As the Midland Circuit was perhaps my favourite, although I liked them all, there would necessarily be more to interest me there than on any other, and at our little quiet dinners, for which there was no special hour (it might be any time between eight o'clock in the evening or half-past one the next day), there were always pleasant conversations and amusing stories. With a large circle of acquaintances, I had learnt many things, sometimes to interest and sometimes to instruct. Although I never sat down to open a school of instruction, a man should not despise the humblest teaching, or he may be deficient in many things he should have a knowledge of.
There was once an old fox-hunting squire whose ambition was to be known as a punster. There never was a more good-natured man or a more genial host, and he would tell you of as many tremendous runs he had had as Herne the hunter. After-dinner runs are always fine.
The Squire loved to hunt foxes and make puns.
We were sitting on a five-barred gate one evening in his paddocks, and while I was admiring the yearlings, which were of great beauty, I suddenly saw looking over his left shoulder the most beautiful head of a thoroughbred I ever beheld, with her nose quite close to his ear.
"Halloa, my beauty!" said he. "What,Saltfish, let me see if I've a bit of sugar, eh,Saltfish?—sugar—is it?"
His hand dived into the capacious pocket of his shooting-coat and brought out a piece of sugar, which he gave to the mare, and then affectionately rubbed her nose.
"There,Saltfish—there you are; and now show us your heels."
I knew by his mentioning the mare's name so often that there was a pun in it, so I waited without putting any question. After a while he said (for he could contain his joke no longer),—
"Judge, do you know why I call herSaltfish?"
"Not the least idea," said I.
"Ha!" he explained, with a prodigious stare that almost shot his blue globular eyes out of his head: "because she is such a capital mare for afast day! Ha, ha!"
Suddenly he stopped laughing from disappointment at my not seeing the joke. He repeated it—"fast day, fast day"—thenglared at me, and his underlip fell. At last the old man tossed his head, and whipped his boot with his crop. I have no doubt I deprived that man of a great deal of happiness; for if anything is disappointing to a punster, it is not seeing his joke. He had not done with me yet, however, and before abandoning me as an incorrigible lunatic, asked if I would like to see Naples.
"Naples! By all means, but not at this time of year."
"Oh, I don't mean the town—no, no; but if you don't mind a little mud, I'll show you Naples. Come along this lane."
"Watercourse, you mean. I don't mind a little mud," said I; "it washes off, whoever throws it"—and I looked to see what he thought of that, knowing he would tell it at dinner.
"Good!" said he; "devilish good! Wash off, no matter who throws it—devilish good!"
Down we came off the gate, and through the mud we went, he leading with a fat chuckle.
"You don't see the joke, Hawkins—you don't see the joke about that fast day;" and he gave me another look with his great blue eyes.
I didn't know it was a joke; I thought it was the mare's name, and I heard him mutter "Damn!"
"This is the way," he said angrily. We seemed to travel through an interminable cesspool, but at last reached the open, and coming to another gate, he extended his arms on it, after the manner of a squire, and said,—
"There, there'sNaples. Isn't she lovely?"
"Where?" I asked.
"There; and a prettier mare you never saw. Look at her!"
"She's a beauty—a real beauty!" I exclaimed.
He breathed rather short, and I felt easy. His manner, especially the distending of his cheeks, showed me that he was about to bring forth something—a pun of some sort.
"Do you know," he asked, with another turn of his eyes, "whyI call herNaples?"
"No, I haven't the faintest idea. Naples? no."
"Well," he said, "I've puzzled a good many. I may say nobody has ever guessed it. I call that mareNaplesbecause she's such a beautifulbay."
I was glad I was not sitting on the gate, for I might have fallen and broken my neck. As I felt his eyes staring at me I preserved a dignified composure, and had the satisfaction of hearing him mutter again, "Damn!"
"This is our way," said he.
I have no doubt he thought me the dullest fool he ever came near.
Our adventures were not ended. We went on over meadow and stile until we came to "The Park," a tract of land of great beauty and with trees of superb growth. He was sullen and moody, like one whose nerves had failed him when a covey rose.
I saw it coming—his last expiring effort. In the distance was a beautiful black mare, such as might have carried Dick Turpin from London to York. He was watching to see if I observed her, but I did not.
"Look," he said, in his most coaxing manner, "don't you see that mare yonder—down there by the spinny?"
"What," I said, "on the left?"
"Down there! There—no, a little to the right. Look! There she is."
"Oh, to be sure, a pretty animal."
"Pretty! Why, there's no better bred animal in the kingdom. She's by —— out of ——."
"She ought to win the Oaks."
"Come, now,isn'tshe superb?"
"A glory. A novelist would call her adream."
"Ah, I thought you would say so. You know what a horse is."
"When Iseeone," I said. "I thought you said this was a mare."
This is what the Squire thought,—
"Well, of all the dull devils I ever met, you are the most utterly unappreciative!"
He was at his wits' end, although you must be clever if you can perceive the wits' end of a punster.
"That'sMorning Star," said he. "Now do you knowwhyI call herMorning Star?"
I answered truthfully I did not.
"Why," he said, with a merry laugh, "because she's a roarer."
"What a pity!" I exclaimed. "But I don't wonder at it if she has to carry you and your jokes very far."
He took it in good part, and we had a pleasant evening at the Hall. He discharged a good many other puns, which I am glad to say I have forgotten. But there was a man present who was a good story-teller. Some I had heard before, but they were none the less welcome, while one or two I related were as good as new to my host and old Squire Fullerton, who had once been High Sheriff, and was supposed to know all about circuit business. He prefaced almost everything he said with, "When I was High Sheriff," so I asked him innocently enough how many times he had been High Sheriff, on which my host, being a quick-witted man, looked at him with a broad grin, while he balanced the nutcrackers on his forefinger.
"Well," said Fullerton, "it was in Parke's time."
"Yes; but which of them?" I asked. "Are you alluding to Sir Alan? They did not both come together, surely."
"Now, lookee, Fullerton," said my old friend, tapping the mahogany with the nutcrackers, as though he was about to say something remarkably clever; "one of 'em, Jemmy, had a kind of a cast in one of his eyes—didn't he, Judge?"
"Yes," said I; "but their names were not spelt alike."
"No, no!" cried the squire; "I'm coming to that. One eye was a little troublesome at times, I believe—at least they said so in my time whenIwas High Sheriff—and that made him a little ill-tempered at times. Now, that Judge's name was spelt P-a-r-k-e" (tapping every letter with his nutcrackers), "so the Bar used to call him 'Parke with an "e";' and what do you think they used to call the other, whose name was Park?—Come, now, Judge, you can guess that."
I suppose I shook my head, for he said, "Why, you told me the story yourself four years ago—ah! it must be five years ago—at this very table, when old Squire Hawley had laid two thousand on Jannette for the Leger. 'This is it,' said you; 'they call one of them Parke with an "e," and the other Park with an "i."'"
"Very well," I said, after they had done laughing at the way in which my host had caught me; "now I'll tell you what the Duke of Wellington said one morning. You recollect his Grace met with an accident and lost an eye, which was kept in spirits of wine. On asking him how he was, the Duke answered,—
"'Oh, Lord Cairns asked me yesterday the same question; and I said, "I am rather depressed, but I believe my eye is in pretty good spirits."'"
One evening, while sitting with some friends in Tilney Street, there was one of the most tremendous explosions ever heard. It seemed as if the world was blown up. But as nothing happened, we did not leave the room, and went on with the conversation.
It was not until the next day it was ascertained that an attempt had been made to blow in Reginald Brett's front door, which was a few houses off, and that it had been perpetrated by some Fenians, whose friends had been awarded penal servitude for life for a similar outrage with dynamite. Why their anger was directed against Mr. Reginald Brett—a most peaceful and excellent man—it was difficult to say, for he was very kind-hearted, and, above all, the son of the Master of the Rolls, who never tried prisoners at all, only counsel.
Having made inquiries the next morning—I don't know of whom, there were such a number of people in Tilney Street—I was astonished to hear some one say, "They meant to payyouthat visit, Sir Henry."
"Thenthey knocked at the wrong door," said I.
The stranger seemed to know me, and I had a little further conversation with him. It turned out he was a Chancery barrister, and a friend of Brett's.
"Why," I asked, "do you think they meant the visit for me?"
"Well," he answered, "it was."
"If it was intended for me," I replied, "I can only say they, were most ungrateful, for I gave their friends all I could."
"Yes—penal servitude for life."
"Very well," I added; "if they think they'll frighten me by blowing inReginald Brett's front door, they are very much deceived."
Lord Esher, I believe, always considered thathewas the object of this attack, and as I had no wish to disturb so comforting an idea, took no further notice, and the Fenians took no further notice of me. Years after, however, my name was mentioned in Parliament in connection with this case; nor was my severity called in question.
There were no more explosions in Tilney Street, but a singular circumstance occurred, which placed me in a position, if I had desired it, to deprive Lord Esher of the satisfaction of believing that he was the object of so much Fenian attention. But if it was a comfort to him or a source of pride, I did not see why I should take it away.
A reverend father of the Roman Church told me that a long while ago a man in confession made a statement which he wished the priest to communicate to me. It was under the seal of confession, and he refused, as he was bound to do, to mention a word. The man persisted in asking him, and he as persistently declined.
Some considerable time, however, having elapsed, the same man went to the priest, not to confess, but to repeat his request in ordinary conversation. This the father could have no objection to, and the culprit told him that he had undertaken to throw the bomb at the front door of Number 5, but that through having in the gas-light misread the figure, he had placed it against that of Number 2. He begged the priest as a great favour to assure me on his word that the bomb was certainly intended for me, and not for Brett.
On this subject theKent Leaderhad some interesting remarks on the anarchists as well as their Judge.
"Speaking of dynamite," it said, "we have serious cause for alarm in our free land. The wretches concerned in the abominable outrage of Tuesday last cannot be too severely dealt with. It is evident that their intent was against Justice Hawkins, and the fact that Sir Henry was the presiding Judge at the recent anarchists' trial points the connection between the outrage and other anarchists….
"Justice Hawkins has been spoken of as a harsh Judge. Ever since the 'Penge mystery' trial many have termed him the hanging Judge. We have sat under him on many eventful occasions, and venture the opinion that no one who has had equal opportunity would come to any other conclusion than that he was painstaking and careful to a degree, and particularly in criminal cases formed one of the most conscientious Judges on the Bench. Hanging Judge! Why, we have seen the tears start to his eyes when sentencing a prisoner to death, and, owing to emotion, only by a masterful effort could his voice be heard. Above all, he is a just Judge."
[Many persons were not aware, and thousands are not at the present time, that when a verdict of "Wilful murder" is pronounced a Judge has no alternative but to read the prescribed sentence of death. If this were not so, the situation would be almost intolerable, for who would not avoid, if possible, deciding that the irrevocable doom of the prisoner should be delivered? In many cases the feelings of the Judges would interfere with the course of justice, and murderers would receive more sympathy than their victims, while fiends would escape to the danger of society.
And yet that Judges have sympathy, and that it can be, and is, in these days properly exercised, the following story will testify. I give the story as Lord Brampton told it.]
In a circuit town a poor woman was tried before me for murdering her baby. The facts were so simple that they can be told in a few words. Her baby was a week old, and the poor woman, unable to sustain the load of shame which oppressed her, ran one night into a river, holding the baby in her arms. She had got into the water deep enough to drown the baby, while her own life was saved by a boatman.
The scene was sad enough as she stood under a lamp and looked into the face of the policeman, clutching her dead child to her breast, and refusing to part with it.
At the trial there was no defence to the charge of wilful murder exceptone, and that I felt it my duty to discountenance. I think the depositions were handed to a young barrister by my order, and that being so, I exercised my discretion as to the mode of defence. In other words, I defended the prisoner myself.
In order to avoid the sentence that would have followed an acquittalon the ground of insanity, which would have entailed perhaps lifelong imprisonment, I took upon myself to depart from the usual course, and ask the jury whether,without being insane in the ordinary sense, the woman might not have been at the time of committing the deed in so excited a state as not to know what she was doing.
I thus avoided the technical form of question sane or insane, and obtained a verdict of guilty, but that the woman at the time was not answerable for her conduct, together with a strong recommendation to mercy. This verdict, if not according to the strictest legal quibbling, was according to justice.
I was about to pronounce sentence in accordance with the law, which it was not possible for me to avoid, however much my mind was inclined to do so, when the pompous old High Sheriff, all importance and dignity, said,—
"My lord, are you not going to put on the black cap?"
"No," I answered, "I am not. I do not intend the poor creature to be hanged, and I am not going to frighten her to death."
Addressing her by name, I said, "Don't pay any attention to what I am going to read. No harm will be done to you. I am sure you did not know in your great trouble and sorrow what you were doing, and I will take care to represent your case so that nothing will harm you in the way of punishment."
I then mumbled over the words of the sentence of death, taking care that the poor woman did not hear them—much, no doubt, to the chagrin of the High Sheriff and to the lowering of his high office and dignity. Nothing so enhances a Sheriff's dignity as the gallows.
[There was a great deal of unlooked-for appreciation of his merits, and from quarters where, had he been a hard Judge, one could never have expected it.
There was even the observation of the costermonger leaning over his barrow near the Assize Court when one morning Sir Henry was going in with little Jack.
"Gorblime, Jemmy! see 'im? The ole bloke's been poachin' agin. See what he's got?"
It was a brace of pheasants, and not going into court with his gun, but only his dog, it was taken for granted he had been out all night on an unlawful expedition.
Some one once asked Sir Henry what was the most wonderful verdict he ever obtained.
He answered: "It depends upon circumstances. Do you mean as to value?"
"And amount."
"Well, then," he said, "half a farthing."
Some of the company were a little disconcerted.
"I'll tell you," said the Judge. "There was in our Gracious Majesty's reign a coinage ofhalf a farthing. It was soon discountenanced as useless, but while it was current as coin of the realm I had the honour of obtaining a verdict for that amount, and need not say, had it been paid inspecieand preserved, it would in value more than equal at the present time any verdict the jury might have given in that case."]
One of the most remarkable trials in which as a Judge I have presided was what was known as the Muswell Hill tragedy. It was a brutal, commonplace affair, and with its sordid details might make a respectable society novel. I should have liked Sherlock Holmes to have been in the case, because he would have saved me a great deal of sensational development, as well as much anxiety and observation.
Burglars are usually crafty and faithless to one another. They never act alone—that is, the real professionals—and invariably, while in danger of being convicted, betray one another. Such, at all events, is my experience. Each fears the treachery of his companion in guilt, and endeavours to be first in disclosing it. In the case I am now speaking of, this experience was never more verified than in the attempt on the part of these two murderers each to shift the guilt on to the other.
The ruffians, Milsome and Fowler, resolved to commit a burglary in the house of an old man who led a lonely life at the suburb known as Muswell Hill, near Hornsey.
The sole occupant of the cottage slept in a bedroom on the first floor. In his room was an iron safe, in which he kept a considerable sum of money, close by the side of his bed.
In the dead of night the two robbers found their way into the kitchen, which was below the bedroom. They made, however, so much noise as to arouse the sleeper in the room above. The old man rose, and went down into the kitchen, where he found the two prisoners preparing to search for whatever property they might carry away. Instantly they fell upon their victim, threw him on to the floor, and with a tablecloth, which they found in the room, and which they cut into strips for the purpose, bound the poor old man hand and foot, and struck him so violently about the head that he was killed on the spot, where he was found the following morning. The prisoners failed to obtain the booty they were in search of, and made off with some trifling plunder, the only reward for a most cruel murder. They escaped for a time, but were at last traced by a singular accident—one of the prisoners having taken a boy's toy lamp on the night of the burglary from his mother's cottage and left it in the kitchen of the murdered man. The boy identified one of the prisoners as the man who had been at his mother's and taken the lamp.
The men were jointly charged with the murder before me. Each tried to fix the guilt on the other, knowing—or, at all events, believing—that he himself would escape the consequences of wilful murder if he succeeded in hanging his friend. I knew well enough that, unless it could be proved thatbothwere implicated in the murder, or if it should be left uncertain which was the man who actually committed it, or that they both went to the place with the joint intention of perpetrating it if necessary for their object, they might both avoid the gallows. I therefore directed my attention closely to every circumstance in the case, and after a considerable amount of evidence had been given without much result, so far as implicating both prisoners in the actual murder was concerned, an accidental discovery revealed the whole of the facts of the tragedy as plainly as if I had seen it committed.
I have said that the tablecover had beencutinto strips to accomplish their purpose; and it was clear that a penknife had been used, for one was found on the floor. Suddenly my attention was called to the fact thattwopenknives, which no one had hitherto noticed, were produced. They belonged, not to the prisoners, but to the deceased man, and were usually placed on the shelf in the kitchen. But it came out in evidence, quite, as it seemed, accidentally, that they had been taken from that place, and were found on the floor where the cutting up of the tablecover had been performed, at some little distance from one another; but each knifeby the side of and not far from the deceased man. They were at my wish handed to me; I also asked for some of the shreds which had bound the dead man. Upon examination it seemed that these were the knives that had been used to cut the tablecloth into shreds, and if so, the jury might well assume thateachprisoner had used one of the knives for that purpose, for one man could not at the same time use two.
The tablecloth had jagged or hacked edges, which satisfied the jury that the knives had been used hurriedly, and that each man had been doing his share of the cutting. It was thus clearly established that both the men were engaged in the murder and equally guilty, and so the jury found by their verdict.
Whilst they were considering, the bigger of the two, a very powerful man, made a murderous attack upon the other, whom he evidently looked upon as his betrayer, and tried to kill him in the dock. The struggle was a fearful one, but the warders at last separated them.
They were both sentenced to death and hanged.
[The fact of these men making a noise in entering the house was strongly against them on a question of intent. Burglars work silently, and at the least noise decamp, as a rule. In the present case, there being only one old man to contend against, it was easy to silence him as they did, and as they doubtless intended, when they went to the house.]
I think I have said that I had a favourite motto, which was, "Never fret." It has often stood me in good stead and helped me to obey it. I was once put to it, however, on my way to open the Commission at Bangor on the Welsh Circuit. The Assizes were to commence on the following day. It was a very glorious afternoon, and one to make you wish that no Assize might ever be held again.
I had engaged to dine with the High Sheriff, who lived three or four miles away from the town, in a very beautiful part of the country; so there was everything to make one glad, except the Assizes. Added to all this pleasurable excitement, the Chester Cup was to be run for in the meanwhile, and I had many old friends who I knew would be there, and whom I should have been glad to meet had it been possible.
The Sheriff had made most elaborate calculations from his Bradshaw and other sources as to the times of departure and arrival by train. I did not know what to do, so arranged with the stationmaster at Chester to shunt my carriage till the afternoon, having no doubt I should be able to fulfil my engagements easily.
It so happened, however, that the racing arrangements of the railway had been completely disturbed by the great crowds of visitors, and the result was that I did not reach Carnarvon at the proper time, and my arrival in that place was delayed for nearly an hour.
Nevertheless, I opened the Commission, and the High Sheriff asked me if I would allow him to go on to his house to receive his guests, whom he had invited to meet me, and permit the chaplain to escort me in the performance of my duties.
Having dressed in full uniform, I got into the carriage with the chaplain, who was quite a lively companion, of an enterprising turn of mind, and desirous of learning something of the world. I could have taught him a good deal, I have no doubt, had I allowed myself to be drawn. My friend had no great conversational powers, but was possessed of an inquiring mind. After we had ridden a little way, to my great amusement he asked me if I had any favouritemottothat I could tell him, so that he might keep it in his memory.
"Yes," said I, "I have a very good one," and cheerfully said, "Never fret."
This, when I explained it to him, especially with reference to my business arrangements, seemed to please him very much. It was as good as saying, "Don't fret because you can't preach two sermons from two pulpits at the same time."
He asked if he might write it down in his pocket-book, and I told him by all means, and hoped he would.
"Excellent!" he murmured as he wrote it: "Never fret."
He then asked modestly if I could give him any other pithy saying which would be worthy of remembrance.
"Yes," said I, thinking a little, "I recollect one very good thing which you will do well to remember: Never say anything you think will be disagreeable to other persons."
He expressed great admiration for this, as it sounded so original, and was particularly adapted to the clergy.
"Oh," said he, "that's in the real spirit of Christianity."
"Is that so?" I asked, as he wrote it down in his book; and he seemed to admire it exceedingly after he had written it, even more than the other.
Then he said he really did not like to trouble me, but it was the first time he had had the honour of occupying the position of Sheriff's chaplain, etc.; but might he trouble me for another motto, or something that might go as a kind of companion to the others in his pocket-book?
This a little puzzled me, but I felt that he took me now for a sage, and that my reputation as such was at stake. I had nothing in stock, but wondered if it would be possible to make one for him while he waited.
"Yes," said I, "with the greatest displeasure: Never do anything which you feel will be disagreeable to yourself."
"My lord!" he cried in the greatest glee, "that is by far the best of all; that must go down in my book, it is so practical, and of everyday use."
I was, of course, equally delighted to afford so young a man so much instruction, and thought what a thing it is to be young. However, here was an opportunity not to be lost of showing him how to put to the practical test of experience two at least, if not all three, of the little aphorisms, and I said so.
"I should be delighted, my lord, to put your advice into practice at the earliest opportunity," he answered.
"That will be on Sunday," said I, "at twelve o'clock. Don't preach a long sermon!"
In due time we arrived at the Sheriff's house, and there found all the guests assembled and waiting to meet me. I was quite quick enough to perceive at a glance that they had been planning some scheme to entrap me—at all events, to cause me embarrassment. The ladies were in it, for they all smiled, and said as plainly by their looks as possible, "We shall have you nicely, Judge, depend upon it, by-and-by."
The Sheriff was the chief spokesman. No sooner had we sat down to table than he addressed me in a most unaffected manner, as if the question were quite in the ordinary course, and had not been planned. I answered it in the same spirit.
"My lord, could you kindly tell us which horse has won the Cup?" evidently thinking that I had been to the course.
There was a dead silence at this crucial question—a silence that you could feel was the result of a deep-laid conspiracy—and all the ladies smiled.
Fortunately I was not caught; nor was I even taken aback; my presence of mind did not desert me in this my hour of need; and I said, in the most natural tone I could assume,—
"Yes, I was sure that would be the first question you would ask me when I had the pleasure of meeting this brilliant company, as you knew I must pass through Chester Station; so I popped my head out of the window and asked the porter which horse had won. He told me the Judge had won by a length, Chaplain was a good second, and Sheriff a bad third."
The squire took his defeat like a man.
I was reminded during the evening of a singular case of bigamy—a double bigamy—that came before me at Derby, in which the simple story was that an unfortunate couple had got married twenty years before the time I speak of, and that they had the good luck to find out they did not care for one another the week after they were married. It would have been luckier if they had found it out a week before instead of a week after; but so it was, and in the circumstances they did the wisest thing, probably, that they could. They separated, and never met again until they met in the dock before me—a trysting-place not of their own choosing, and more strange than a novelist would dream of.
But there they were, and this was the story of their lives:—
The man, after the separation, lived for some time single, then formed a companionship, and, as he afterwards heard that his wife had got married to some one else, thought he would follow her example.
Now, if a Judge punished immorality, here was something to punish; but the law leaves that to the ecclesiastical or some other jurisdiction. The Judge has but to deal with the breach of the law, and to punish in accordance with the requirements of the injury to society—not even to the injury of the individual.
I made inquiries of the police and others, as the prisoners had pleaded guilty, and found that all the parties—the four persons—had been living respectable and hard-working lives. There was no fault whatever to be found with their conduct. They were respected by all who knew them.
I then asked how it was found out at last that these people, living quietly and happily, had been previously married.
"O my lord," said a policeman, "there was a hinquest on a babby, which was the female prisoner's babby and what had died. Then it come out afore Mr. Coroner, my lord, and he ordered the woman into custody, and then the man was took."
I thought they had had punishment enough for their offence, and gave them no imprisonment, but ordered them to be released on their own recognizances, and to come up for judgment if called upon.
Now camemysentence. The clergyman of the parish in which this terrible crime had been discovered evidently felt that he had been living in the utmost danger for years. Here these people came to his church, and for aught he knew prayed for forgiveness under the very roof where he himself worshipped.
He said I had done a fine thing to encourage sin and immorality, and what could come of humanity if Judges would not punish?
He denounced me, I afterwards learned, in his pulpit in the severest terms, although I did not hear that he used the same vituperative language towards the poor creatures I had so far absolved. Luckily I was not attending the reverend gentleman's ministration, but he seemed to think the greatest crime I had committed was disallowing the costs of the prosecution. That was a directincentive to bigamy, although in what respect I never learned.
It sometimes suggested to my mind this question,—
What would this minister of the gospel have said to the Divine Master when the woman caught "in the very act" was before Him, and He said, in words never to be forgotten till men and women are no more, "Neither do I condemn thee"?
I thought those who loved a prosecution of this kind—whoever it may have been—oughtto pay for the luxury, and so I condemnedthemin the costs.
[Footnote A: In this and one or two other cases I am pleased to acknowledge my thanks to my esteemed friend Mr. Charles W. Mathews, the distinguished advocate, for refreshing my memory with the incidents.]
One of the most diabolical cases which came before me while a Judge was one which, although it occupied several days, can be told in the course of a few minutes. I mention it, moreover, not so much on account of its inhuman features as the fact that, in my opinion, Dr. Lamson led the prosecutors—that is, the Government solicitors—into a theory which was calculated by that cunning murderer to save him from a conviction, and it nearly did so.
The story is this:—There was in the year 1873 a family of five children, one of whom died that year and another in 1879, leaving two daughters and a poor cripple boy of eighteen. He was partially paralyzed, and had a malformation of the spine, so that he was an object of great commiseration. He was of a kind and cheerful disposition, and, excepting his spinal affliction, in good health. He seems to have been loved by everybody. His playmates wheeled him about in his chair so that he might enjoy their pastimes, and even carried him up and down stairs. One of this boy's sisters married a Mr. Chapman; the other married a man who was a doctor, or passed as one, of the name of Lamson. He was a man of idle habits, luxurious tastes, and a wicked heart. He was in debt, had fraudulently drawn cheques when he had nothing at the bank to meet them, and was so reduced to poverty that he had pawned his watch and his case of surgical instruments.
By the death of the brother in 1879, the two sisters received each a sum of £800. This boy, Percy, received the like amount, and if he should live to come of age would have a further sum of £3,000; but if he died before that period, one-half would go to Mrs. Chapman and the other half to Mrs. Lamson, the doctor's wife.
Lamson had bought a medical practice at Bournemouth in 1880, but very soon after writs and executions were issued against him.
For three years before Percy's death he had been at school at BlenheimHouse, Wimbledon.
It appeared from his statement while dying that he felt just "the same as I did once before, when I was at Shanklin with my brother-in-law," the doctor, "after he had given me a quinine pill." "My throat is burning, and my skin feels all drawn up." This pill, however, did not kill him, but it showed, as subsequent events proved, the murderous design of Dr. Lamson.
On December 3 the boy, being still at school and in good health, was amusing himself with his schoolfellows when his brother-in-law, the prisoner, called. Percy was taken into the room to see him. "Well, Percy, old boy," said the doctor, "how fat you are looking!" The doctor sat down, and Percy was seated near him. The visitor then took out of a little bag a Dundee cake and some sweets, and cut a small slice of the cake with his penknife. About fifteen minutes afterwards he said to Mr. Bedbury, the master, "I did not forget you and your boys: these capsules will be nice for them to take nauseous medicines in;" and he took several boxes of capsules from the bag and placed them on the table. One box he pushed towards Mr. Bedbury, asking him to try them.
No one had seen Lamson take a capsule out of the box, but he was seen to fill one with sugar and give it to the boy, saying, "Here, Percy, you are a swell pill-taker." Within five minutes after that the doctor excused himself for going so soon, saying if he did not he would lose his train.
Not long after his departure—that is, between eight and nine—the boy was taken ill and put into bed with all the violent symptoms which are invariably produced by that most deadly of vegetable poisons, aconitine, and he died at twenty minutes past eleven the same night.
Aconitine was found in the stomach; aconitine had been purchased by the doctor before the boy's death, and being well and having been well, the brother-in-law gave him the last thing he swallowed before the dreadful symptoms of the poison betrayed its presence. At that time no chemical test could be applied to aconitine, any more than it could to strychnine in the time of Palmer. But its symptoms were, in the one case as well as in the other, unmistakable, and such as no other cause of illness would produce.
Two pills were found in the boy's play-box, one of which was said to contain aconitine.
Such was the simple case which occupied six days to try. The jury were not long in coming to a conclusion, and returned into court with a verdict of "Guilty."
My awful duty was soon concluded. I told the prisoner the law compelled me to pass upon him the sentence of death; but gave him, both by voice and manner, to understand that in this world there could be no hope for such a criminal. I said, as I thought it right to say, that it was no part of my duty to admonish him as to how he was to meet the dread doom that awaited him, but nevertheless I entreated him to seek for pardon of his great sin from the Almighty. It was my opinion, and I believe that of the counsel for the defence, that, although so much stress was laid upon thecapsuleand the administration of the poison by that means, it was not so administered, but that the capsule was an artifice, designed to hoodwink the doctors and Treasury solicitors.
To have poisoned the boy in such a manner would have been a clumsy device for so keen and artful a criminal as Lamson; and I knew it was conveyed in another manner. It should be stated that in Lamson's pocket-book were found memoranda as to the symptoms and effect of aconitine, and as to there being no test for its discovery. Lamson therefore had made the poisoning of this boy a careful and particular study. He was not such a clumsy operator as to administer it in the way suggested. The openness of that proceeding was to blind the eyes of detectives and lawyers alike; the aconitine was conveyed to the lad's stomachby means of a raisin in the piece of Dundee cake which Lamson cut with his penknife and handed to him. He knew, of course, the part of the cake where it was.
My attention was directed to the artifice employed by Lamson, by the shallowness of the stratagem, and by the one circumstance that almost escaped notice—namely, the Dundee cake and the curious desire of the man to offer the boy a piece in so unusual a manner. So eager was he to give him a taste that he must needs cut it with hispenknife. I was sure, and am sure now, although there is no evidence but that which common sense, acting on circumstances, suggested, that the aconitine was conveyed to the deceased by means of the piece of cake which Lamson gave him, and being carefully placed in the interior of the raisin, would not operate until the skin had had time to digest, and he the opportunity of getting on his journey to Paris, whither he was bound that night, to await, no doubt, the news of the boy's illness and death.
If the poison had been conveyed in the capsule, its operation would have been almost immediate, and so would the detection of the aconitine. As I have said, the contrivance would have been too clumsy for so crafty a mind. A detective would not expect to find the secret design so foolishly exposed any more than a spectator would expect to see the actual trick of a conjurer in the manner of its performance.
I was not able to bring the artifice before the jury; the Crown had not discovered it, and Lamson's deep-laid scheme was nearly successful. His plan, of course, was to lead the prosecution to maintain that he gave the poison in the capsule, and then to compel them to show that there was no evidence of it. The jury were satisfied that the boy was poisoned by Lamson, and little troubled themselves about the way in which it was done.
A singular case of mistaken identity came under my notice during the trial of a serious charge of wounding with intent to do grievous bodily harm.Fivemen were charged, and the evidence showed that a most brutal mutilation of a gamekeeper's hand had been inflicted. The men were notorious poachers, and were engaged in a poaching expedition when the crime was committed. One of the accused was a young man, scarcely more than a youth, but I had no doubt that he was the cleverest of the gang. The men were convicted, but this young man vehemently protested his innocence, and declared that he was not with the gang that night. His manner impressed me so much that I began to doubt whether some mistake had not been made. The injured keeper, however, whose honesty I had no reason to doubt, declared that this youth was really the man who knelt on his breast and inflicted the grievous injury to his hand by nearly severing the thumb. He swore that he had every opportunity of seeing him while he was committing the deed, as his face was close to his own, andtheir eyes met.
Moreover, the young man's cap was foundclose by the spot where the assault took place. About this there was no dispute and could be no mistake, for the prisoner confessed that the cap was his, adding, however, that hehad lent it on that night to one of the other prisoners. The youth vehemently protested his innocence after the verdict was given.
So far as he was concerned I wasnotsatisfied with the conviction. "Is it possible," I asked myself, "that there can have been a mistake?" I did not think that in the excitement of such a moment, and during so fearful a struggle with his antagonist, with their facesso close togetherthat they stared into each other's eyes, there was such an opportunity of seeing the youth's face as to make it clear beyond any doubt that he was the man who committed the crime. The jury, I thought, had judged too hastily from appearances—a mistake always to be guarded against.
I invited the prosecuting counsel to come to my room, and asked him, "Are you satisfied with that verdict so far as theyoungest prisoneris concerned?"
"Yes," he said; "the jury found him 'Guilty,' and I think the evidence was enough to justify the verdict."
"Ido not," I said, "and shall try him again on another indictment."There was another involving the same evidence.
I considered the matter very carefully during the night, and weighed every particle of evidence with every probability, and the more I thought of it the more convinced I was that injustice had been done.
First of all, to prevent the men who I was convinced were rightly convicted from entertaining any doubt about the result of their conviction, I sentenced them to penal servitude.
I then undertook to watch the case on behalf of the young man myself, and did not, as I might have done, assign him counsel.
The prisoner was put up for trial, and the second inquiry commenced. It had struck me during the night that there was a point in the case which had been taken for granted by thecounsel on both sides, and that that point wastheone on which the verdict had gone wrong. As I have said, I did not doubt the honest belief of the keeper, but I doubted, and, in fact, disbelieved altogether in, the power of any man to identify the face of another when their eyes were close together, as he had no ordinary but a distorted view of the features. In order to test my theory on this matter, I took the real point in the case, as it afterwards turned out to be. It was this:Five menwere takenfor grantedto have been in the gang and in the field on that occasion. The difficulty was to prove that there were onlyfour, and then to show that the young man was not one of the four. These two difficulties lay before me, but I resolved to test them to the utmost of my ability. The Crown was against me and the Treasury counsel.
I knew pretty well where to begin—which is a great point, I think, in advocacy—and began in the right place. I must repeat that the prisoner boldly asserted, when the evidence was given as to the finding of his cap close to the spot where the outrage was committed, that itwashis cap, but that he had not worn it on that night, having lent it to one of the other men, whom he then named. This was, to my mind, a very important point in this second trial, and I made a note of it to assist me at a later period of the case. If this was true, the strong corroboration of the keeper's evidence of identity was gone. Indeed, it went a good deal further in its value than that, for it may have been the finding of the prisoner's cap that induced the belief that the man whose face he saw was the prisoner's!
I asked the accused if he would like the other men called to prove his statements, warning him at the same time that it was upon his own evidence that they had been arrested, and pointing out the risk he ran from their ill-will.
"My lord," said he, "they will owe me no ill-will, and they will not deny what I say. It's true; I'm one of 'em, and I know they won't deny it."
Without discarding this evidence I let the case proceed. I asked the policeman when he came into the witness-box if he examined carefully the footprints at the gate where the men entered. He said he had, and wasquite positivethat there were the footprints offour men only, and further, that these prints corresponded with the shoes of the four men who had been sentenced, andnotwith those of the prisoner.
It shows how fatal it may be in Judge, counsel, or jury to take anything for granted in a criminal charge. It had been taken for granted at the former trial thatfivemen had entered the field, and how the counsel for the defence could have done so I am at a loss to conceive. It was further ascertained that the same number and thesame footprintsmarked the steps of those comingoutof the field. It went even further, for it was proved thatno footprints of a fifth man were anywhere visible on any other part of the field, although the most careful search had been made.
If this was established, as I think it was beyond all controversy, it clearly proved that onlyfour menwere in the field when the injuries were inflicted. But it might, nevertheless, be that the young man identified was one of the four. Whether he was or not was now the question at issue; it was reduced to that one point. To disprove this the prisoner said he would like the men to be called. I cautioned him again as to the danger of the course he proposed, feeling that he was pretty safe as it was in the hands of the jury. They could hardly convict under my ruling in the circumstances.
"No, my lord," he said; "I amsure they will speak the truth about it. They will not swear falsely against me to save themselves."
The man who was alleged to have borrowed the cap was then brought up, and I asked him if it was true that he wore the prisoner's cap on the night of the outrage. He said, "It is true, my lord; I borrowed it."
"Then are you the man who inflicted the injury on the keeper?"
His answer was, "Unhappily, my lord, I am, and I am heartily sorry for it."
When asked, "Was this young man with you that night?"
"No, my lord," was the answer.
The jury at once said they would not trouble me to sum up the case; they were perfectly satisfied that the prisoner was not guilty, and that what he said was true—that he was not in the field that night. They accordingly acquitted him, to my perfect satisfaction.
Of course, I instantly wrote to the Home Secretary, Mr. H. Matthews (now Viscount Llandaff), who at once procured a free pardon on the former conviction, and the prisoner was restored to liberty.
This case strikingly points to the imperative demand of justice that every case shall be investigated in its minutest detail. The broad features are not by any means sufficient to fix guilt on any one accused, and it is in such cases that circumstantial evidence is often brought in question, while, indeed, therealcircumstances are too often not brought to light. Circumstantial evidence can seldom fail if the real circumstances are brought out. Nobody had thought of raising a doubt as to there beingfivepersons in the field.
Upon such small points the great issue of a case often depends.
Another curious case came before me on the Western Circuit. A solicitor was charged with forging the will of a lady, which devised to him a considerable amount of her property; but as the case proceeded it became clear to me that the will was signed after the lady's death, and then with a dry pen held in the hand of the deceased, by the accused himself whilst he guided it over a signature which he had craftily forged. A woman was present when this was done, and as she had attested the execution of the will, she was a necessary witness for the prisoner, and in examination-in-chief she was very clear indeed that it was by thehand of the deceasedthat the will was signed, and that she herself had seen the deceased sign it. Suspicion only existed as to what the real facts were until this woman went into the box, and then a scene, highly dramatic, occurred in the course of her cross-examination by Mr. Charles Mathews, who held the brief for the prosecution.
The woman positively swore that she saw the testatrix sign the willwith her own hand, and no amount of the rough-and-ready, inartistic, and disingenuous "Will you swear this?" and "Are you prepared to swear that?" would have been of any avail. Shehadsworn it, and was prepared to swear it, in her own way, any number of times that any counsel might desire.
The only mode of dealing with her was adopted. She was asked,—
"Where was the will signed?"
"On the bed."
"Was any one near?"
"Yes, the prisoner."
"How near?"
"Quite close."
"So that he could hand the ink if necessary?"
"Oh yes."
"And the pen?"
"Oh yes."
"Did he hand the pen?"
"He did."
"And the ink?"
"Yes."
"There was no one else to do so except you?"
"No."
"Did he put the pen into her hand?"
"Yes."
"And assist her while she signed the will?"
"Yes."
"How did he assist her?"
"By raising her in the bed and supporting her when he had raised her."
"Did he guide her hand?"
"No."
"Did he touch her hand at all?"
"I think he did just touch her hand."
"When he did touch her handwas she dead?"
At this last question the woman turned terribly pale, was seen to falter, and fell in a swoon on the ground, and sorevealed the truthwhich she had come todeny.
Sir Henry Hawkins was sitting at Derby Assizes in the Criminal Court, which, as usual in country towns, was crowded so that you could scarcely breathe, while the air you had to breathe was like that of a pestilence. There was, however, a little space left behind the dock which admitted of the passage of one man at a time.
Windows and doors were all securely closed, so as to prevent draught, for nothing is so bad as draught when you are hot, and nothing makes you so hot as being stived by hundreds in a narrow space without draught.
He happened to look up into the faces of this shining but by no means brilliant assembly, when what should he observe peeping over the shoulders of two buxom factory women with blue kerchiefs but thehead of J.L. Toole! At least, it looked like Mr. Toole's head; but how it came there it was impossible to say. It was a delight anywhere, but it seemed now out of place.
The marshal asked the Sheriff, "Isn't that Toole?"
The answer was, "It looks like him."
We knew he was in the town, and that there was to be a bespeak night, when her Majesty's Judges and the Midland Circuit would honour, etc. Derby is not behind other towns in this respect.
Presently the Judge's eyes went in the direction of the object which excited so much curiosity, and, like every one else, he was interested in the appearance of the great comedian, although at that moment he was not acting a part, but enduring a situation.
In the afternoon the actor was on the Bench sitting next to the marshal, and assuming an air of great gravity, which would have become a Judge of the greatest dignity. There was never the faintest suggestion of a smile. He looked, indeed, like Byron's description of the Corsair:—
"And where his frown of hatred darkly fell,Hope, withering, fled, and Mercy sighed farewell."
A turkey-cock in a pulpit could not have seemed more to dominate the proceedings.
One very annoying circumstance occurred at this Assize. It was the cracking, sometimes almost banging, of theseatsand wainscoting, which had been remade of oak. Every now and again there was a loud squeak, and then a noise like the cracking of walnuts. To a sensitive mind it must have been a trying situation, as Toole afterwards said, when you are trying prisoners.
Meanwhile Sir Henry pursued the even tenor of his way, speaking little, as was his wont, and thinking much about the case before him, of a very trumpery character, unless you measured it by the game laws. But no one less liked to be disturbed by noises of any kind than Sir Henry when at work. Even the rustling of a newspaper would cause him to direct the reader to study in some other part of the building.
Suddenly there was a squeaking of another kind distinguishable from all others—it was the squeaking ofSunday boots. In the country no boots are considered Sunday boots unless they squeak. At all events, that was the case in Derbyshire at the time I write of.
The noise proceeded from a heavy farmer, a juror-in-waiting, who was allowed to cross from one side of the court to the other for change of air. His endeavour to suppress the noise of his boots only seemed to cause them the greater irritation. There was a universal titter as the crowd looked up to see what line the Judge would take.
Sir Henry reproved quietly, and just as the farmer, who was prancing like an elephant, had got well in front of the Bench, he said,—
"If that gentleman desires to perambulate this court, he had better take off his boots."
The gravity of the situation was disturbed, but that of the farmer remained, unhappily for him, for, with one foot planted firmly on the ground, and the other poised between heaven and earth, he was afraid to let it come down, and there he stood. "We will wait," said the Judge, "until that gentleman has got to the door which leads into the street." The juryman, Toole told us afterwards, was delighted, for he escaped for the whole Assize.
Although there was much laughter, Toole knew his position and dignity too well to join in it; but he did what any respectable citizen would be expected to do in the circumstances—tried to suppress it, yet made such faces in the attempt that the whole house came down in volleys. But now he was resolved to set matters right, and prevent any further repetition of unseemly conduct. The way he did so is worthy of note. He took a pen, dipped it in the ink, and then, spreading his elbows out as one in great authority, and duly impressed with the dignity of the situation, wrote these words on a sheet of paper, which had the royal arms in the centre, his tongue meanwhile seeming to imitate the motion of his pen: "I have had my eye on you for a long time past, and if I see you laugh again I will send you to prison. Be warned in time."
"Just hand that," said he, giving it to a javelin-man, "to the gentleman there in thegreen blouseand red hair."
The paper was stuck into the slit of the tapering fishing-rod-like instrument, and placed under the nose of the man who had been laughing. It was some time before he could believe his eyes, but a thrust or two of the stick acted like a pair of spectacles, and convinced him it was intended for his perusal. The effect was instantaneous, and he handed the document to his wife. It was interesting to watch the face of Toole, suffused with good-humour and yet preserving its elastic dignity, in contrast with that of the farmer, which was almost white with terror as they interchanged furtive glances for the next half-hour. However, it all ended happily, for the man never laughed again. Toole was invited to dine at the Judge's dinner, but being himself on circuit, and not at liberty tilleleven, when he took supper, an invitation to "look in" was accepted instead, if it were not too late.
After supper he accordingly went for his "look in," and arriving at half-past eleven, was in time for dinner, which did not take place till half-past twelve, the court having adjourned at 12.15. However, we spent a very pleasant evening, Toole telling the story of his going to see Hawkins in the Tichborne trial related elsewhere, and Sir Henry that of the Queen refusing once upon a time to accept a box at Drury Lane Theatre while E.T. Smith was lessee, which made Smith so angry that he could hardly bring himself to propose her Majesty's health at a dinner that same evening at Drury Lane. Nothing but his loyalty prevented his resenting it in a suitable and dignified manner. When one sovereign is affronted by another, the only thing is to consider their respectivecommercialvalues, for that, as a rule, is the test of all things in a commercial world. But the sequel was that E.T. said, "Although me and her Majesty have had a little difference, I think on the whole I may propose the Queen!" Fool is he who neglects his Sovereign, and gets in exchange Sovereign contempt. Such was Toole's observation.
It was at this little entertainment that Sir Henry told the story of the banker's clerk and the bad boy—a true story, he said, although it may be without a moral. The best stories, said Toole, like the best people, have no morals—at least, none to make a song about—any more than the best dogs have the longest tails.
A gentleman who was a customer at a certain bank was asked by a bank clerk whether a particular cheque bore his signature.
The gentleman looked at it, and said, "That is all right."
"All right?" said the bank clerk. "Is that really your signature, sir?"
"Certainly," said the gentleman.
"Quite sure, sir?"
"As sure as I am of my own existence."
The clerk looked puzzled and somewhat disconcerted, so sure was he that the signature was false.
"How can I be deceived in my own handwriting?" asked the supposed drawer of the cheque.
"Well," said the clerk, "you will excuse me, I hope, but I haverefused to pay on that signature, because I do not believe it is yours."
"Pay!" said the customer. "For Heaven's sake, do not dishonour my signature."
"I will never do that," was the answer; "but will you look through your papers, counterfoils, bank-book, and accounts, and see if you can trace this cheque?"
The customer looked through his accounts and found no trace of it or the amount for which it was given.
At last, on examining thenumberof the cheque, he was convinced that the signature could not be his,because he had never had a cheque-book with that number in it. At the same time, his astonishment was great that the clerk should know his handwriting better than he knew it himself.
"I will tell you," said the clerk, "how I discovered the forgery. A boy presented this cheque, purporting to have been signed by you. I cashed it. He came again with another. I cashed that. A little while afterwards he came again. My suspicions were then aroused, not by anything in the signature or the cheque, but by the circumstance of thefrequency of his coming. When he came the third time, however, I suspended payment until I saw you, because theline under your signature with which you always finish was not at the same angle; it went a trifle nearer the letters, and I at once concluded it was a FORGERY." And so it turned out to be.
"That boy," said Toole, "deserves to be taken up by some one, for he has great talent."
"And in speaking of this matter," said Sir Henry, "I may tell you that bankers' clerks are the very best that ever could be invented as tests for handwriting. Their intelligence and accuracy are perfectly astonishing. They hardly ever make a mistake, and are seldom deceived. The experts in handwriting are clever enough, and mean to be true; but everyexpertin a case, be he doctor, caligrapher, or phrenologist, has some unknown quantity of bias, and must almost of necessity, if he is on the one side or the other, exercise it, however unintentional it may be. The banker speakswithout this influence, and therefore, if not more likely to be correct, is more reasonably supposed to be so.
"Do you remember, Sir Henry," asked Toole, "what the clever rogue Orton wrote in his pocket-book? 'Some has money no brains; some has brains no money; them as has money no brains was made for them as has brains no money.'"
"Just like Roger," said Sir Henry. This was a catch-phrase in society at the time of the trial.
Some one recited from a number ofHood's Comic Annualthe following poem by Tom Hood:—
[Footnote A: These lines appeared about 1874, and I have to make acknowledgments to those whom I have been unable to ask for permission to reproduce, and trust they will accept both my apologies and thanks.]
"Yestreen, when I retired to bed,I had a funny dream;Imagination backward spedUp History's ancient stream.A falconer in fullest dressWas teaching me his art;Of tercel, eyas, hood, and jess,The terms I learnt by heart.
"He flew his falcon to attackThe osprey, swan, and hern,And showed me, when he wished it back,The lure for its return.I thought it was a noble sport;I struggled to excelMy gentle teacher, and, in short,I managed rather well.
"The dream is o'er, and I to-dayReturn to modern time;But yet I've something more to say,If you will list my rhyme.I've been a witness in a caseFor seven long mortal hours,And, cross-examined, had to faceThe counsel's keenest powers.
"With courteous phrase and winning smilesHe led me gently on;I fell a victim to his wiles—But how he changed anon!'Oh, you're prepared to swear to that!'And, 'Now, sir, just take care!'And, 'Come, be cautious what you're at!'With questions hard to bear.
"And when he'd turned me inside out,He turned me outside in;I knew not what I was about—My brain was all a-spin,I'm shaking now with nervous fright,And since I left the courtI've changed my dream-opinion quite—I don't think Hawkins sport!"
Before concluding the evening, Toole said,—
"You remember your joke, Sir Henry, about Miss Brain and her black kids?"
"Not for the world, not for the world, my dear Toole!"
"Not for the world, Sir Henry, not for the world; only for us; not before the boys! You said it was the best joke you ever made."
"And the worst. But I was not a Judge then."]