He was sometimes hard on those who were the objects of his personal dislike. Of these Sir Charles Taylor was one. He was not a welcome member of the Hooks and Eyes, and Jerrold knew it. There was really no reason why Sir Charles should not have been liked, except perhaps that he was dull and prosaic; rather simple than dull, perhaps, for he was always ready to laugh with the rest of us, whether he understood the joke or not. And what could the most brilliant do beyond that?
Sir Charles was fond of music. He mentioned in Jerrold's company on one occasion "that 'The Last Rose of Summer' so affected him that it quite carried him away."
"Can any one hum it?" asked Jerrold.
Alderson was a very excellent man and a good Judge. I liked him, and could always deal with him on a level footing. He was quaint and original, and never led away by a false philanthropy or a sickly sentimentalism.
Appealed to on behalf of a man who had a wife and large family, and had been convicted of robbing his neighbours, "True," said Alderson—"very true, it is a free country. Nothing can be more proper than that a man should have a wife and a large family; it is his due—as many children as circumstances will permit. But, Tomkins, you have no right, even in a free country, to steal your neighbour's property to support them!"
I liked him where there was a weak case on the other side; he was particularly good on those occasions.
In the Assize Court at Chelmsford a barrister who had a great criminal practice was retained to defend a man for stealing sheep, a very serious offence in those days—one where anything less than transportation would be considered excessive leniency.
The principal evidence against the man was that the bones of the deceased animal were found in his garden, which was urged by the prosecuting counsel as somewhat strong proof of guilt, but not conclusive.
It must have struck everybody who has watched criminal proceedings that the person a prisoner has most to fear when he is tried is too often his own counsel, who may not be qualified by nature's certificate of capacity to defend. However, be that as it may, in this case there was no evidence against the prisoner, unless his counsel made it so.
"Counsel for the defence" in those days was a wrong description—he was called thefriendof the prisoner; and I should conclude, from what I have seen of this relationship, that the adage "Save me from my friends" originated in this connection.
The friend of this prisoner, instead of insisting that there was no evidence, since no one could swear to the sheep bones when no man had ever seen them, endeavoured to explain away the cause of death, and thus, by a foolish concession, admitted their actual identity. It was not Alderson's duty to defend the prisoner against his own admission, although, but for that, he would have pointed out to the Crown how absolutely illogical their proposition was in law. But the "friend" of the prisoner suggested that sheep often put their heads through gaps or breakages in the hurdles, and rubbed their necks against the projecting points of the broken bars; and that being so, why should the jury not come to a verdict in favour of the prisoner on that ground? It was quite possible that the constant rubbing would ultimately cut the sheep's throat. If it did not, the prisoner submitted to the same operation at the hand of his "friend."
"Yes," said Baron Alderson, "that is a very plausible suggestion to start with; but having commenced your line of defence on that ground, you must continue it, and carry it to the finish; and to do this you must show that not only did this sheep in a moment of temporary insanity—as I suppose you would allege in order to screen it—commit suicide, but that it skinned itself and then buried its body, or what, was left of it after giving a portion to the prisoner to eat, in the prisoner's garden, and covered itself up in its own grave. You must go as far as that to make a complete defence of it. I don't say the jury may not believe you; we shall see. Gentlemen, what do you say—is the sheep or the prisoner guilty?" The sheep was instantly acquitted.
There was another display of forensic ingenuity by the same counsel in the next case, where he was once again the "friend" of the prisoner.
A man was charged with stealing a number of gold and silver coins which had been buried a few hours previously under the foundation-stone of a new public edifice.
The prisoner was one of the workmen, and had seen them deposited for the historical curiosity of future ages. Antiquity, of course, would be the essence of the value of the coins, except to the thief. The royal hand had covered them with the stone, duly tapped by the silver trowel amidst the hurrahs of the loyal populace, in which the prisoner heartily joined. But in the night he stole forth, and then stole the coins.
They were found at his cottage secreted in a very private locality, as though his conscience smote him or his fear sought to prevent discovery. His legal friend, however, driven from the mere outwork of facts, had taken refuge in the citadel of law; he was equal to the occasion. Alas! Alderson knew the way into this impregnable retreat.
Counsel suggested that it was never intended by those who placed the coins where they were found that they should remain there till the end of time; they were intended, said he, to be taken away by somebody, but by whom was not indicated by the depositors, and as no time or person was mentioned, they must belong to the first finder. It was all a mere chance as to the time of their resurrection. Further, it was certain they were not intended to be taken by their owners who had placed them there—they never expected to see them again—but by any one who happened to come upon them. Those who deposited them where they were found parted not only with the possession, but with all claims of ownership. Nor could any one representing him make any claim.
All this was excellent reasoning as far as it went, and the only thing the prosecution alleged by way of answer was that they were intended to be brought to light as antiquities.
"Very well," said the prisoner's counsel; "then there is no felonious intent in that case—it is merely a mistake. Antiquity came too soon."
And so did the conviction.
I was instructed, with the Hon. George Denman, son of my old friend, whom I have so often mentioned, to defend three persons at the Maidstone Assizes for a cruel murder. Mr. Justice Wightman was the Judge, and there was not a better Judge of evidence than he, or of law either.
The prisoners were father, mother, and son, and the deceased was a poor servant girl who had been engaged to be married to another son of the male prisoner and his wife.
The unfortunate girl had left her service at Gravesend, and gone to this family on a visit. The prisoners, there could be no doubt, were open to the gravest suspicion, but how far each was concerned with the actual murder was uncertain, and possibly could never be proved.
The night before the trial the attorney who acted for the accused persons called on me, and asked this extraordinary question,—
"Could you secure the acquittal of the father and the son if the woman will plead guilty?"
It is impossible to conceive the amount of resolution and self-sacrifice involved in this attempt to save the life of her husband and son. It was too startling a proposal to listen to. I could advise no client to plead guilty to wilful murder. It was so extraordinary a proposition, look at it from whatever point I might, that it was perfectly impossible to advise such a course. I asked him if the woman knew what she was doing, and that if she pleaded guilty certain death would follow.
"Oh yes," said he; "she is quite prepared."
"The murder," I said, "is one of the worst that can be conceived—cruel and fiendish."
He agreed, but persisted that she was perfectly willing to sacrifice her own life if her husband and son could be saved.
This woman, so full of feeling for her own family, had thought so little of that of others that she had held down the poor servant girl in bed while her son strangled her.
"If," said I, "she were to plead guilty, the great probability is that the jury would believe they were all guilty—very probably they are; and most certainly in that case they would all be hanged." I therefore strongly advised that the woman should stand her trial "with the others," which she did. In the end they allgot off! the evidence not being sufficiently clear against any.
It was a strange mingling of evil and good in one breast—of diabolical cruelty and noble self-sacrifice.
I leave others to work out this problem of human nature.
The sporting world has no greater claim on my memory than the theatrical or the artistic. I recall them with a vividness that brings back all the enjoyments of long and sincere friendships. For instance, one evening I was in Charles Mathews's dressing-room at the theatre and enjoying a little chat when he was "called."
"Come along," said he; "come along."
Why he should "call" me to come along I never knew. I had no part in the piece at that moment. But he soon gave me one. I followed, with lingering steps and slow, having no knowledge of the construction of the premises; but in a moment Mathews had disappeared, and I found myself in the middle of the stage, with a crowded house in front of me. The whole audience burst into an uproar of laughter. I suppose it was the incompatibility of my appearance at that juncture which made me "take" so well; but it brought down the house, and if the curtain had fallen at that moment, I should have been a great success, and Mathews would have been out of it. In the midst of my discomfiture, however, he came on to the stage by another entrance as "cool as a cucumber." He told me afterwards that he had turned the incident to good account by referring to me as "Every man in his humour," or, "A bailiff in distressing circumstances!"
I was visiting the country house of a respectable old solicitor, who was instructing me in a "compensation case" which was to be heard at Wakefield.
"I don't know, Mr. Hawkins," said he on Sunday morning, "whether you would like to see our little church?"
"No, thank you," I answered; "we can have a look at it to-morrow when we have a 'view of the premises.'"
"I thought, perhaps," said Mr. Goodman, "you might like to attend the service."
"No," said I, "not particularly; a walk under the 'broad canopy' is preferable on a beautiful morning like this to a poky little pew; and I like the singing of the birds better than the humming of a clergyman's nose.
"Very well," he said; "we will, if you like, take a little walk."
With surprising innocence he inflicted upon me a pious fraud, leading me over fields and meadows, stiles and rustic bridges, until at last the cunning old fox brought me out along a by-path and over a plank bridge right into the village. Then turning a corner near a picturesque farmhouse, he smilingly observed, "This is our church."
"It's a very old one, and looks much more picturesque in the distance.Shall we have a view a little farther off?"
"St. Mary's," said he; "1694 is the date—"
"St. Mary's?" said I. "Fancy! And what is the date—1694?"
"It has some fine tablets, Mr. Hawkins, if you'd like to look in—"
"I don't care for tablets," I answered; "if I go to church it is not to stare at tablets."
At last my host summed up courage to say,—
"Mr. Hawkins, this is our little harvest festival of thanksgiving, andI should not like to be absent."
"Why on earth, Mr. Goodman," I answered, "did you not say that before?Let us go in by all means. I like a good harvest as well as anyChristian on earth."
The pew was the family pew—thewhole family pew, and nothing but the family pew; bought with the estate, with the family estate; and was in an excellent situation for the congregation to have a fine view of Mr. Goodman. Indeed, his cheery face could be seen by everybody in church.
I must say the little edifice looked very nice, and had been adorned with the most artistic taste by the young ladies of the Vicarage and the Hall. Mr. Goodman was "the Hall." There were bunches of neatly-arranged turnips and carrots, with potatoes, barley, oats, and mangel-wurzel, and almost every variety of fruit from the little village; and every girl had barley and wheat-ears in her straw hat. It was an affecting sight, calculated to make any one adore the young ladies and long for dinner.
The sermon was an excellent one so far as I could pronounce an opinion, but would have been considerably improved had it been three-quarters of an hour shorter. It contained, however, the usual allusions to harvest-homes, gathering into barns, and laying up treasures; which last observation reminded Mr. Goodman that he hadleft his purse at home, and had come away without any money.
I saw him fumbling in his pocket. Now, thought I, the time has come for showing my devotion to Mr. Goodman. As soon, therefore, as he had whispered to me, I handed him all I had, which consisted of a five-pound note. He gratefully took it, and although about five times as much asheintended to give, when the bag was handed to him in went the five-pound note.
I knew my friend was chuckling as soon as we got into his family pew at the way in which he had lured me step by step, till we walked the last plank over the ditch, so I was not sorry to return good for evil and lend him my note.
He stared somewhat sideways at me when the bag passed, but I bore it with fortitude. I took particular notice that the crimson bag passed along the front of our family pew at a very dilatory pace, and tarried a good deal, as if reluctant to leave it. To and fro it passed in front of my nose as if it contained something I should like to smell, and at last moved away altogether. I was glad of that, because it prevented my following the words of the hymn in my book, and, unfortunately, it was one of those harvest hymns I did not know by heart.
On our way home over the meadows, where the grasshoppers were practising for the next day's sports, and were in high glee over this harvest festival, Mr. Goodman seemed fidgety; whether conscience-stricken for the Sabbath fraud he had practised upon me or not, I could not say, but at last he asked how I liked their little service.
I said it was quite large enough.
"You"—he paused—"you did not, I think"—another pause—"contribute to our little gathering?"
"No," I said, "but it was not my fault; I lent you all I had. The fund, however, will not suffer in the least, and you have the satisfaction of having contributed the whole of our joint pocket-money. It does not matter who the giver is so long as the fund obtains it." I then diverted his mind with a story or two.
Cockburn, I said, was sitting next to Thesiger during a trial before Campbell, Chief Justice, in which the Judge read some French documents, and, being a Scotsman, it attracted a good deal of attention. Cockburn, who was a good French scholar, was much annoyed at the Chief Justice's pronunciation of the French language.
"He is murdering it," said he—"murderingit!"
"No, my dear Cockburn," answered Thesiger, "he is not killing it, onlyScotching it."
Sir Alexander was at a little shooting-party with Bethell and his son, one of whom shot the gamekeeper. The father accused the son of the misadventure, while the son returned the compliment. Cockburn, after some little time, asked the gamekeeper what was the real truth of the unfortunate incident—who was the gentleman who had inflicted the injury?
The gamekeeper, still smarting from his wounds, and forgetting the respect due to the questioner, answered,—
"O Sir Alexander—d—n 'em, it wasboth!"
A remark made by Lord Young, the Scotch Judge, one of the wittiest men who ever adorned the Bar, and who is a Bencher of the Middle Temple, struck me as particularly happy. There was a conversation about the admission of solicitors to the roll, and the long time it took before they were eligible to pass from their stage of pupilage to that of solicitor, amounting, I think, to seven years; upon which Lord Young said, "Nemo repente fuit turpissimus."
As my business continued to increase, it took me more and more from the ordinarynisi prius, and kept me perpetually employed in special matters. I had a great many compensation cases, where houses, lands, and businesses had been taken for public or company purposes. They were interesting and by no means difficult, the great difficulty being to get the true value when you had, as I have known, a hundred thousand pounds asked on one side and ten thousand offered on the other.
Railway companies were especially plundered in the exorbitant valuation of lands, and therefore an advocate who could check the valuers by cross-examination was sought after. Juries were always liable to be imposed upon, and generally gave liberal compensation, altogether apart from the market value. Experts, such as land agents and surveyors, were always in request, and indeed these experts in value caused the most extravagant amounts to be awarded. Even the mean sum between highest and lowest was a monstrously unfair guide, for one old expert used to instruct his pupils that the only true principle in estimating value was to ask at least twice as much as the business or other property was worth, because, he said, the other side will be sure to try and cut you down one-half, and then probably offer to split the difference. If you accept that, you will of course get one-quarter more than you could by stating what you really wanted. No one could deal with the real value, because there was no such thing known in the Compensation Court.
On one occasion I was travelling north in connection with one of these cases, retained, as usual, on behalf of a railway company. In my judgment the claim would have been handsomely met by an award of £10,000, and that sum we were prepared to give.
On my way I observed in my carriage a gentleman who was very busy in making calculations on slips of paper, and every now and again mentioning the figures at which he had arrived—repeating them to himself. When we got to a station he threw away his paper, after tearing it up, and when we started commenced again, but at every stoppage on our journey he increased his amount. After we had travelled 250 miles, the property he was valuing had attained the handsome figure of £100,000.
He evidently had not observed me. I was very quiet, and well wrapped up. The next day, when he stepped into the witness-box he had not the least idea that I had been his fellow-traveller of the previous night. He was not very sharp except in the matter of figures; but his opinion, like that of all experts, was invincible. His name was Bunce.
"When did you view this property, Mr. Bunce? I understand you come from London."
"I saw it this morning, sir."
"Did you make any calculation as to its valuebeforeyou saw it?"
This puzzled him, and he stared at me. It was a hard stare, but I held out.
He said, "No."
"Not when you were travelling? Did it not pass through your mind when you were in the train, for instance—'I wonder, now, what that property is worth?'"
"I dare say it did, sir."
"But don'tdare sayanything unless it's true."
"I did, then, run it over in my mind."
"And I dare say you made notes and can produce them. Did you make notes?" After a while I said, "I see you did. You may as well let me have them."
"I tore them up."
"Why? What became of the pieces?"
"I threw them away."
"Do you remember what price you had arrived at when you reachedPeterborough, for instance?"
The expert thought I was some one whom we never mention except when in a bad temper, and he was more and more puzzled when he found that at every stoppage I knew how much his price had increased.
As the case was tried by an arbitrator and not a jury, my task was easy, arbitrators not being so likely to be befooled as the other form of tribunal. This arbitrator, especially, knew the elasticity of an expert's opinion, and therefore I was not alarmed for my client. The amount was soon arrived at by reducing the sum claimed by no less than £90,000. Thus vanished the visionary claim and the expert. He evidently had not been trained by the cunning old surveyor whose experience taught him to be moderate, and ask only twice as much as you ought to get.
In another claim, which was no less than £10,000, the jury gave £300. This was a state of things that had to be stopped, and it could only be accomplished at that time by counsel who appeared on behalf of the companies.
Sir Henry Hunt was one of the best of arbitrators, and it was difficult to deceive him. It took a clever expert to convince him that a piece of land whose actual value would be £100 was worth £20,000.
Sir Henry once paid me a compliment—of course, I was not present.
"Hawkins," said he, "is the very best advocate of the day, and, strange to say, his initials are the same as mine. You may turn them upside down and they will still stand on their legs" (H.H.).
Sir Henry was sometimes a witness, and as such always dangerous to the side against whom he was called, because he was a judge of value and a man of honour.
One instance in which I took a somewhat novel course in demolishing a fictitious claim is, perhaps, worth while to relate, although so many years have passed since it occurred.
It was so far back as the time of the old Hungerford Market, which the railway company was taking for their present Charing Cross terminus. The question was as to the value of a business for the sale of medical appliances.
Mr. Lloyd, as usual, was for the business, while I appeared for the company. My excellent friend proceeded on the good old lines of compensation advocacy with the same comfortable routine that one plays the old family rubber of threepenny points. I occasionally finessed, however, and put my opponent off his play. He held good hands, but if I had an occasionally bad one, I sometimes managed to save the odd trick.
Lloyd had expatiated on the value of the situation, the highroad between Waterloo Station and the Strand, immense traffic and grand frontage. To prove all this he called a multitude of witnesses, who kissed the same book and swore the same thing almost in the same words. But to his great surprise I did not cross-examine. Lloyd was bewildered, and said I had admitted the value by not cross-examining, and he should not call any more witnesses.
I then addressed the jury, and said, "A multitude of witnesses may prove anything they like, but my friend has started with an entirely erroneous view of the situation. The compensation for disturbance of a business must depend a great deal on the nature of the business. If you can carry it on elsewhere with the same facility and profit, the compensation you are entitled to is very little. I will illustrate my meaning. Let us suppose that in this thoroughfare there is a good public-house—for such a business it would indeed be an excellent situation; you may easily imagine a couple of burly farmers coming up from Farnham or Windlesham to the Cattle Show, and walking over the bridge, hot and thirsty. 'Hallo!' says one; 'I say, Jim, here's a nice public; what d'ye say to goin' in and havin' a glass o' bitter? It's a goodish pull over this 'ere bridge."
"'With all my heart,' says Jim; and in they go.
"There you see the advantage of being on the highroad. But now, let us see these two stalwart farmers coming along, and—instead of the handsome public and the bitter ale there is this shop, where they sell medical arrangements—can you imagine one of them saying to the other, 'I say, Jim, here's a very nice medical shop; what d'ye say to going in and having a truss?'"
The argument considerably reduced the compensation, but what it lacked in money the claimant got in laughter.
Sometimes I led a witness who was an expert valuer for a claimant to such a gross exaggeration of the value of a business as to stamp the claim with fraud, and so destroy his evidence altogether.
Sir Henry Hunt used to nod with apparent approval at every piece of evidence which showed any kind of exaggeration, but every nod was worth, as a rule, a handsome reduction to the other side.
I shall never forget an attorney's face who, having been offered £10,000 for a property, stood out for £13,000.
It was a claim by a poulterers' company for eight houses that were taken by a railway company. I relied entirely on my speech, as I often did, because the threadbare cross-examinations were almost, by this time, things of course, as were the figures themselves mere results of true calculations on false bases.
This attorney, who had, perhaps, never had a compensation case before, was quite a great man, and took the arbitrator's assenting nods as so much cash down.
So encouraged, indeed, was he that he became almost impudent to me, and gave me no little annoyance by his impertinent asides. At last I looked at him good-humouredly, and politely requested him, as though he were the court itself, to suspend his judgment while I had the honour of addressing the arbitrator for twenty minutes, "at the end of which time I promise to make you, sir," said I, "the most miserable man in existence."
I was supported in this appeal by the arbitrator, who hoped he would not interrupt Mr. Hawkins.
As I proceeded the attorney fidgeted, puffed out his cheeks, blew out his breath, twirled his thumbs as I twirled his figures, and grated his teeth as he looked at me sideways, while I concluded a little peroration I had got up for him, which was merely to this effect, that if railway companies yielded to such extortionate demands as were made by this attorney on behalf of the poulterers' company, they would not leave their shareholders a feather to fly with.
The attorney looked very much like moulting himself, and the end of it was that he gottwo thousand poundsless than we had offered him in the morning, and consequently had to pay all the costs.
As I have stated, John Horatio Lloyd was my principal opponent in these great public works cases, and I remember him with every feeling of respect. He was an advocate whom no opponent could treat lightly, and was uniformly kind and agreeable.
Of course I had a very large experience in those times—I suppose, without vanity, I may say the very largest. I was retained to assess compensation for the immense blocks of buildings acquired for the space now occupied by the Law Courts. In the very early cases the law. officers of the Crown were concerned, but after that the whole of the business was entrusted to my care, although for reasons best known to themselves the Commissioners declined to send me a general retainer, which would have been one small sum for the whole, but gave instead a special retainer on every case. If my memory serves me, on one occasion I had ninety-four of these special retainers delivered at my chambers. This was in consequence of their refusing to retain me generally for the whole, which would have been a nominal fee of five guineas.
Another class of work which gave me much pleasure and interest was that of election petitions. These came in such abundance that I had to put on, as I thought, a prohibitory fee, which in reality increased the volume of my labour.
One day Baron Martin asked me if I was coming to such and such an election petition.
"No," I answered, "no; I have put a prohibitory fee on my services; I can't be bothered with election petitions."
"How much have you put on?"
"Five hundred guineas, and two hundred a day."
The Baron laughed heartily. "A prohibitory fee! They must have you, Hawkins—they must have you. Put on what you like; make it high enough, and they'll have you all the more."
And I did. It turned out a very lucrative branch of my business, and my electioneering expenses were a good investment. My experience at Barnstaple, to be told hereafter, repaid the outlay, and no feature of an election ever came before me but I recognized a family likeness.
Amongst the earliest was that of W.H. Smith, who had been returned for Westminster. The petitioner endeavoured to unseat him on the ground of bribery, alleged to have been committed in paying large sums of money for exhibiting placards on behalf of the candidate. It was tried before Baron Martin.
About the payments there was no element of extravagance, but there were undoubtedly many cases of payment, and these were alleged to be illegal.
Ballantine was my junior. One of the curious matters in the case was that these payments had been principally made by, or under, the advice of my old friend, whom I cannot mention too often, the Hon. Robert Grimston.
Ballantine, as I thought, most injudiciously advised me not to call "that old fool;" but believing in Grimston, and having charge of the case, I resolved to call him. Baron Martin knew Grimston as well as I did, and believed in him as much.
"Who is this?" asked the Judge.
"Another bill-sticker, my lord."
Grimston gave his evidence, and was severely cross-examined by my friend, J. Fitzjames Stephen. He fully and satisfactorily explained every one of the questioned items, evidently to the satisfaction of Martin, who dismissed the petition, and thus Mr. Smith retained his seat.
The learned Judge said, in giving judgment, that without Grimston's evidence the seat would have been in great danger, but that he had put an innocent colour on the whole case, and that, knowing him to be an honourable man and incapable of saying anything but the truth, he had implicitly trusted to every word he spoke.
Mr. Smith, whom I met some days after, said he was perfectly assured that if I had not had the conduct of the case, and Grimston had not been called, his seat would have been lost.
In the petition against Sir George Elliot for Durham there was nothing of any importance in the case, except that Sir George gave a very interesting history of his life.
He had been a poor boy who had worked in the cutting of the pit, lying on his back and picking out from the roof overhead the coal which was shovelled into the truck. From this humble position literally and socially he had proceeded, first to his feet, and then step by step, until, from one grade to another, he had amassed a large fortune, and sufficient income to enable him to incur, not only the expenses of an election and a seat in Parliament, but also those of a bitterly hostile election petition, enormously extravagant in every way. I succeeded in winning his case, and never was more proud of a victory. It had lasted many days.
There is one matter almost of a historical character, which I mention in order to do all the justice in my power to a man who, although deserving of reprobation, is also entitled to admiration for the chivalry of his true nature. I speak of it with some hesitation, and therefore without the name. Those who are interested in his memory will know to whom I allude, and possibly be grateful for the tribute to his character, however much it may have been sullied by his temporary absence of manly discretion.
He was charged with assaulting a young lady in a railway train between Aldershot and Waterloo. There was much of the melodramatic in the incidents, and much of the righteous indignation of the public before trial. There was judgment and condemnation in every virtuous mind. The assault alleged was doubtless of a most serious character, if proved. I say nothing of what might have been proved or not proved; but, speaking as an advocate, I will not hesitate to affirm that cross-examination may sometimes save one person's character without in the least affecting that of another.
But this was not to be. Whatever line of defence my experience might have suggested, I was debarred by his express command from putting a single question.
I say to his honour that, as a gentleman and a British officer, he preferred to take to himself the ruin of his own character, the forfeiture of his commission in the army, the loss of social status, andallthat could make life worth having, to casting even a doubt on the lady's veracity in the witness-box.
My instructions crippled me, but I obeyed my client, of course, implicitly in the letter and the spirit, even though to some extent he may have entailed upon himself more ignominy and greater severity of punishment than I felt he deserved.
He died in Egypt, never having been reinstated in the British army. I knew but little of him until this catastrophe occurred; but the manliness of his defence showed him to be naturally a man of honour, who, having been guilty of serious misconduct, did all he could to amend the wrong he had done; and so he won my sympathy in his sad misfortune and misery.
In the days when burglary was punished with death, there was very seldom any remission, I was in court one day at Guildford, when a respectably-dressed man in a velveteen suit of a yellowy green colour and pearl buttons came up to me. He looked like one of Lord Onslow's gamekeepers. I knew nothing of him, but seemed to recognize his features as those of one I had seen before. When he came in front of my seat he grinned with immense satisfaction, and said,—
"Can I get you anything, Mr. Orkins?"
I could not understand the man's meaning.
"No, thank you," I said. "What do you mean?"
"Don't you recollect, sir, you defended me at Kingston for a burglary charge, and got me off., Mr. Orkins, in flyin' colours?"
I recollected. He seemed to have the flying colours on his lips. "Very well," I said; "I hope you will never want defending again."
"No, sir; never."
"That's right."
"Would ateapotbe of any use to you, Mr. Orkins?"
"A teapot!"
"Yes, sir, or a few silver spoons—anything you like to name, Mr.Orkins."
I begged him to leave the court.
"Mr. Orkins, I will; but I am grateful for your gettin' me off that job, and if a piece o' plate will be any good, I'll guarantee it's good old family stuff as'll fetch you a lot o' money some day."
I again told him to go, and, disappointed at my not accepting things of greater value, he said,—
"Sir, will a sack o' taters be of any service to you?"
This sort of gratitude was not uncommon in those days. I told the story to Mr. Justice Wightman, and he said,—
"Oh, that's nothing to what happened to the Common Serjeant of London. He had sent to him once a Christmas hamper containing a hare, a brace and a half of pheasants, three ducks, and a couple of fowls, whichhe accepted."
I sometimes won a jury over by a little good-natured banter, and often annoyed Chief Justice Campbell when I woke him up with laughter. And yet he liked me, for although often annoyed, he was never really angry. He used to crouch his head down over his two forearms and go to sleep, or pretend to, by way of showing it did not matter what I said to the jury. I dare say it was disrespectful, but I could not help on these occasions quietly pointing across my shoulder at him with my thumb, and that was enough. The jury roared, and Campbell looked up,—
"What's the joke, Mr. Hawkins?"
"Nothing, my lord; I was only saying I was quite sure your lordship would tell the jury exactly what I was saying."
"Go on, Mr. Hawkins—"
Then he turned to his clerk and said,—
"I shall catch him one of these days. Confine yourself to the issue,Mr. Hawkins."
"If your lordship pleases," said I, and went on.
The eccentricities of Judges would form a laughable chapter. Some of them were overwhelmed with the importance of their position; none were ever modest enough to perceive their own small individuality amidst their judicial environments; and this thought reminds me of an occurrence at Liverpool Assizes, when Huddlestone and Manisty, the two Judges on circuit, dined as usual with the Lord Mayor. The Queen's health was proposed, of course, and Manisty, with his innate good breeding, stood up to drink it, whereupon his august brother Judge pulled him violently by his sleeve, saying, "Sit down, Manisty, you damned fool!weare the Queen!"
I was addressing a jury for the plaintiff in a breach of promise case, and as the defendant had not appeared in the witness-box, I inadvertently called attention to an elderly well-dressed gentleman in blue frock-coat and brass buttons—a man, apparently, of good position. The jury looked at him and then at one another as I said how shameful it was for a gentleman to brazen it out in the way the defendant did—ashamed to go into the witness-box, but not ashamed to sit in court.
Here the gentleman rose in a great rage amidst the laughter of the audience, in which even the ushers and javelin-men joined, to say nothing of the Judge himself, and shouted with angry vociferation,—
"Mr. Hawkins, I amnotthe defendant in this case, Sir ——"
"I am very sorry for you," I replied; "but no one said you were."
There was another outburst, and the poor gentleman gesticulated, if possible, more vehemently than before.
"I am not the def—"
"Nobody would have supposed you were, sir, if you had not taken so much trouble to deny it. The jury, however, will now judge of it."
"I am a married man, sir."
"So much the worse," said I.
Although the House of Commons dislikes lawyers, constituencies love them. The enterprising patriots of the long robe are everywhere sought after, provided they possess, with all their other qualifications, the one thing needful, and possessing which, all others may be dispensed with.
Barnstaple was no exception to the rule. It had a character for conspicuous discernment, and, like the unseen eagle in the sky, could pick out at any distance the object of its desire.
Eminent, respectable, and rich must be the qualification of any candidate who sought its suffrages—the last, at all events, being indispensable.
Up to this time I had not felt those patriotic yearnings which are manifested so early in the legal heart. I was never a political adventurer; I had no eye on Parliament merely as a stepping-stone to a judgeship; and probably, but for the events I am about to describe, I should never have been heard of as a politician at all. There were so many candidates in the profession to whom time was no object that I left this political hunting-ground entirely to them.
In 1865 I was waited upon at Westminster by a very influential deputation from the Barnstaple electors—honest-looking electors as any candidate could wish to see—bringing with them a requisition signed by almost innumerable independent electors, and stating that there were a great many more of the same respectable class who would have signed had time been permitted. Further signatures were, however, to be forwarded. It was urged by the deputation that I should make my appearance at Barnstaple at the earliest possible date, as no time was to be lost, and they were most anxious to hear my views, especially upon topics that they knew more about than I, which is generally the case, I am told, in most constituencies. I asked when they thought I ought to put in an appearance.
"Within a week at latest," said the leading spirit of the deputation. "Within a week at latest," repeated all the deputation in chorus." Because," said the leading personage, "there is already a gentleman of the name of Cave" (it should have been pronounced as two syllables, so as to afford me some sort of warning of the danger I was confronting) "busily canvassing in all directions for the Liberal party, and Mr. Howell Gwynne and Sir George Stukely will be the Conservative candidates. However, it would be a certain seat if I would do them the honour of coming forward. There would be little trouble, and it would almost be a walk-over."
A walk-over was very nice, and the tantalizing hopes this deputation inspired me with overcame my great reluctance to enter the field of politics; and in that ill-advised moment I promised to allow myself to be nominated.
It was arranged that I should make my appearance by a specified afternoon train on a particular day in the week (apparently to be set apart as a public holiday), so that I had little time for preparation. By the next day's post I received a kind of official communication from "our committee," stating that a very substantial deputation from the general body would have the honour to meet me at the station, and accompany me to the committee-rooms for the purpose of introduction.
Down, therefore, I went by the Great Western line, and in due time arrived at my destination, as I thought.
I found, instead of the "influential body of gentlemen" who were to have the honour of conducting me to the headquarters of the Liberal party, there was only a small portion of it, almost too insignificant to admit of counting. But he was an important personage in uniform, and dressed somewhat like a commissionaire.
After much salutation and deferential hemming and stammering, he said I had better proceed to alittle station only a few miles farther on and dine, "and if so be I'd do that, they would meet me in the evening."
Not being a professional politician, nor greatly ambitious of its honours, I was somewhat disconcerted at such extraordinary conduct on the part of my committee, and would have returned to town, but that the train was going the wrong way, and by the time I reached the little station I had argued the matter out, as I thought. Itmightbe a measure of precaution, in a constituency so respectable as Barnstaple, to prevent the least suspicion oftreatingor corrupt influence. Had I dined at Barnstaple it might have been suggested that some one dined with me or drank my health. Whatever it was, the revelation was not yet.
I was to return "as soon as I had dined." Everything was to be ready for my reception.
All these instructions I obeyed with the greatest loyalty, and returned at an early hour in the evening. But if I was disappointed at my first reception, how was I elated by the second! All was made up for by good feeling and enthusiasm. We were evidently all brothers fighting for the sacred cause, but what the cause was I had not been informed up to this time.
At the station was a local band of music waiting to receive me, and to strike up the inspiring air, "See the conquering hero comes;" but, unfortunately, the band consisted only of a drum, of such dimensions that I thought it must have been built for the occasion, and a clarionet.
Before the band struck up, however, I was greeted with such enthusiastic outbursts that they might have brought tears into the eyes of any one less firm than myself. "Orkins for ever!" roared the multitude. It almost stunned me. Never could I have dreamt my popularity would be so great. "Orkins for ever!" again and again they repeated, each volley, if possible, louder than before. "Bravo, Orkins! Let 'em 'ave it, Orkins! don't spare 'em." I wish I had known what this meant.
I must say they did all that mortals could do with their mouths to honour their future member.
Hogarth's "March to Finchley" was outdone by that march to the Barnstaple town hall. An enormous body of electors, "free and independent" stamped on their faces as well as their hands, was gathered there, and it was a long time before we could get anywhere near the door.
Again and again the air was rent with the cries for "Orkins," and it was perfectly useless for the police to attempt to clear the way. They had me as if on show, and it was only by the most wonderful perseverance and good luck that I found myself going head first along the corridor leading to the hall itself.
When I appeared on the platform, it seemed as if Barnstaple had never seen such a man; they were mad with joy, and all wanted to shake hands with me at once. I dodged a good many, and by dint of waving his arms like a semaphore the chairman succeeded, not in restoring peace, but in moderating the noise.
I now had an opportunity of using my eyes, and there before me in one of the front seats was the redoubtable Cave—the great canvassing Cave—who instantly rose and gave me the most cordial welcome, trusted I was to be his future colleague in the House, and was most generous in his expressions of admiration for the people of Barnstaple, especially the voting portion of them, and hoped I should have a very pleasant time and never forget dear old Barnstaple. I said I was not likely to—nor am I.
Of course I had to address the assembled electors first after the introduction by the chairman, who, taking a long time to inform us what the electorswanted, I made up my mind what to say in order to convince them that they should have it. I gave them hopes of a great deal of legal reform and reduction of punishments, for I thought that would suit most of them best, and then gladly assented to a satisfactory adjustment of all local requirements and improvements, as well as a determined redress of grievances which should on no account be longer delayed. ("Orkins for ever!")
Then Cave stood up—an imposing man, with a good deal of presence and shirt-collar—who invited any man—indeed,challengedanybody—in that hall to question him on any subject whatever.
The challenge was accepted, and up stood one of the rank and file of the electors—no doubt sent by the Howell Gwynne party—and with a voice that showed at least he meant to be heard, said,—
"Mr. Cave, first and foremost of all, I should like to knowhow your missus is to-day?"
It was scarcely a political or public question, but nobody objected, and everybody roared with laughter, because it seemed at all political meetings Cave had started the fashion, which has been adopted by many candidates since that time, of referringto his wife! Cave always began by saying he could never go through this ordeal without the help and sympathy of his dear wife—his support and joy—at whose bidding and in pursuit of whose dreams he had come forward to win a seat in their uncorruptible borough, and to represent them—the most coveted honour of his life—in the House of Commons.
Of course this oratory, having a religious flavour, took with a very large body of the Barnstaple electors, and was always received with cheers as an encouragement to domestic felicity and faithfulness to connubial ties.
When this gentleman put the question, Cave answered as though it was asked in real earnest, and was cheered to the echo, not merely for his domestic felicity, but his cool contempt for any man who could so far forget connubial bliss as to sneer at it.
For a few days all went tolerably well, and then I was told that a very different kind of influence prevailed in the borough than that of religion or political morality, and that it would be perfectly hopeless to expect to win the seat unless I was prepared to purchase the large majority of electors; indeed, that I must buy almost every voter. (That's what they meant by "Give it 'em, Orkins! Let 'em 'ave it!")
This I refused to believe; but it was said they were such free and independent electors that they would vote foreitherparty, and you could not be sure of them until the last moment; in fact,if I would win I must bribe! to say nothing of all sorts of subscriptions to cricket clubs and blanket clubs, as well as friendly societies of all kinds.
I declined to accept these warnings, and looked upon it as some kind of political dodge got up by the other side.
I resolved to win by playing the game, and made up my mind to go to the poll on the political questions which were agitating the public mind, as I was informed, by a simple honest candidature, thinking that in political as in every other warfare honesty is the best policy. On that noble maxim I entered into the contest, believing in Barnstaple, and feeling confident I should represent it in Parliament.
To indulge in bribery of any sort would, I knew, be fatal to my own interests even if I had not been actuated by any higher motive. I placed myself, therefore, in the hands of my friend and principal agent, Mr. Kingston, as well as the other agents of the party.
We did not long, however, remain true to ourselves. There was a hitch somewhere which soon developed into a split; and it was certain some of us must go to the wall. I could not, however, understand the reason of it; we professed the same politics, the same "cause," the same battle-cry, the same enemies. But, whatever it was, we were so much divided that my chances of heading the poll were diminishing.
I had been cheered to the echo night after night and all day long, so that there was enough shouting to make a Prime Minister; my horses had time after time been taken from my carriage, and cheering voters drew me along. These unmistakable signs of popular devotion to my interests had been most encouraging; and as they shouted themselves hoarse for me, I talked myself hoarse for them. We had a mutual hoarseness for each other. Everything looked like success; everythingsoundedlike success; and night after night out came drum and clarionet to do their duty manfully in drumming me to my hotel.
It had been a remarkable success; everybody said so. Most of them declared solemnly they had never seen anything like it. They pronounced it a record popularity. I thought it was because the good people had selected me as their candidate on independent and purity of election principles. This explanation gave them great joy, and they cheered with extra enthusiasm for their own virtue. Judge, then, my surprise a short while after, when, notwithstanding the firm principles upon which we had proceeded, and by which my popularity was secured, I began to perceive thatmoney was the only thing they wanted! Their uncorruptible nature yielded, alas! to the lowering influence of that deity.
It was at first a little mysterious why they should have postponed their demands—secret and silent—until almost the last moment; but the fact is, a large section of my party were dissatisfied with the voluntary nature of their services; they declined to work for nothing, and having shown me that the prize—that is, the seat—was mine, they determined to let me know it must be paid for. A large number of my voters would do nothing; they kept their hands in their pockets because they could not get them into mine.
This was no longer a secret, but on the eve of the election was boldly put forward as a demand, and I was plainly told that £500 distributed in small sums would make my election sure.
As, however, in no circumstances would I stoop to their offer, this demand did not in the least influence me—I never wavered in my resolution, and refused to give a farthing. Furthermore, showing the web in which they sought to entangle me, the same voice that suggested the £500 also informed me that I was closely watched by a couple of detectives set on by the other side.
I was well aware that the "other side" had given five-pound notes for votes, but I could neither follow the example nor use the information, as it was told me "in the strictest confidence."
I was therefore powerless, and felt we were drifting asunder more and more. At last came the polling day, and a happy relief from an unpleasant situation it certainly was.
A fine bright morning ushered in an exciting day. There was a great inrush of voters at the polling-booth, friendly votes, if I may call them so—votes, I mean to say, of honest supporters; these were my acquaintances made during my sojourn at Barnstaple; others came, a few for Cave as well as myself. Cave did not seem to enjoy the popularity that I had achieved. Still, he got a few votes.
Now came an exciting scene. About midday, the working man's dinner hour, the tide began to turn, for the whole body ofbribedvoters were released from work. My majority quickly dwindled, and at length disappeared, until I was in a very hopeless minority. Everywhere it was "Stukely for ever!" Some cried, "Stukely and free beer!" Stukely, who till now had hardly been anybody, and had not talked himself hoarse in their interests as I had, was the great object of their admiration and their hopes.
The consequence of this sudden development of Stukely's popularity was that Cave united his destiny with the new favourite, and such an involution of parties took place that "Stukely and Cave" joined hand in hand and heart to heart, while poor Howell Gwynne and myself were abandoned as useless candidates. At one o'clock it was clear that I must be defeated by a large majority.
The Cave party then approached me with the modest request that, as it was quite clear that I could not be returned, would I mind attending the polling places and give my support to Cave?
This piece of unparalleled impudence I declined to accede to, and did nothing. The election was over so far as I was interested in its result; but I was determined to have a parting word with the electors before leaving the town. I was mortified at the unblushing treachery and deception of my supporters.
I was next asked what I proposed to do. It was their object to get me out of the town as soon as possible, for if unsuccessful as a candidate, I might be troublesome in other ways. Such people are not without a sense of fear, if they have no feeling of shame.
I said I should do nothing but take a stroll by the river, the day being fine, and come back when the poll was declared and make them a little speech.
The little speech was exactly what they did not want, so in the most friendly manner they informed me that a fast train would leave Barnstaple at a certain time, and that probably I would like to catch that, as no doubt I wished to be in town as early as possible to attend to my numerous engagements. If they had chartered the train themselves they could not have shown greater consideration for my interests. But I informed them that I should stop and address the electors, and with this statement they turned sulkily away.
At the appointed hour for the declaration of the poll I was on the hustings—well up there, although the lowest on the poll. Stukely and Cave were first and second, Howell Gwynne and myself third andlast!
When my turn came to address the multitude, I spoke in no measured terms as to the conduct of the election, which I denounced as having been won by the most scandalous bribery and corruption.
All who were present as unbiassed spectators were sorry, and many of them expressed a wish that I would return on a future day.
"Not," said I, "until the place has been purged of the foul corruption with which it is tainted."
I had resolved to leave by the mail train, and was actually accompanied to the station by a crowd of some 2,000 people, including the Rector, or Vicar of the parish, who gave me godspeed on my journey home.
This kind and sincere expression of goodwill and sympathy was worth all the boisterous cheers with which I had been received.
On the platform at the railway station I had to make another little speech, and then I took my seat, not for Barnstaple, but London. As the train drew out of the station, the people clung to the carriage like bees, and although I had not even honeyed words to give them, they gave me a "send-off" with vociferous cheers and the most cordial good wishes.
Thus I bade good-bye to Barnstaple, never to return or be returned, and I can only say of that enlightened and independent constituency that, while seeking the interests of their country, they never neglected their own.
I need not add that I learnt a great deal in that election which was of the greatest importance in the conduct of the Parliamentary petitions which were showered upon me.
Before I accepted the candidature of Barnstaple, a friend of mine said he had been making inquiries as to how the little borough of Totnes could be won, and that the lowest figure required as an instalment to commence with was £7,000.
After this I had no more to do with electioneering in the sense of being a candidate, but a good deal to do with it in every other.
[The greatest of all chapters in the life of Mr. Hawkins was the prosecution of the impostor Arthur Orton for perjury, and yet the story of the Tichborne case is one of the simplest and most romantic. The heir to the Tichborne baronetcy and estates was shipwrecked while on board theBellaand drowned in 1854. In 1865 a butcher at Wagga Wagga in Australia assumed the title and claimed the estates. But the story is not related in these reminiscences on account of its romantic incidents, but as an incident in the life of Lord Brampton. It is so great that there is nothing in the annals of our ordinary courts of justice comparable with it, either in its magnitude or its advocacy. I speak particularly of the trial for perjury, in which Mr. Hawkins led for the prosecution, and not of the preceding trial, in which he was junior to Sir John Coleridge.
It is impossible to give more than thepointsof this strange story as they were made, and the realfactsas they were elicited in cross-examination and pieced together in his opening speech and his reply in the case for the Crown. What rendered the task the more difficult was that his predecessors had so bungled the cross-examination in many ways that they not only had not elicited what they might have done, but actually, by many questions, furnished information to the Claimant which enabled him to carry on his imposture.]
The Tichborne trials demand a few words by way of introduction, for although there were two trials, they were of a different character, the first being an ordinary action of ejectment in which the Claimant sought to dispossess the youthful heir, whose title he had already assumed, under circumstances of the most extraordinary nature.
The action of ejectment was tried before Chief Justice Bovill at the Common Pleas, Westminster. Ballantine and Giffard (now Lord Halsbury) led for the plaintiff, the butcher, while on behalf of the trustees of the estate (that is, the real heir) were the Solicitor-General Coleridge, myself, Bowen (afterwards Lord Bowen), and Chapman Barber, anequitycounsel.
I must explain how it was that I, having been retained to leadColeridge, was afterwards compelled to be led by him; and it is aninteresting event in the history of the Bar as well as of the JudicialBench.
The action was really a Western Circuit case, although the venue was laid in London. Coleridge led that circuit and was retained. I belonged to the Home Circuit, and had no idea of being engaged at all for that side. I had been retained for the Claimant, but the solicitor, with great kindness, withdrew his retainer at my request.
I was brought into the case for the purpose of leading, and no other; but by the appointment of Coleridge to the Solicitor-Generalship in 1868, I was displaced, and Coleridge ultimately led. His further elevation happened in this way: Sir Robert Collier was Attorney-General, and it was desired to give him a high appointment which at that moment was vacant, and could only be filled by a Judge of the High Court. Collier was not a Judge, and therefore was not eligible for the post. The question was how to make him eligible. The Prime Minister of the day was not to be baffled by a mere technicality, and he could soon make the Attorney-General a Judge of the High Court if that was a condition precedent.
There was immediately a vacancy on the Bench; Collier was appointed to the judgeship, and in three days had acquired all the experience that the Act of Parliament anticipated as necessary for the higher appointment in the Privy Council.
Instead of leading, therefore, in the case before Chief Justice Bovill, I had to perform whatever duties Coleridge assigned to me. My commanding position was gone, and it was no longer presumable that I should be entrusted with the cross-examination of the plaintiff. I was bound to obey orders and cross-examine whomsoever I was allowed to.
[The one thing Mr. Hawkins was retained for was the cross-examination of the plaintiff. Lord Chief Justice Cockburn said, "I would have given a thousand pounds to cross-examine him." It would have been an excellent investment of the Tichborne family to have given Hawkins ten thousand pounds to do so, for I am sure there would have been an end of the case as soon as he got to Wapping.
Coleridge acknowledged that the Claimant cross-examined him instead of his cross-examining the Claimant.
When that shrewd and cunning impostor was asked, "Would you be surprised to hear this or that?" "No," said he, "I should be surprised at nothing after this long time and the troubles I have been through; but, now that you call my attention to it, I remember it all perfectly well." Coleridge said: "I am leader by an accident." "Yes," said Hawkins, "a colliery accident."]
I had also been retained by the trustees of the Doughty estate. LadyDoughty was an aunt of Sir Roger Tichborne, and it was her daughterKate whom the heir desired to marry. Had the Claimant succeeded in thefirst case, he would have brought an action against her also.
No copy of the proceedings had been supplied to me, and I was informed that at this preliminary cross-examination they would not require my assistance; that their learned Chancery barrister was merely going to cross-examine the Claimant on his affidavits—a matter of small consequence. So it was in one way, but of immeasurable importance in many other ways. But they saidI might like to hear the cross-examination as a matter of curiosity.
I did.
The Claimant had it all his own way. I was powerless to lend any assistance; but had I been instructed, I am perfectly sure I could then and there have extinguished the case, for the Claimant at that time knew absolutely nothing of the life and history of Roger Tichborne.
So the case proceeded, with costs piled on costs; information picked up, especially by means of interminable preliminary proceedings, until the impostor was left master of the situation, to the gratification of fools and the hopes of fanatics.
I was, however, allowed in the trial to cross-examine some witnesses. Amongst them was a man of the name of Baigent, the historian of the family, who knew more of the Tichbornes than they knew of themselves. The cross-examination of Baigent, which did more than anything to destroy the Claimant's case, occupied ten days. He was the real Roger's old friend, and knew him up to the time of his leaving England never to return. I drew from him the confession that he did not believe he was alive, but that he had encouraged the Dowager Lady Tichborne to believe that the Claimant was her son; and that her garden was lighted night after night with Chinese lanterns in expectation of his coming.
Admissions were also obtained that when he saw the Claimant at Alresford Station neither knew the other, although Baigent had never altered in the least, as he alleged.
There was another witness allotted to me, and that was Carter, an old servant of Roger whilst he was in the Carabineers. This man supplied the plaintiff with information as to what occurred in the regiment while Roger belonged to it; but he only knew what was known to the whole regiment. He didnotknow private matters which took place at the officers' mess, and it was upon these that my cross-examination showed the Claimant to be an impostor. I "had him there."
As Parry and I were sitting one morning waiting for the Judges, I remarked on the subject of the counsel chosen for the prosecution: "Suppose, Parry, you and I had been Solicitor and Attorney-General, in the circumstances what should we have done?"
"Plunged the country into a bloody war before now, I dare say," saidParry, elevating his eyebrows and wig at the same time.
I confess when I undertook the responsibility of this great trial I was not aware of the immense labour and responsibility it would involve; nor do I believe any one had the smallest notion of the magnitude of the task.
Instead of the work diminishing as we proceeded, it increased day by day, and week by week; one set of witnesses entailed the calling of another set. The case grew in difficulty and extent. It seemed absolutely endless and hopeless.
Within a few weeks of the start, a necessity arose for procuring the testimony of a witness from Australia, a matter of months; and the trial being a criminal one, the defendant was entitled to have the case for the prosecution concluded within a reasonable time. If we had no evidence, it was to his advantage, and we had no right to detain him for a year while we were trying to obtain it.
However, the Australian evidence came in time. Numbers of witnesses had to be called who not only were not in our brief, but were never dreamed of. For instance, there was the Danish perjurer Louie, who swore he picked up the defendant at sea when theBellawent down.
Instead of this man going away after he had given his evidence, he remained until two gentlemen from the City, seeing his portrait in the Stereoscopic Company's window in Regent Street, identified him as a dishonest servant of theirs, who was undergoing a sentence of penal servitude at the time he swore he picked Roger up. He received five years' penal servitude for his evidence.