question,—
"Will you swear, sir, that an original will ever existed?"
The answer was, "No."
I knew itmustbe the answer, because there could be no other that would not betray him.
"What is your explanation?" asked Cresswell.
"My explanation, my lord, is that the testatrix had often expressed to me her intention to leave me £5,000, and I wrote the codicil which was destroyed to carry out her wishes."
Cresswell had warned James early in the case as to the futility of calling witnesses after the two who alone were necessary, but to no purpose; he hurried his client to destruction, and I have never been able to understand his conduct. The most that can be said for him is that he did not suspect any danger, and took no trouble to avoid incurring it.
It is curious enough that on the morning of the trial we had tried to compromise the matter by offering £10,000.
The refusal of the offer shows how little they thought that any cross-examination could injure their cause.
Hannen said he could not have believed a cross-examination could be conducted in that manner without any knowledge of the facts, and paid me the compliment of saying it was worth at the least £80,000.
Tattersall's in my time was one of the pleasantest Sunday afternoon lounges in London. There was a spirit of freedom and social equality pervading the place which only belongs to assemblies where sport is the principal object and pleasure of all. There was also the absence of irksome workaday drudgery; I think that was, after all, the main cause of its being so delightful a meeting-place to me.
There was, however, another attraction, and that was dear old Baron Martin, one of the most pleasant companions you could meet, no matter whether in the Court of Exchequer or the "old Ring." A keen sportsman he was, and a shrewd, common-sense lawyer—so great a lover of the Turf that it is told of him, and I know it to be true, that once in court a man was pointed out to him bowing with great reverence, and repeating it over and over again until he caught the Baron's attention. The Judge, with one pair of spectacles on his forehead and another on his eyes, immediately cried aloud to his marshal, "Custance, the jockey, as I'm alive!" and then the Baron bowed most politely to the man in the crowd, the most famous jockey of his day.
Speaking of Tattersall's reminds me of many things, amongst them of the way in which, happily, I came to the resolution never to bet on a horse-race. It was here I learnt the lesson, at a place where generally people learn the opposite, and never forgot it. No sermon would ever have taught me so much as I learnt there.
Like my oldest and one of my dearest friends on the turf, Lord Falmouth, I never made a bet after the time I speak of. No one who lives in the world needs any description of the Tattersall's of to-day. But the Tattersall's of my earlier days was not exactly the same thing, although the differences would not be recognizable to persons who have not over-keen recollections.
The institution has perhaps known more great men than Parliament itself—not so many bishops, perhaps, as the Church, but more statesmen than could get into the House of Lords; and all the biographies that have ever been written could not furnish more illustrations of the ups and downs of life, especially the downs, nor of more illustrious men. The names of all the great and mediocre people who visited the famous rendezvous would fill a respectable Court guide, and the money transactions that have taken place would pay off the National Debt. All this is a pleasant outcome of the national character.
Do not suppose that Judges, other than Baron Martin, never looked in, for they did, and so did learned and illustrious Queen's Counsel and Serjeants-at-Law, authors, editors, actors, statesmen, and, to sum it up in brief, all the real men of the day of all professions and degrees of social position.
At first my visits were infrequent; afterwards I went more often, and then became a regular attendant. I loved the "old Ring," and yet could never explain why. I think it was the variety of human character that charmed me. I was doing very little at the Bar, and was, no doubt, desirous to make as many acquaintances as possible, and to see as much of the world as I could. It is a long way back in my career, but I go over the course with no regrets and with every feeling of delight. Everything seems to have been enjoyable in those far-off days, although I was in a constant state of uncertainty with regard to my career. There were three principal places of pleasure at that time: one was Tattersall's, one Newmarket, and the Courts of Law a third.
There used to be, in the centre of the yard or court at Tattersall's, a significant representation of an old fox, and I often wondered whether it was set up as a warning, or merely by way of ornamentation, or as the symbol of sport. It might have been to tell you to be wary and on the alert. But whatever the original design of this statue to Reynard, the old fox read me a solemn lesson, and seemed to be always saying, "Take care, Harry; be on your guard. There are many prowlers everywhere."
But there was another monitor in constant attendance, who was deservedly respected by all who had the pleasure of his acquaintance—that is to say, by all who visited Tattersall's more than once. He was not in the least emblematic like the old fox, but a man of sound sense, with no poetry, of an extremely good nature, and full of anecdote. You might follow his advice, and it would be well with you; or you might follow your opinion in opposition to his and take your chance. His name was Hill—Harry Hill they familiarly called him—and although you might have many a grander acquaintance, you could never meet a truer friend.
He was an old and much-respected friend of the Baron, and that says a great deal for him; for if anybody in the world could understand aman, it was Baron Martin. Whether it was the Prime Minister or the unhappy thief in the dock, he knew all classes and all degrees of criminality. He was not poetical with regard to landscapes, for if one were pointed out to him by some proprietor of a lordly estate, he would say, "Yes, a vera fine place indeed; and I would have the winning-postthere!"
The old fox and Harry Hill! The two characters at Tattersall's in those days can never be forgotten, by those who knew them.
It may seem strange in these more enlightened days that at that time I was under the impression that no one could make a bet unless he had the means of paying if he lost. This statement will provoke a smile, but it is true. The consequence was that I was debarred from speculating where I thought I had a most excellent chance of winning, having been brought up to believe that the world was almost destitute of fraud—a strange and almost unaccountable idea which only time and experience proved to be erroneous. Judge of the vast unexplored field of discovery that lay before me! Harry Hill was better informed. He had lived longer, and had been brought in contact with the cleverest men of the age. He knew at a glance the adventurous fool who staked his last chance when the odds were a hundred to one, and also the man of honour who staked his life on his honesty—and sometimeslost!
There were "blacklegs" in those days who looked out for such honest gentlemen, andwon—scoundrels who degrade sport, and trade successfully on the reputations of men of honour. You cannot cope with these; honesty cannot compete with fraud either in sport or trade.
It was a very brief Sunday sermon which Harry preached to me this afternoon, but it was an effective one, and out of the abundance of his good nature he gave me these well-remembered words of friendly warning,—
"Mr. Hawkins, I see you come here pretty regularly on Sunday afternoons; but I advise you not to speculate amongst us, for if you do we shall beat you. We know our business better than you do, and you'll get nothing out of us any more than we should get out of you if we were to dabble in your law, for you knowthatbusiness better than we do."
This disinterested advice I took to heart, and treated it as a warning. I thanked Mr. Hill, promised to take advantage of his kindness, and kept my word during the whole time that Tattersall's remained in the old locality, which it did for a considerable period.
The establishment at this time was at Hyde Park Corner, and had been rented from Lord Grosvenor since 1766. It was used for the purpose of selling thoroughbreds and other horses of a first-rate order, until the expiration of the lease, which was, I think, in 1865. It was then removed to Knightsbridge, where I still continued my visits.
The new premises, or, as it might be called, the new institution, was inaugurated with a grand dinner, chiefly attended by members of the sporting world, including Admiral Rous, George Payne, and many other well-known and popular patrons of our national sport. There were also a great many who were known as "swells," people who took a lively interest in racing affairs, and others who belonged to the literary and artistic world, and enjoyed the national sports as well. It was a large assembly, and if any persons can enjoy a good dinner and lively conversation, it is those who take an interest in sport. Mixed as the company might be, it was uniform in its object, which was to be happy as well as jolly.
That I should have been asked to be present on this historic occasion was extremely gratifying, but I could find no reason for the honour conferred upon me, except that it 'might be because I had always endeavoured to make myself agreeable—a faculty, if it be a faculty, most invaluable in all the relations and circumstances of life. I was flattered by the compliment, because in reality I was the guest of all the really great men of the day.
But a still more striking honour was in store. I was called upon to respond for somebody or something; I don't remember what it was to this day, nor had I the faintest notion what I ought to say. I was perfectly bewildered, and the first utterance caused a roar of laughter. I did not at that time know the reason. It is of no consequence whether you know what you are talking about in an after-dinner speech or not, for say what you may, hardly anybody listens, and if they do few will understand the drift of your observations. You get a great deal of applause when you stand up, and a great deal more when you sit down. I seemed to catch my audience quite accidentally by using a word tabooed at that time in sporting circles, because it represented the blacklegs of the racecourse, and was used as a nickname for rascaldom. "Gentlemen," I said, "I have been unexpectedly called upon mylegs—" Then I stammered an apology for using the word in that company, and the laughter was unbounded. Next morning all the sporting papers reported it as an excellent joke, although the last person who saw the joke was myself.
After dinner we adjourned to the new premises, which included a betting-room, since christened "place," by interpretation of a particular statute by myself and others. Oh the castigation I received from the Jockey Club on that account! Whether the monitory fox was anywhere within the precincts I do not know, but I missed him at that time, and attributed to his absence the lapse from virtue which undermined my previous resolution, and in a moment undid the merits of exemplary years. However, it brought me to myself, and was, after all, a "blessing in disguise"—and pleasant to think of.
We were in the betting-room, and there was Harry Hill, my genial old friend, who had advised me to take care, and never to bet, "because we know our business better than you do." Alas! amidst the hubbub and excitement, to say nothing of the joviality of everybody and the excellence of the champagne, I said in a brave tone,—
"Come now, Mr. Hill, Imusthave a bet, on the opening of the newTattersalls. I will give you evens for a fiver on —— for the Derby!"
Alas! my friend, whooughtto have known better, forgot the good advice he had given me only a few years before, and I, heedless of consequences in my hilarity, repeated the offer of evens on thefavourite.
"Done!" said two or three, and amongst them Hill. I might have repeated the offer and accepted the bet over and over again, so popular was it. "Done, done, done!" everywhere.
But Hill was the man for my money, and he had it. Before morning thefavourite was scratched!
It was the race which Hermit won! Poor Hastings lost heavily and died soon after. I had backed the wrong horse, and have never ceased to wonder how I could have been so foolish. "Let me advise you not to speculate amongst us," were Hill's words, "for if you do we shall beat you;" and it cost me five pounds to learn that. A lawyer's opinion may be worth what is paid for it in a case stated; but of the soundness of of a horse's wind, or the thousand and one ailments to which that animal's flesh and blood are heir, I knew nothing—not so much as the little boy who runs and fetches in the stable, and who could give the ablest lawyer in Great Britain or Ireland odds on any particular favourite's "public form" and beat him.
Put not your trust in tipsters; they no more knew that Hermit had a chance for the Derby than they could foretell the snowstorm that was coming to enable him to win it.
This was the last bet I ever made; and I owe my abandonment of the practice to Harry Hill, who gave me excellent advice and enforced it by example.
The "Orsini Affair" was one of high treason and murder. It was the attempt on the part of a band of conspirators to murder Napoleon III. In order to accomplish thispoliticalobject, they exploded a bomb as nearly under his Majesty's carriage as they could manage, but instead of murdering the Emperor they killed a policeman.
Orsini was captured, tried, and executed in the good old French fashion. His political career ended with the guillotine—a sharp remedy, but effective, so far as he was concerned.
One Dr. Simon Bernard was more fortunate than his principal, for he was in England, the refuge of discontented foreign murderers, who try to do good by stealth, and sometimes feel very uncomfortable when they find that it turns out to be assassination.
Bernard was a brother conspirator in this famous Orsini business, and being apprehended in England, was taken to be tried before Lord Chief Justice Campbell, Edwin James and myself being retained for the defence.
There was no defence on the facts, and no case on the law. He was indicted for conspiracy with Orsini to murder the Emperor in Paris.
I had prepared a very elaborate and exhaustive argument in favour of the prisoner, on the law, and had little doubt I could secure his acquittal; but the facts were terribly strong, and we knew well enough if the jury convicted, Campbell would hang the prisoner, for he never tolerated murder. With this view of the case, we summoned Dr. Bernard to a consultation, which was held in one of the most ghastly rooms of Newgate.
No more miserable place could be found outside the jail, and it could only be surpassed in horror by one within. It might have been, and probably was, an anteroom to hell, but of that I say nothing. I leave my description, for I can do no more justice to it. The only cheerful thing about it was Dr. Bernard himself. He was totally unconcerned with the danger of his situation, and regarded himself as a hero of the first order. Murder, hanging, guillotine—all seemed to be the everyday chances of life, and to him there was nothing sweeter or more desirable, if you might judge by his demeanour.
I thought it well to mention the fact that, if the jury found him guilty, Lord Campbell would certainly sentence him to death. He exhibited no emotion whatever, but shrugging his shoulders after the manner of a Frenchman who differed from you in opinion, said,—
"Well, if I am hanged, I must be hanged, that is all."
With a man like him it was impossible to argue or ask for explanations. He seemed to be possessed with the one idea that to remedy all the grievances of the State it was merely necessary to blow up the Emperor with his horses and carriage, and coolly informed us, without the least reserve, that the bombs manufactured with this political object had been sent over to Paris from England concealed in firkins of butter. I can find no words in which to express my feelings.
So ended our first consultation. The "merits" of the case were gone; there was no defence. But whatever might be our opinion on Dr. Bernard's state of mind, we could not abandon him to his fate. We were retained to defend him, and defend him we must, even in spite of himself, if we could do so consistently with our professional honour and duty.
Accordingly we had another consultation, and as I have said there was one other room in England more ghastly than that where we held our first interview, so now I reluctantly introduce you to it.
If a man about to be tried for his life could look on this apartment and its horrors unmoved, he would certainly be a fit subject for the attentions of the hangman, and deserving of no human sympathy. It was enough to shake the nerves of the hangman himself.
We were in an apartment on the north-east side of the quadrangular building, where the sunshine never entered. Even daylight never came, but only a feeble, sickening twilight, precursor of the grave itself. It was not merely the gloom that intensified the horrors of the situation, or the ghastly traditions of the place, or the impending fate of our callous client; but there was a tier of shelves occupying the side of the apartment, on which were placed in dismal prominence the plaster-of-Paris busts of all the malefactors who had been hanged in Newgate for some hundred years.
No man can look attractive after having been hanged, and the indentation of the hangman's rope on every one of their necks, with the mark of the knot under the ear, gave such an impression of all that can be conceived of devilish horror as would baffle the conceptions of the most morbid genius.
Whether these things were preserved for phrenological purposes or for the gratification of the most sanguinary taste, I never knew, but they impressed me with a disgust of the brutal tendency of the age.
Dr. Bernard, however, seemed to take a different view. Probably he was scientific. He went up to them, and examined, as it seemed, every one of these ghastly memorials with an interest which could only be scientific. It did not seem to have occurred to his brain thathishead would probably be the next to adorn that repository of criminal effigies.
He was in charge of a warder, and looked round with the utmost composure, as though examining the Caesars in the British Museum, and was as interested as any fanatical fool of a phrenologist. He shrugged his shoulders, raised his eyebrows, and repeated his old formula, "Well, if I am to be hanged, I must be hanged."
He was acquitted. My elaborate arguments on the law were not necessary, for the jury actually refused to believe the evidence as to the facts!
Such are the chances of trial by jury!
As a relief to this gloomy chapter I must tell you of a distinguished Judge who had to sentence a dishonest butler for robbing his master of some silver spoons. He considered it his duty to say a few words to the prisoner in passing sentence, in order to show the enormity of the crime of a servant in his position robbing his master, and by way of warning to others who might be tempted to follow his example.
"You, prisoner," said his lordship, "have been found guilty, by a jury of your country, of stealing these articles from your employer—mark that—your employer! Now, it aggravates your offence that he is your employer, because he employs you to look after his property. Youdidlook after it, but not in the way that a butler should—mark that!" The judge here hemmed and coughed, as if somewhat exhausted with his exemplary speech; and then resumed his address, which was ethical and judicial: "You, prisoner, havenoexcuse for your conduct. You had a most excellent situation, and a kind master to whom you owed a debt of the deepest gratitude and your allegiance as a faithful servant, instead of which you paid him byfeathering your nest with his silver spoons; therefore you must be transported for the term of seven years!"
The metaphor was equal to that employed by an Attorney-General, who at a certain time in the history of the Home Rule agitation, addressing his constituents, told them thatMr. Gladstone had sent up a balloon to see which way the cat jumped with regard to Ireland! He was soon appointed a Judge of the High Court.
Judges, however, are not always masters of their feelings, any more than they are of their language; they are sometimes carried away by prejudice, or even controlled by sentiment. I knew one, a very worthy and amiable man, who, having to sentence a prisoner to death, was so overcome by the terrible nature of the crime that he informed the unhappy convict that he could expectno mercy either in this world or the next!
Littledale, again, was an uncommonly kind and virtuous man, a good husband and a learned Judge; but he was afflicted with a wife whom he could not control. She, on the contrary, controlled him, and left him no peace unless she had her will. At times, however, she overdid her business. Littledale had a butler who had been in the family many years, and with whom he would not have parted on any account. He would sooner have parted with her ladyship. One morning, however, this excellent butler came to Sir Joseph and said, with tears in his eyes,—
"I beg your pardon, my lord—"
"What's the matter, James?"
"I'm very sorry, my lord," said the butler, "but I wish to leave."
"Wish to leave, James? Why, what do you wish to leave for? Haven't you got a good situation?"
"Capital sitiwation, Sir Joseph, and you have always been a good kind master to me, Sir Joseph; but, O Sir Joseph, Sir Joseph!"
"What then, James, what then? Why do you wish to leave? Not going to get married, eh—not surely going to get married? O James, don't do it!"
"Heaven forbid, Sir Joseph!"
"Eh, eh? Well, then, what is it? Speak out, James, and tell me all about it. Tell me—tell me as a friend! If there is any trouble—"
"Well, Sir Joseph, I could put up with anything fromyou, SirJoseph, but Ican't get on with my lady!"
"My lady be—. O James, what a sinner you make of me! Is that all, James? Then go down on your knees at once andthank God my lady is not your wife!"
It was a happy thought, and James stayed.
I don't think I have mentioned a curious reason that a jury once gave fornotfinding a prisoner guilty, although he had been tried on a charge of a most terrible murder. The evidence was irresistible to anybody but a jury, and the case was one of inexcusable brutality. The man had been tried for the murder of his father and mother, and, as I said, the evidence was too clear to leave a doubt as to his guilt.
The jury retired to consider their verdict, and were away so long that the Judge sent for them and asked if there was any point upon which he could enlighten them. They answered no, and thought they understood the case perfectly well.
After a great deal of further consideration they brought in a verdict of "Not Guilty."
The Judge was angry at so outrageous a violation of their plain duty, and did what he ought not to have done—namely, asked the reason they brought in such a verdict, when they knew the culprit was guilty and ought to have been hanged.
"That's just it, my lord," said the foreman of this distinguished body. "I assure you we had no doubt about the prisoner's guilt, but wethought there had been deaths enough in the family lately, and so gave him the benefit of the doubt!"
There was a young solicitor who had been entrusted with a defence in a case of murder. It was his first case of importance, and he was, of course, enthusiastic in his devotion to his client's interests. Indeed, his enthusiasm rather overstepped his prudence.
By dint of perseverance and persuasion he obtained a promise from a juror-in-waiting that if he should be on the jury he would consent to no other verdict than manslaughter, which would be a tremendous triumph for the young solicitor.
The case was a very strong one for wilful murder. The friendly juror-in-waiting took his seat in the box. Everything went well except the evidence, and the solicitor's heart almost failed for fear his man should give way. The jury for a long time were unable to agree.
Now the young solicitor felt it was his faithful juror who was standing out.
"All agreed but one, my lord."
"Go back to your room," said the Judge; which they did, and after another long absence returned with a verdict of "Manslaughter."
Jubilant with his success, the young solicitor met his juryman, congratulated him on his firmness, and thanked him for his exertions.
"How did you manage it, my good friend—how did you manage? It was a wonderful verdict—wonderful!"
"Oh," said he, "I was determined not to budge. I never budge.Conscience is ever my guide."
"I suppose there were eleven to one against you?"
"Eleven to one! A tough job, sir—a tough job."
"Eleven for wilful murder, eh?" said the jubilant young man. "Dear me, what a narrow squeak!"
"Eleven formurder! No, sir!" exclaimed the juror.
"What, then?"
"Eleven for an acquittal! You may depend upon it, sir, the other jurors had been 'got at.'"
Lord Watson, dining with me one Grand Day at Gray's Inn, said he recollected a very stupid and a very rude Scottish Judge (which seems very remarkable) who scarcely ever listened to an advocate, and pooh-poohed everything that was said.
One day a celebrated advocate was arguing before him, when, to express his contempt of what he was saying, the cantankerous old curmudgeon of a Judge pointed with one forefinger to one of his ears, and with the other to the opposite one.
"You see this, Mr. ——?"
"I do, my lord," said the advocate.
"Well, it just goes in here and comes out there!" and his lordship smiled with the hilarity of a Judge who thinks he has actually said a good thing.
The advocate looked and smiled notlikewise, but a good deal more wise. Then the expression of his face changed to one of contempt.
"I do not doubt it, my lord," said he. "What is there to prevent it?"
The learned judge sat immovable, and looked—like a judicial—wit.
I was now getting on so well in my profession that in the minds of many of the unsuccessful there was a natural feeling of disappointment. Why one man should succeed and a dozen fail has ever been an unsolved problem at the Bar, and ever will be. But the curious part of this natural law is that it manifests itself in the most unexpected manner.