In the course of time he acquired a respectable appearance, although his broken knees, to say nothing of his "past," prevented his becoming valuable so far as I was concerned. Certainly I had no expectation of his ever going on to the turf. How could one believe that any owner would think of entering him for a race?

One morning my groom came to me and said, "I think, sir, I can find a purchaser for Dreadnought, if you have no objection to selling him; he's a gentleman, sir, who would take great care of him and give him a good home."

"Sell him!" said I. "Well, I should not object if he found a good master. I cannot ride him, and he is practically useless. What price does he seem inclined to offer?"

"Well, he ain't made any offer, sir; but he seems a good deal took with him and to like the look of him. Perhaps, sir, he might come and see you. I told him that I thought a matter o' fifteen pun might buy un. I dunnow whether I did right, sir, but I told un you would never take a farden less. I stuck to that."

"No," said I, "certainly not, when the vet.'s bill was twelve pounds ten—not a farthing less, James."

When the proposed purchaser came, he said, "It's a poor horse—a very poor horse; he wants a lot of looking after, and I shouldn't think of buying him except for the sake of seeing what I could do with him, for I am not fond of lumber, Mr. Hawkins—I don't care for lumber."

It was straightforward, but I did not at the time see his depth of feeling. He was evidently intending to buy him out of compassion, as he had some knowledge of his ancestors. But I stuck to my fifteen pounds hard and fast, and at last he said, "Well, Mr. Hawkins, I'll give you all you ask, if so be you'll throw in the saddle and bridle!"

I was tired of the negotiations, and yielded; so away went poor Dreadnought with his saddle and bridle, never for me to look on again. I was sorry to part with him, and the more so because his life had been unfortunate. But I was deceived in him as well as in his new master. From me he had concealed his merits, only to reveal them, as is often the case with latent genius, when some accidental opportunity offered.

At that time Bromley in Kent was a central attraction for a great many second-class patrons of the sporting world. I know little about the events that were negotiated at Bromley and other small places of the kind, but there was, as I have been informed, a good deal of blackguardism and pickpocketing on its course and in its little primitive streets—lucky if you came out of them with only one black eye. They would steal the teeth out of your mouth if you did not keep it shut and your eyes open.

However, Bromley races came on some time after the sale of my Dreadnought.... The next morning my groom came with a look of astonishment that seemed to have kept him awake all night, and said,—

"You'll be surprised to hear, sir, that our 'oss has won a fifty-pound prize at Bromley, and a pot of money besides in bets for his owner."

"Won a prize!" said I. "Was it by standing on his head?"

"Won a race, sir."

"Then it must have been a walk-over."

"Oh no, sir; he beat the cracks, beat the favourites, and took in all the knowing ones. I always said there was something about that there 'oss, sir, that I didn't understand and nobody couldn't understand, sir."

I was absolutely dumbfounded, knowing very little about "favourites" or "cracks." My groom I knew I could rely upon, for he always seemed to be the very soul of honour. I thought at first he might have been misled in some Bromley taproom, but afterwards found that it was all true—he had heard it from the owner himself, in whom the public seemed to place confidence, for they laid very long odds against Dreadnought.

The animal was famous, but not in that name; he had, like most honest persons, an alias. How he achieved his victory is uncertain; one thing, however, is certain—it must have been a startling surprise to Dreadnought to find himself in a race at all, and still more astonishing to find himself in front.

"How many ran?" I asked.

"Three, sir; two of 'em crack horses."

At this time I took little interest in pedigrees, and knew nothing of the "cracks," so the names of those celebrated animals which Dreadnought had beaten are forgotten. One of them, it appeared, had been heavily backed at 9 to 4, but Dreadnought did not seem to care for that; he ran, not on his public form, but on his merits. My eyes were opened at last, and the whole mystery was solved when James told me that all three horses belonged to the same owner!

From that time to this I never heard what became of Dreadnought, and never saw the man who bought him, even in the dock. It is strange, however, that animals so true and faithful as dogs and horses should be instruments so perverted as to make men liars and rogues; while for intelligence many of them could give most of us pounds and pass us easily at the winning-post.

Speaking of dogs reminds me of dog-stealers and their ways, of which some years ago I had a curious experience. I have told the story before, but it has become altered, and the true one has never been heard since. Indeed, no story is told correctly when its copyright is infringed.

There was a man at the time referred to known as old Sam Linton, the most extraordinary dog-fancier who ever lived, and the most curious thing about him was that he always fancied other people's dogs to his own. He was a remarkable dog-finder, too. In these days of dogs' homes the services of such a man as Linton are not so much in request; but he was a home in himself, and did a great deal of good in his way by restoring lost dogs to their owners; so that it became almost a common question in those days, when a lady lost her pet, to ask if she had made any inquiry of old Sam Linton. He was better than the wise woman who indicated in some mysterious jargon where the stolen watch might or might not be found in the distant future, for old Sam brought you the very dog on a specified day! The wise woman never knew where the lost property was; old Sam did.

I dare say he was a great blackguard, but as he has long joined the majority, it is of no consequence. There was one thing I admired about Sam: there was a thorough absence in him of all hypocrisy and cant. He professed no religion whatever, but acted upon the principle that a bargain was a bargain, and should be carried out as between man and man. That was his idea, and as I found him true to it, I respected him accordingly, and mention his name as one of the few genuinely honest men I have met.

The way I made his acquaintance was singular. I was dining with my brother benchers at the Middle Temple Hall, when a message was brought that a gentleman would like to see me "partickler" after dinner, if I could give him a few minutes.

When I came out of the hall, there was a man looking very like a burglar. His dress, or what you should call his "get-up," is worth a momentary glance. He had a cat-skin cap in his hand about as large as a frying-pan, and nearly of the same colour—this he kept turning round and round first with one hand, then with both—a pea-jacket with large pearl buttons, corduroy breeches, a kind of moleskin waistcoat, and blucher shoes. He impressed one in a moment as being fond of drink. On one or two occasions I found this quality of great service to me in matters relating to the discovery of lost dogs. Drink, no doubt, has its advantages to those who do not drink.

"Muster Orkins, sir," said he, "beggin' your pardon, sir, but might I have a word with you, Muster Orkins, if it ain't a great intrusion, sir?"

I saw my man at once, and showed him that I understood business.

"You are Sam Linton?"

It took his breath away. He hadn't much, but poor old Sam did not like to part with it. In a very husky voice, that never seemed to get outside his mouth, he said,—

"Yus, sur; that's it, Mr. Orkins." Then he breathed, "Yer 'onner, wot I means to say is this—"

"What do you want, Linton? Never mind what you mean to say; I know you'll never say it."

"Well, Mr. Orkins, sir, ye see it is as this: you've lost a little dorg. Well, you'll say, 'How do you know that 'ere, Sam?' 'Well, sir,' I says, ''ow don't I know it? Ain't you bin an' offered fourteen pun for that there leetle dorg? Why, it's knowed dreckly all round Mile End—the werry 'ome of lorst dorgs—and that there dorg, find him when you wool, why, he ain't worth more'n fourteen bob, sir.' Now, 'ow d'ye 'count for that, sir?"

"You've seen him, then?"

"Not I," says Sam, unmoved even by a twitch; "but I knows a party as 'as, and it ain't likely, Mr. Orkins, as you'll get 'im by orferin' a price like that, for why? Why, it stands to reason—don't it, Mr. Orkins?—it ain't the dorg you're payin' for, but your feelins as these 'ere wagabonds is tradin' on, Mr. Orkins; that's where it is. O sir, it's abominable, as I tells 'em, keepin' a gennelman's dorg."

I was perfectly thunderstruck with the man's philosophy and good feeling.

"Go on, Mr. Linton."

"Well, Mr. Orkins, they knows—damn 'em!—as your feelins ull make you orfer more and more, for who knows that there dorg might belong to a lidy, and then her feelins has to be took into consideration. I'll tell 'ee now, Mr. Orkins, how this class of wagabond works, for wagabonds I must allow they be. Well, they meets, let's say, at a public, and one says to another, 'I say, Bill,' he says, 'that there dawg as you found 'longs to Lawyer Orkins; he's bloomin' fond o' dawgs, is Lawyer Orkins, so they say, and he can pay for it.' 'Right you are,' says Bill, 'and a d—— lawyer shall pay for it. He makes us pay when we wants him, and now we got him we'll make him pay.' So you see, Mr. Orkins, where it is, and whereas the way to do it is to say to these fellers—I'll just suppose, sir, I'm you and you're me, sir; no offence, I hope—'Well, I wants the dawg back.' Well, they says; leastways, I ses, ses I,—

"'Lawyer Orkins, you lost a dawg, 'ave yer?'

"'Yes,' ses you, 'I have,' like a gennelman—excuse my imitation, sir—' and I don't keer a damn for the whelp!' That's wot you orter say. 'He's only a bloomin' mongrel.'"

"Very good; what am I to say next, Mr. Linton?"

"'Don't yer?' says the tother feller; 'then what the h—— are yer looken arter him for?'

"'Well,' you ses, Mr. Orkins, 'you can go to h——. I don't keer for the dawg; he ain't my fancy.'"

"A proper place for the whole lot of you, Sam."

"But, excuse me, Mr. Orkins, sir, that's for future occasions. This 'ere present one, in orferin' fourteen pun, you've let the cat out o' the bag, and what I could ha' done had you consulted me sooner I can't do now; I could ha' got him for a fi'-pun note at one time, but they've worked on your feelins, and, mark my words, they'll want twenty pun as the price o' that there dawg, as sure as my name's Sam Linton. That's all I got to say, Mr. Orkins, and I thought I'd come and warn yer like a man—he's got into bad hands, that there dawg."

"I am much obliged, Mr. Linton; you seem to be a straightforward-dealing man."

"Well, sir, I tries to act upright and downstraight; and, as I ses, if a man only does that he ain't got nothin' to fear, 'as he, Muster Orkins?"

"When can I have him, Sam?"

"Well, sir, you can have him—let me see—Monday was a week, when you lost him; next Monday'll be another week, when I found him; that'll be a fortnit. Suppose we ses next Tooesday week?"

"Suppose we say to-morrow."

"Oh!" said Sam, "then I thinks you'll be sucked in! The chances are, Mr. Orkins, you won't see him at all. Why, sir, you don't know how them chaps carries on their business. Would you believe it, Mr. Orkins, a gennelman comes to me, and he ses, 'Sam,' he ses, 'I want to find a little pet dawg as belonged to a lidy'—which was his wife, in course—and he ses the lidy was nearly out of her mind. 'Well,' I ses, 'sir, to be 'onest with you, don't you mention that there fact to anybody but me'—because when a lidy goes out of her mind over a lorst dawg up goes the price, and you can't calculate bank-rate, as they ses. The price'll go up fablous, Mr. Orkins; there's nothin' rules the market like that there. Well, at last I agrees to do my best for the gent, and he says, just as you might say, Mr. Orkins, just now, 'When can she have him?' Well, I told him the time; but what a innercent question, Mr. Orkins! 'Why not before?' says he, with a kind of a angry voice, like yours just now, sir. 'Why, sir,' I ses, 'these people as finds dawgs 'ave their feelins as well as losers 'as theirs, and sometimes when they can't find the owner, they sells the animal.' Well, they sold this gennelman's animal to a major, and the reason why he couldn't be had for a little while was that the major, being fond on him, and 'avin' paid a good price for the dawg, it would ha' been cruel if he did not let him have the pleasure of him like for a few days—or a week."

Sam and I parted the best of friends, and, I need not say, on the best of terms I could get. I knew him for many years after this incident, and say to his credit that, although he was sometimes hard with customers, he acted, from all one ever heard, strictly in accordance with the bargain he made, whatever it might be; and what is more singular than all, I never heard of old Sam Linton getting into trouble.



CHAPTER X.

WHY I GAVE OVER CARD-PLAYING.

Like most men who are not saints, I had the natural instinct for gambling, without any passion for it; but soon found the necessity for suppressing my inclination for cards, lest it should interfere with my legitimate profession. It was necessary to abandon the indulgence, or abandon myself to its temptations.

I owe my determination never to play again at cards to the bad luck which befell me on a particular occasion at Ascot on the Cup Day of the year 18—. I was at that time struggling to make my way in my profession, and carefully storing up my little savings for the proverbial rainy day.

Having been previously to the Epsom summer races, and had such extraordinary good luck, nothing but a severe reverse would have induced me to take the step I did. Good luck is fascinating, and invariably leads us on, with bad luck sometimes close behind.

I went to Epsom with my dear old friend Charley Wright, and we soon set to work in one of the booths to make something towards our fortunes at rouge et noir. The booth was kept by a man who seemed—to me, at all events—to be the soul of honour. I had no reason to speak otherwise than well of him, for I staked a half-crown on the black, and won two half-crowns every time, or nearly every time.

I thought it a most excellent game, and with less of the element of chance or skill in it than any game I ever played. My pockets were getting stuffed with half-crowns, so that they bulged, and caused me to wonder if I should be allowed to leave the racecourse alive, for there were many thieves who visited the Downs in those days.

But my friend Charley was with me, and I knew he would be a pretty trustworthy fellow in a row. This, however, was but a momentary thought, for I was too much engrossed in the game and in my good luck to dwell on possibilities. Nor did I interest myself in Charley's proceedings, but took it for granted that a game so propitious to me was no less so to him. He was playing with several others; who or what they were was of no moment to me. I pursued my game quietly, and picked up my half-crowns with great gladness and with no concern for those who had lost them.

Presently, however, my attention was momentarily diverted by hearing Charley let off a most uncontrollable "D—n!"

"What's the matter, Charley?" I asked, without lifting my head.

"Matter!" says Charley; "rooked—that's all!"

"Rooked! That's very extraordinary. I'm winning like anything. Look here!" and I pointed to my pockets, which were almost bursting.

"Yes," said he, "I see how it is: you've been winning on twos to one, and I've been losing on threes."

"Black's the winning colour to-day, Charley—noir; you should have backed noir. Besides, long odds are much too risky. I am quite content with two to one."

Here there was a general break-up of the party, because Charley being out of it as well as several others, it left only one, and, of course, the keeper of the booth was not so foolish, however honourable, to pay me two half-crowns and win only one. So there it ended.

That night I made this game a study, and the sensible conclusion came to me that if you would take advantage of the table you should play for the lower stakes, because you have a better chance of winning than those who play high. At least, that was the result of my policy; for while those who played high were ruined, my pockets were filled, and, by that cautious mode of playing, I was so lucky that, had there been enough at threes to one, I could have kept on making money as long as they had any to lose.

I changed my half-crowns with the booth-keeper for gold, and reached my chambers safely with the spoil. And how pleasant it was to count it!

It has occurred to me since that the keeper of the booth had carefully noted my proceedings (such was my innocence), and that he made his calculations for a future occasion. One thing he was quite sure of—namely, that he would see me again on the first opportunity there was of winning more half-crowns.

It is possible that a succession of runs of luck might have put an end to my professional career; it is certain that the opposite result put an end to my card-playing aspirations.

In about a fortnight, all eager for a renewal of my Epsom experience, I went down to the Ascot meeting, taking with me not only all my previous winnings, but my store of savings for the rainy day, and was determined to pursue the same moderate system of cautious play.

There was the same booth, the same little flag fluttering on the top, and the same obliging proprietor. He recognized me at once, and looked as if he was quite sure I would be there—as if, in fact, he had been waiting for me. After a pleasant greeting and a few friendly words, I thought it a little odd that a man should be so glad to meet one who had come to fill his pockets at the booth-keeper's expense—at least, I thought this afterwards, not at the time. He looked genuinely pleased, and down I sat once more, quite sure that two to one would beat three.

The proprietor kept his eye on my play in a very thoughtful manner, nor was it surprising that he knew his game as well as I; in fact, it turned out that he knew it better. To this day I am unable to explain how he manoeuvred it, how he adjusted his tactics to counteract mine; but that something happened more than mere luck would account for was certain, for, as often as the half-crown went on black, red was the lucky colour. But I persevered on black because it had been my friend at Epsom, and down went the half-crowns, to be swept up by the keeper of the booth. I cannot even now explain how it was done.

Intending to make a good day's work and gather a rich harvest, I took with me every shilling I had in the world—not only my previous winnings, but my hard-earned savings at the Bar. I began to lose, but went on playing, in the vain hope—the worst hope of the gambler—of retrieving what I had lost and recovering my former luck. But it was not to be; the table was against me. I forsook my loyalty to black and laid on red. Alas! red was no better friend. I lost again, and knew now that all my Epsom winnings had found their way once more into the keeper's pocket. A fortnight's loan was all I had of them. It was a pity they had not been given to some charity. But I kept on bravely enough, and did not despair or leave off while I had a half-crown left. That half-crown, however, was soon raked up with the rest into the keeper's bag.

I was bankrupt, with nothing in my pocket but twopence and a return ticket from Paddington.

Hopeless and helpless, I had learnt a lesson—a lesson you can only learn in the school of experience.

I little thought then that the only certain winner at the gaming-table is the table itself, and made up my mind as I walked alone and disappointed through Windsor Park, on my way to the station, that I would never touch a card again—and I never did.

For the first time since setting out in the morning I felt hungry, and bought a pennyworth of apples at a little stall kept by an old woman, and a bottle of ginger-beer. Such was my frugal meal; and thus sustained I tramped on, my return ticket being my only possession in the world. I reached Paddington with a sorry heart, and walked to the Temple, my good resolution my only comfort; but it was all-sufficient for the occasion and for all time to come.



CHAPTER XI.

"CODD'S PUZZLE."

Having somewhat succeeded in my practice at Quarter Sessions, I enlarged my field of adventure by attending the Old Bailey, hoping, of course, to obtain some briefs at that court; and although I abandoned the practice as a rule, I was, in after-life, on many occasions retained to appear in cases which are still fresh in my memory. I was with Edwin James, who was counsel for Mr. Bates, one of the partners of Strahan and Sir John Dean Paul, bankers of the Strand, and who were sentenced to fourteen years' transportation for fraudulently misappropriating securities of their customers. I was counsel for a young clerk to Leopold Redpath, the notorious man who was transported for extensive forgeries upon the Great Northern Railway. The clerk was justly acquitted by the jury.

My recollection of this period brings back many curious defences, which illustrate the school of advocacy in which I studied. Whether they contributed to my future success, I do not know, but that they afforded amusement is proved by my remembering them at all.

Hertford and St. Albans were my chief places, my earliest attachments, and are amongst my pleasantest memories. It seems childish to think of them as scenes of my struggles, for when I come to look back I had no struggles at all. I was merely practising like a cricketer at the nets; there was nothing to struggle for except a verdict when it would not come without some effort.

But dear old Codd was the man to struggle. He struggled and wriggled; tie him up as tightly as you could, you saw him fighting to get free, as he did in the following great duck case. He was a very amiable old barrister, a fast talker—so fast that he never stayed to pronounce his words—and of an ingenuity that ought to have been applied to some better purpose, such as the making of steam-engines or writing novels, rather than defending thieves. He reminded me on this occasion of the man in the circus who rode several horses at a time. In the case I allude to, he set up no less than seven defences to account for the unhappy duck's finding its way into his client's pocket, and the charm of them all was their variety. Inconsistency was not the word to apply reproachfully. Inconsistency was Codd's merit. He was like a conjurer who asks you to name a card, and as surely as you do so you draw it from the pack.

This particular duck case was known long after as "Codd's Puzzle."

"First," says Codd, "my client bought the duck and paid for it."

He was not the man to be afraid of being asked where.

"Second," says Codd, "my client found it; thirdly, it had been given to him; fourthly, it flew into his garden; fifthly, he was asleep, and some one put it into his pocket." And so the untiring and ingenious Codd proceeded making his case unnaturally good.

But the strange thing was that, instead of sweeping him away with a touch of ridicule, the young advocate argued the several defences one after the other with great dialectical skill, so that the jury became puzzled; and if the defence had not been so extraordinarily good, there would have been an acquittal forthwith.

There had been such a bewildering torrent of arguments that presently Codd's head began to swim, and he shrugged his shoulders, meaning thereby that it was the most puzzling case he had ever had anything to do with.

At last it became a question whether, amidst these conflicting accounts, there ever was any duck at all. Codd had not thought of that till some junior suggested it, and then he was asked by the Marquis of Salisbury, our chairman, whether there was any particular line of defence he wished to suggest.

"No," says Codd, "not in particular; my client wished to make a clean breast of it, and put them all before the jury; and I should be much obliged if those gentlemen will adopt any one of them."[A]

The jury acquitted the prisoner, not because they chose any particular defence, but because they did not know which to choose, and so gave the prisoner the benefit of the doubt.

The client was happy, and Codd famous.

[Footnote A: Sixty years after this event, in the reply in the great Tichborne case, Mr. Hawkins, Q.C., quoted this very defence as an illustration of the absurdity of the suggestion that one of several Ospreys picked up Sir Roger Tichborne—as will hereafter appear.]



CHAPTER XII.

GRAHAM, THE POLITE JUDGE.

Just before my time the punishment of death was inflicted for almost every offence of stealing which would now be thought sufficiently dealt with by a sentence of a week's imprisonment. The struggle to turn King's evidence was great, and it was almost a competitive examination to ascertain who knew most about the crime; and he, being generally the worst of the gang, was accepted accordingly.

I remember when I was a child three men, named respectively Marshall, Cartwright, and Ingram, were charged with having committed a burglary in the house of a gentleman named Pym, who lived in a village in Hertfordshire, Marshall being at that time, and Cartwright having previously been, butler in the gentleman's service. Ingram had been a footman in London.

The burglary was not in itself of an aggravated character. Plate only was stolen, and that had been concealed under the gravel bed of a little rivulet which ran through the grounds.

No violence or threat of violence had been offered to any inmate of the house, yet the case was looked upon as serious because of the position of trust which had been held by the two butlers.

Ingram was admitted as King's evidence. The butlers were convicted, sentenced to death, and hanged, whilst Ingram was, according to universal practice, set at liberty. Before the expiration of a year, however, he was convicted of having stolen a horse, and as horse-stealing was a capital offence at that time, he suffered the penalty of death at Hereford.

It was a curious coincidence that only a year or two afterwards a man named Probert, who had given King's evidence upon which the notorious Thurtell and Hunt were convicted of the brutal murder of Weare and executed, was also released, and within a year convicted of horse-stealing and hanged.

An old calendar for the Assize at Lincoln, which I give as an Appendix, reminds me of the condition of the law and of its victims at that time. At every assize it was like a tiger let loose upon the district. If a man escaped the gallows, he was lucky, while the criminals were by no means the hardened ruffians who had been trained in the school of crime; they were mostly composed of the most ignorant rural labourers—if, indeed, in those days there were any degrees of ignorance, when to be able to read a few words by spelling them was considered a prodigious feat.

Jurors often endeavoured to mitigate the terrors of the law by finding that the stolen property, however valuable it might be, was of less value than five shillings. May the recording angel "drop a tear over this record of perjury and blot it out for ever."

It was in those days that Mr. Justice Graham was called upon to administer the law, and on one occasion particularly he vindicated his character for courtesy to all who appeared before him. He was a man unconscious of humour and yet humorous, and was not aware of the extreme civility which he exhibited to everybody and upon all occasions, especially to the prisoner.

People went away with a sense of gratitude for his kindness, and when he sentenced a batch of prisoners to death he did it in a manner that might make any one suppose, if he did not know the facts, that they had been awarded prizes for good conduct.

He was firm, nevertheless—a great thing in judges, if not accompanied with weakness of mind. I may add that there was a singular precision in his mode of expression as well as in his ideas.

At a country assize, where he was presiding in the Crown Court, a man was indicted for murder. He pleaded "Not guilty." The evidence contained in the depositions was terribly clear, and, of course, the judge, who had perused them, was aware of it.

The case having been called on for trial, counsel for the prosecution applied for a postponement on the ground of the absence of a most material witness for the Crown.

I should mention that in those days counsel were not allowed to speak for the prisoner, but the judge was always in theory supposed to watch the case on his behalf. In the absence of a material witness the prisoner would be acquitted.

The learned Mr. Justice Graham asked the accused if he had any objection to the case being postponed until the next assizes, on the ground, as the prosecution had alleged, that their most material witness could not be produced. His lordship put the case as somewhat of a misfortune for the prisoner, and made it appear that it would be postponed, if he desired it, as a favour to him.

Notwithstanding the judge's courteous manner of putting it, the prisoner most strenuously objected to any postponement. It was not for him to oblige the Crown at the expense of a broken neck, and he desired above all things to be tried in accordance with law. He stood there on his "jail delivery."

Graham was firm, but polite, and determined to grant the postponement asked for. In this he was doubtless right, for the interests of justice demanded it. But to soften down the prisoner's disappointment and excuse the necessity of his further imprisonment, his lordship addressed him in the following terms, and in quite a sympathetic manner:—

"Prisoner, I am extremely sorry to have to detain you in prison, but common humanity requires that I should not let you be tried in the absence of an important witness for the prosecution, although at the same time I can quite appreciate your desire to have your case speedily disposed of; one does not like a thing of this sort hanging over one's head. But now, for the sake of argument, prisoner, suppose I were to try you to-day in the absence of that material witness, and yet, contrary to your expectations, they were to find you guilty. What then? Why, in the absence of that material witness, I should have to sentence you to be hanged on Monday next. That would be a painful ordeal for both of us.

"But now let us take the other alternative, and let us suppose that if your trial had been put off, and the material witness, when called, could prove something in your favour—this sometimes happens—and that that something induced the jury to acquit you, what a sad thing that would be! It would not signify to you, because you would have been hanged, and would be dead!"

Here his lordship paused for a considerable time, unable to suppress his emotion, but, having recovered himself, continued,—

"But you must consider what my feelings would be when I thought I had hanged an innocent man!"

At the next assizes the man was brought up, the material witness appeared; the prisoner was found guilty, and hanged.

The humane judge's feelings were therefore spared.

At the Old Bailey he was presiding during a sessions which was rather light for the times, there being less than a score left for execution under sentence of death. There were, in fact, only sixteen, most of them for petty thefts.

His lordship, instead of reading the whole of the sixteen names, omitted one, and read out only fifteen. He then politely, and with exquisite precision and solemnity, exhorted them severally to prepare for the awful doom that awaited them the following Monday, and pronounced on each the sentence of death.

They left the dock.

After they were gone the jailer explained to his lordship that there had been sixteen prisoners capitally convicted, but that his lordship had omitted the name of one of them, and he would like to know what was to be done with him.

"What is the prisoner's name?" asked Graham.

"John Robins, my lord."

"Oh, bring John Robins back—by all means let John Robins step forward. I am obliged to you."

The culprit was once more placed at the Bar, and Graham, addressing him in his singularly courteous manner, said apologetically,—

"John Robins, I find I have accidentally omitted your name in my list of prisoners doomed to execution. It was quite accidental, I assure you, and I ask your pardon for my mistake. I am very sorry, and can only add that you will be hanged with the rest."



CHAPTER XIII.

GLORIOUS OLD DAYS—THE HON. BOB GRIMSTON, AND MANY OTHERS—CHICKEN-HAZARD.

The old glories of the circuit days vanished with stage-coaches and post-chaises. If you climbed on to the former for the sake of economy because you could not afford to travel in the latter, you would be fined at the circuit mess, whose notions of propriety and economy were always at variance.

Those who obtained no business found it particularly hateful to keep up the foolish appearance of having it by means of a post-chaise. You might not ride in a public vehicle, or dine at a public table, or put up at an inn for fear of falling in with attorneys and obtaining briefs from them surreptitiously. The Home Circuit was very strict in these respects, but it was the cheapest circuit to travel in the kingdom, so that its members were numerous and, I need not say, various in mind, manner, and position.

But it was a circuit of brilliant men in my young days. Many of them rose to eminence both in law and in Parliament. It was a time, indeed, when, if judges made law, law made judges.

I should like to say a word or two about those times and the necessary studies to be undergone by those who aspired to eminence.

In the days of my earliest acquaintance with the law, an ancient order of men, now almost, if not quite, extinct, called Special Pleaders, existed, who, after having kept the usual number of terms—that is to say, eaten the prescribed number of dinners in the Inn of Court to which they belonged—became qualified, on payment of a fee of L12, to take out a Crown licence to plead under the Bar. This enabled them to do all things which a barrister could do that did not require to be transacted in court. They drew pleadings, advised and took pupils.

Some of them practised in this way all their lives and were never called. Others grew tired of the drudgery, and were called to the Bar, where they remained junior barristers as long as they lived, old age having no effect upon their status. Some were promoted to the ancient order of Serjeants-at-Law, or were appointed her Majesty's Counsel, while some of the Serjeants received from the Crown patents of precedence with priority over all Queen's Counsel appointed after them, and with the privilege of wearing a silk gown and a Queen's Counsel wig.

There was, however, this difference between a Queen's Counsel and the holder of a Patent of Precedence: that the former, having been appointed one of her Majesty's Counsel, could not thenceforth appear without special licence under the sign-manual of the Queen to defend a prisoner upon a criminal charge. The Serjeant-at-Law is as rare now as a bustard.

I mention these old-fashioned times and studies, not because of their interest at the present day, but because they produced such men as Littledale, Bayley, Parke (afterwards Lord Wensleydale), Alderson, Tindal, Patteson, Wightman, Crompton, Vaughan Williams, James, Willes, and, later, Blackburn.

The contemplation of these legal giants, amongst whom my career commenced, somewhat checked the buoyant impulse which had urged me onward at Quarter Sessions, but at the same time imparted a little modest desire to imitate such incomparable models. Those of them who were selected from the junior Bar were good examples of men whose vast knowledge of law was acquired in the way I have indicated, and who were chosen on their merits alone.

But even these successful examples, however encouraging to the student, were, nevertheless, not ill-calculated to make a young barrister whose income was small, and sometimes, as in my case, by no means assured to him, sicken at the thought that, study as he liked, years might pass, and probably would, before a remunerative practice came to cheer him. Perhaps it would never come at all, and he would become, like so many hundreds of others of his day and ours, a hopeless failure. All were competitors for the briefs and even the smiles of solicitors; for without their favour none could succeed, although he might unite in himself all the qualities of lawyer and advocate.

The prospect was not exhilarating for any one who had to perform the drudgery of the first few years of a junior's life; nevertheless, I was not cast down by the mere apprehension, or rather the mere possibility of failure, for when I looked round on my competitors I was encouraged by the thought that dear old Woollet knew more about a rate appeal than Littledale himself, while old Peter Ryland, with his inimitable Saxon, was quite as good at the irremovability of a pauper as Codd was in accounting for the illegal removal of a duck, and both in their several branches of knowledge more learned than Alderson or Bayley. But here I was, launched on that wide sea in which I was "to sink or swim," and, as I preferred the latter, I struck out with a resolute breast-stroke, and, as I have said, never failed to keep my head above water. It was some satisfaction to know that, if the judges were so learned, there was yet more learning to come; much yet to come down from, the old table-land of the Common Law, and much more from the inexhaustible fountain of Parliament.

The Quarter Sessions Court was the arena of my first eight years of professional life. I watched and waited with unwearied attention, never without hope, but often on the very verge of despair, of ever making any progress which would justify my choosing it as a profession. My greatest delight, perhaps, was the obtaining an acquittal of some one whose guilt nobody could doubt. All the struggle of those times was the fight for the "one three six," and the hardest effort of my life was the most valuable, because it gave me the key which opened the door to many depositories of unexplored wealth.

There were many men who outlived their life, and others who never lived their lives at all; many men who did nothing, and many more who would almost have given their lives to do something.

There was, however, one man of those days whom I cannot here pass over, as he remained my companion and friend to his life's end, and will be remembered by me with affection and reverence to the end of my own. It was old Bob Grimston, whom I first met at the benefit of "the Spider," one of the famous prize-fighters of the time. The Hon. Bob Grimston was known in the sporting world as one of its most enthusiastic supporters, and acknowledged as one of the best men in saddle or at the wicket. But Bob was not only a sportsman—he was a gentleman of the finest feeling you could meet, and the keenest sense of honour.

Having thus spoken of some of the eminent men of my early days, I would like to mention a little incident that occurred before I had fairly settled down to practise, or formed any serious intention as to the course I should pursue—that is to say, whether I should remain a sessions man like Woollet, or become a master of Saxon like old Peter Ryland, a sportsman like Bob Grimston, or a cosmopolitan like Rodwell, so as to comprehend all that came in my way. I chose the latter, for the simple reason that in principle I loved what in these days would be called "the open door," and received all comers, even sometimes entertaining solicitors unawares.

Accordingly I laid myself open to the attention of kind friends and people whose manner of life was founded on the Christian principle of being "given to hospitality."

But before I come to the particular incident I wish to describe, I must briefly mention a remarkable case that was tried in the Queen's Bench, and which necessarily throws me back a year or two in my narrative.

It was a case known as "Boyle and Lawson," and the incident it reveals will give an idea of the state of society of that day. I am not sure whether it differs in many respects from that of the present, except in so far as its honour is concerned, for what was looked upon then as a flagrant outrage on public morality is now regarded as an error of judgment, or a mistake occasioned by some fortuitous combination of unconsidered circumstances. Such is the value in literature and argument of long words without meaning.

However, the action was brought against the proprietors of the Times newspaper for libel. The libel consisted in the statement that the respectable plaintiff—a lady—had conspired with persons unknown to obtain false letters of credit for large sums of money.

The hospitable friends I refer to lived in excellent style in Norwich. How they had attained their social distinction I am unable to say, but they were, in fact, in the "very best set," which in Norwich was by no means the fastest.

I was travelling at this time with Charles Willshire and his brother Thomas, who was a mere youth. There was also an undergraduate of Cambridge of the name of Crook with us, and another who had joined our party for a few days' ramble.

We were enjoying ourselves in the old city of Norwich as only youth can, when we received an invitation to pass an evening in a very fashionable circle. How the invitation came I could not tell, but we made no inquiry and accepted it. Arrived at the house, which was situated in the most aristocratic neighbourhood that Norwich could boast, we found ourselves in the most agreeable society we could wish to meet. This was a group of exalted and fashionable personages arrayed in costumes of the superb Prince Regent style. Nothing could exceed this party in elegance of costume or manners. You could tell at once they were, as it was then expressed, "of the quality." Their cordiality was equalled only by their courtesy, and had we been princes of the blood we could not have received a more polite welcome. There was an elegance, too, about the house, and a refinement which coincided with the culture of the hosts and guests. Altogether it was one of the most agreeable parties I had ever seen. There were several gentlemen, all Prince Regents, and one sweet lady, charming in every way, from the well-arranged blonde tresses to the neatest little shoe that ever adorned a Cinderella foot. She was beautiful in person as she was charming in manner. You saw at once that she moved in the best Norwich society, and was the idol of it. Crook was perfectly amazed at so much grace and splendour, but then he was much younger than any of us.

I don't think any one was so much smitten as Crook. We had seen more of the world than he had—that is to say, more of the witness-box—and if you don't see the world there, on its oath, you can see it nowhere in the same unveiled deformity.

We enjoyed ourselves very much. There was good music and a little sweet singing, the lady being in that art, as in every other, well trained and accomplished. If I was not altogether ravished with the performance, Crook was. You could see that by the tender look of his eyes.

After the music, cards were introduced, and they commenced playing vingt-et-un, Crook being the special favourite with everybody, especially with the ladies. I believe much was due to the expression of his eyes.

As I had given up cards, I did not join in the game, but became more and more interested in it as an onlooker. I was a little surprised, however, to find that in a very short while, comparatively, our friend Crook had lost L30 or L40; and as this was the greater part of his allowance for travelling expenses, it placed him in a rather awkward position.

Some men travel faster when they have no money; this was not the case with poor Crook, who travelled only by means of it. Alas, I thought, twenty-one and vingt-et-un! It was a serious matter, and the worse because Crook was not a good loser: he lost his head and his temper as well as his money; and I have ever observed through life that the man who loses his temper loses himself and his friends.

He was disgusted with his bad luck, but nurtured a desperate hope—the forlorn hope that deceives all gamblers—that he should retrieve his losses on some future occasion, which he eagerly looked for and, one might say, demanded.

The occasion was not far off; it was, in fact, nearer than Crook anticipated. His pleasant manner and agreeable society at vingt-et-un procured us another invitation for the following night but one, and of course we accepted it. It was a great change to me from the scenery of the Elm Court chimney-pots.

Whatever might be Crook's happily sanguine disposition and hope of retrieving his luck, there was one thing which the calculator of chances does not take into consideration in games of this kind. We, visiting such cultured and fashionable people, would never for a moment think so meanly of our friends; I mean the possibility of their cheating, a word never mentioned in well-bred society. A suspicion of such conduct, even, would be tantamount to treason, and a violation of the rules that regulate the conduct of ladies and gentlemen. It was far from all our thoughts, and the devil alone could entertain so malevolent an idea. Be that as it may, as a matter of philosophy, the onlooker sees most of the game, and as I was an onlooker this is what I saw:—

The elegant lady exchanged glances with one of the players while she was looking over Crook's hand! Crook was losing as fast as he could, and no wonder. I was now in an awkward position. To have denounced our hosts because I interpreted a lady's glances in a manner that made her worse than a common thief might have produced unknown trouble. But I kept my eye on the beautiful blonde, nevertheless, and became more and more confirmed in my suspicions without any better opportunity of declaring them.

The charming well-bred lady thus communicating her knowledge of Crook's cards, I need not say he was soon reduced to a state of insolvency; and as the party was too exclusive and fashionable to extend their hospitality to those who had not the means of paying, it soon broke up, and we returned to our rooms, I somewhat wiser and Crook a great deal poorer.

Such was the adventure which came to my mind when I saw in the Queen's Bench at Westminster the trial of "Boyle and Lawson" against the Times for calumnious insinuations against the character of a lady and others, suggesting that they obtained false letters of credit to enable them to cheat and defraud.

This was the select party which Norwich society had lionized—the great unknown to whom we had been introduced, and where Crook had been cheated out of his travelling-money!

The lady was the fair plaintiff in this action, seeking for the rehabilitation of her character; and she succeeded in effecting that object so far as the outlay of one farthing would enable her to do so, for that was all the jury gave her, and it was exactly that amount too much. Her character was worth more to her in Crook's time.

Speaking of a man running society on his fees—that is, endeavouring to cope with the rich on the mere earnings of a barrister, however large they may be—I have met with several instances which would have preserved me from the same fate had I ever been cursed with such an inclination. The number of successful men at the Bar who have been ruined by worshipping the idol which is called "Society," and which is perhaps a more disastrous deity to worship than any other, is legion. This is one unhappy example, the only one I intend to give.

While I was living in Bond Street, and working very hard, I had little time and no inclination to lounge about amongst the socially great; I had, indeed, no money to spend on great people. The entrance-fee into the portals of the smart society temple is heavy, especially for a working-man; and so found the bright particular star who had long held his place amidst the splendid social galaxy, and then disappeared into a deeper obscurity than that from which he had emerged, to be seen no more for ever.

He was a Queen's Counsel, a brilliant advocate in a certain line of business, and a popular, agreeable, intellectual, and amusing companion. He obtained a seat in Parliament, and a footing in Society which made him one of its selected and principal lions. In every Society paper, amongst its most fashionable intelligence, there was he; and Society hardly seemed to be able to get along without him.

One Sunday afternoon I was reading in my little room when this agreeable member of the elite called upon me. My astonishment was great, because at that time of my career not only did I not receive visitors, but such a visitor was beyond all expectation, and I wondered, when his name was announced, what could have brought him, he so great and I comparatively nothing. It is true I had known him for some time, but I knew him so little that I thought of him as a most estimable great man whose career was leading him to the highest distinction in his profession.

Another extraordinary thing that struck me long after, but did not at the time, was that the business he came upon made no particular impression on my mind, any more than if it had been the most ordinary thing in the world. That to me is still inexplicable.

My visitor did not let troubles sit upon him, if troubles he ever had, for he seemed to be in the highest spirits. Society kept him ever in a state of effervescent hilarity, so that he never let anything trouble him. At this time he was making at the Bar seven or eight thousand a year, and consequently, I thought, must be the happiest of men.

His manner was agreeable, and his face wore a smile of complacency at variance with the nature of his errand, which he quickly took care to make known by informing me that he was in a devil of a mess, and did not know what he should do to get out of it.

"Oh," I said quite carelessly, "you'll manage." And little did I think I should be the means of fulfilling my own prophecy.

"The fact is, my dear Hawkins," said the wily intriguer, for such he was, "I'll tell you seriously how I stand. To-morrow morning I have bills becoming due amounting to L1,250, and I want you to be good enough to lend me that sum to enable me to meet them."

I was perfectly astounded! This greatness to have come down to L1,250 on the wrong side of the ledger.

"I have no such amount," said I, "and never had anything like it at my bank." I must say I pitied him, and began to wonder in what way I could help him. He was so really and good-naturedly in earnest, and seemed so extremely anxious, that at last I said, "Well, I'll see what I can do," and asked him to meet me in court the following morning, when I would tell him whether I could help him or not.

His gratitude was boundless; my kindness should never be forgotten—no, as long as he lived! and if he had been addressing a common jury he could not have used more flowers of speech or shed more abundant tears to water them with. I was the best friend he had ever had. And, as it seemed afterwards, very foolishly so, because he told me he had not one farthing of security to offer for the loan. A man who ought to have been worth from fifty to a hundred thousand pounds!

However, I went to my bankers' and made arrangements to be provided with the amount. I met him at the place of appointment, and was quite surprised to see the change in his demeanour since the day before. He was now apparently in a state of deeper distress than ever, and thinking to soothe him, I said, "It's all right; you can have the money!"

Once more he overwhelmed me with the eloquence of a grateful heart, but said it was of no use—no use whatever; that instead of L1,250 he had other bills coming in, and unless they could all be met he might just as well let the others go.

"How much do you really want to quite clear you?" I asked, with a simplicity which astonishes me to this day.

"Well," he said, "nothing is of the least use under L2,500."

I was a little staggered, but, pitying his distress of mind, went once more to my bankers' and made the further necessary arrangements. I borrowed the whole amount at five per cent., and placed it to the credit of this brilliant Queen's Counsel.

The only terms I made with him on this new condition of things was that he should, out of his incoming fees, pay my clerk L500 a quarter until the whole sum was liquidated. This he might easily have done, and this he arranged to do; but the next day he pledged the whole of his prospective income to a Jew, incurred fresh liabilities, and left me without a shadow of a chance of ever seeing a penny of my money again. I need not say every farthing was lost, principal and interest. I say interest, because it cost me five per cent, till the amount was paid.

His end was as romantic as his life, but it is best told in the words of my old friend Charley Colman, who never spares colour when it is necessary, and in that respect is an artist who resembles Nature. Thus he writes:—

"What a coward at heart was ——! He allowed himself to be sat upon and crushed without raising a hand or voice in his defence of himself. When he returned from America he accepted a seat in —— office—in the office of the man who urged Lord —— to prosecute him.

"After your gift to him—a noble gift of L3,000—he called at my chambers, spoke in high terms of your generosity, and wished all the world to know it, so elated was he. I was to publish it far and wide. He went away. In half an hour he returned, and begged me to keep the affair secret. 'Too late,' said I. 'Several gentlemen have been here, and to them I mentioned the matter, and begged them to spread it far and wide.' His heart failed him when he thought he would be talked about.

"He was a kind-hearted fellow at times—generous to a fault, always most abstemious; but he had a tongue, and one he did not try to control. He used to say stinging things of people, knowing them to be untrue.

"What a life! What a terrible fate was his! Turned out of Parliament; made to resign his Benchership; his gown taken from him by the Benchers; driven to America by his creditors to get his living; not allowed to practise in the Supreme Court in America. At forty-five years of age his life had foundered. He returns to England—for what! Simply to find his recklessness had blasted his life, and then—?

"Sometimes, in spite of all, I feel a moisture in my eye when I think of him. Had he been true to himself what a brilliant life was open to him! What a practice he had! Up to the last he told me that he turned L14,000 a year. He worked hard, very hard, and his gains went to —— or to chicken-hazard! Poor fellow!"



CHAPTER XIV.

PETER RYLAND—THE REV. MR. FAKER AND THE WELSH WILL.

I was retained at Hertford Assizes, with Peter Ryland as my leader, to prosecute a man for perjury, which was alleged to have been committed in an action in which a cantankerous man, who had once filled the office of High Sheriff for the county, was the prosecutor. Wealthy and disagreeable, he was nevertheless a henpecked tyrant.

Mrs. Brown, his wife, was a witness for the prosecution in the alleged perjury—which was unfortunate for her husband, because she had the greatest knowledge of the circumstances surrounding the case; while Mr. Brown had the best knowledge of the probable quality of his wife's evidence.

When we were in consultation and considering the nature of this evidence, and arranging the best mode of presenting our case to the jury, Brown interposed, and begged that Mr. Ryland should call Mrs. Brown as the last witness, instead of first, which was the proper course. "Because," said he, "if anything goes wrong during the trial or anything is wanting, Mrs. Brown will be quite ready to mop it all up."

This in a prosecution for perjury was one of the boldest propositions I had ever heard.

I need not say that good Mrs. Brown was called, as she ought to have been, first. The lady's mop was not in requisition at that stage of the trial, and the jury decided against her.

I was sometimes in the Divorce Court, and old Jack Holker was generally my opponent. He was called "Long Odds." In one particular case I won some eclat. It is not related on that account, however, but simply in consequence of its remarkable incidents. No case is interesting unless it is outside the ordinary stock-in-trade of the Law Courts, and I think this was.

The details are not worth telling, and I therefore pass them by. Cresswell was the President, and the future President, Hannen, my junior.

We won a great victory through the remarkable over-confidence and indiscretion of Edwin James, Q.C., who opposed us. James's client was the husband of the deceased. By her will the lady had left him the whole of her property, amounting to nearly L100,000. The case we set up was that the wife had been improperly influenced by her husband in making it, and that her mind was coerced into doing what she did not intend to do, and so we sought to set aside the will on that ground.

Edwin James had proved a very strong case on behalf of the validity of the will. He had called the attesting witnesses, and they, respectable gentlemen as they undoubtedly were, had proved all that was necessary—namely, that the testator, notwithstanding that she was in a feeble condition and almost at the last stage, was perfectly calm and capable in mind and understanding—exactly, in fact, as a testator ought to be who wills her property to her husband if he retains her affection.

The witnesses had been cross-examined by me, and nothing had been elicited that cast the least doubt upon their character or credibility. Had the matter been left where it was, the L100,000 would have been secured. But James, whatever may have been his brilliance, was wanting in tact. He would not leave well alone, but resolved to call the Rev. Mr. Faker, a distinguished Dissenting minister.

In fiction this gentleman would have appeared in the melodramatic guise of a spangled tunic, sugar-loaf hat, with party-coloured ribbons, purple or green breeches, and motley hose; but in the witness-box he was in clerical uniform, a long coat and white cravat with corresponding long face and hair, especially at the back of his head. A soberer style of a stage bandit was never seen. He was just the man for cross-examination, I saw at a glance—a fancy witness, and, I believe, a Welshman. As he was a Christian warrior, I had to find out the weak places in his armour. But little he knew of courts of law and the penetrating art of cross-examination, which could make a hole in the triple-plated coat of fraud, hypocrisy, and cunning. I was in no such panoply. I fought only with my little pebblestone and sling, but took good aim, and then the missile flew with well-directed speed.

I had to throw at a venture at first, because, happily, there were no instructions how to cross-examine. Not that I should have followed them if there had been; but I might have got a fact or two from them.

It is well known that artifice is the resource of cunning, whether it acts on the principle of concealing truth or boldly asserting falsehood. Here the reverend strategist did both: he knew how a little truth could deceive. You must remember that at this point of the case, when the Rev. Faker was called, there was nothing to cross-examine about. I knew nothing of the parties, the witnesses, the solicitors, or any one except my learned friends. It would not have been discreditable to my advocacy if I had submitted to a verdict. I will, therefore, give the points of the questions which elicited the truth from the Christian warrior; and probably the non-legal reader of these memoirs may be interested in seeing what may sometimes be done by a few judicious questions.

"Mr. Faker," I said.

"Sir," says Faker.

"You have told us you acted as the adviser of the testatrix."

"Yes, sir."

"Spiritual adviser, of course?"

A spiritual bow.

"You advised the deceased lady, probably, as to her duties as a dying woman?"

"Certainly."

"Duty to her husband—was that one?"

A slight hesitation in Mr. Faker revealed the vast amount of fraud of which he was capable. It was the smallest peephole, but I saw a good way. Till then there was nothing to cross-examine about, but after that hesitation there was L100,000 worth! He had betrayed himself. At last Faker said,—

"Yes, Mr. Hawkins; yes, sir—her duty to her husband."

"In the way of providing for him?" was my next question.

"Oh yes; quite so."

"You were careful, of course, as you told your learned counsel, to avoid any undue influence?"

"Certainly."

"The will was not completed, I think, when you first saw the dying woman—on the day, I mean, of her death?"

"No, not at that time."

"Was it kept in a little bag by the pillow of the testatrix? Did she retain the keys of the bag herself?"

"That is quite right."

"Had it been executed at this time? I think you said not?"

"Not at this time; it had to be revised."

"How did you obtain possession of the keys?"

"I obtained them."

"Yes, I know; but without her knowledge?"

It was awkward for Faker, but he had to confess that he was not sure. Then he frankly admitted that the will was taken out of the bag—in the lady's presence, of course, but whether she was quite dead or almost alive was uncertain; and then he and the husband spiritually conferred as to what the real intention of the dying woman in the circumstances was likely to be, and having ascertained that, they made another will, which they called "settling the former one" by carrying out the lady's intentions, the lady being now dead to all intentions whatsoever.

This was the will which was offered for probate!

Cresswell thought it was a curious state of affairs, and listened with much interest to the further cross-examination.

"Had you ever seen any other will?" I inquired. It was quite an accidental question, as one would put in a desultory sort of conversation with a friend.

"Er—yes—I have," said Faker.

"What was that?"

"Well, it was a will, to tell you the truth, Mr. Hawkins, executed in my favour for L5,000."

"Where is it?"

"I have not the original," said the minister, "but I have a copy of it."

"Copy! But where is the original?"

"Original?" repeats Faker.

"Yes, the original; there must have been an original if you have a copy."

"Oh," said the Rev. Faker, "I remember, the original was destroyed after the testatrix's death."

"How?"

"Burnt!"

Even the very grave Hannen, my ever-respected friend and junior, smiled; Cresswell, never prone to smile at villainy, smiled also.

"The original burnt, and only a copy produced! What do you mean, sir?"

The situation was dramatic.

"Is it not strange," I asked, "even in your view of things, that the original will should be burnt and the copy preserved?"

"Yes," answered the reverend gentleman; "perhaps it would have been better—"

"To have burnt the copy and given us the original, and more especially after the lady was dead. But, let me ask you, why did you destroy the original will?"

I pressed him again and again, but he could not answer. The reason was plain. His ingenuity was exhausted, and so I gave him the finishing stroke with this question,—

"Will you swear, sir, that an original will ever existed?"

The answer was, "No."

I knew it must be the answer, because there could be no other that would not betray him.

"What is your explanation?" asked Cresswell.

"My explanation, my lord, is that the testatrix had often expressed to me her intention to leave me L5,000, and I wrote the codicil which was destroyed to carry out her wishes."

Cresswell had warned James early in the case as to the futility of calling witnesses after the two who alone were necessary, but to no purpose; he hurried his client to destruction, and I have never been able to understand his conduct. The most that can be said for him is that he did not suspect any danger, and took no trouble to avoid incurring it.

It is curious enough that on the morning of the trial we had tried to compromise the matter by offering L10,000.

The refusal of the offer shows how little they thought that any cross-examination could injure their cause.

Hannen said he could not have believed a cross-examination could be conducted in that manner without any knowledge of the facts, and paid me the compliment of saying it was worth at the least L80,000.



CHAPTER XV.

TATTERSALL'S—BARON MARTIN, HARRY HILL, AND THE OLD FOX IN THE YARD.

Tattersall's in my time was one of the pleasantest Sunday afternoon lounges in London. There was a spirit of freedom and social equality pervading the place which only belongs to assemblies where sport is the principal object and pleasure of all. There was also the absence of irksome workaday drudgery; I think that was, after all, the main cause of its being so delightful a meeting-place to me.

There was, however, another attraction, and that was dear old Baron Martin, one of the most pleasant companions you could meet, no matter whether in the Court of Exchequer or the "old Ring." A keen sportsman he was, and a shrewd, common-sense lawyer—so great a lover of the Turf that it is told of him, and I know it to be true, that once in court a man was pointed out to him bowing with great reverence, and repeating it over and over again until he caught the Baron's attention. The Judge, with one pair of spectacles on his forehead and another on his eyes, immediately cried aloud to his marshal, "Custance, the jockey, as I'm alive!" and then the Baron bowed most politely to the man in the crowd, the most famous jockey of his day.

Speaking of Tattersall's reminds me of many things, amongst them of the way in which, happily, I came to the resolution never to bet on a horse-race. It was here I learnt the lesson, at a place where generally people learn the opposite, and never forgot it. No sermon would ever have taught me so much as I learnt there.

Like my oldest and one of my dearest friends on the turf, Lord Falmouth, I never made a bet after the time I speak of. No one who lives in the world needs any description of the Tattersall's of to-day. But the Tattersall's of my earlier days was not exactly the same thing, although the differences would not be recognizable to persons who have not over-keen recollections.

The institution has perhaps known more great men than Parliament itself—not so many bishops, perhaps, as the Church, but more statesmen than could get into the House of Lords; and all the biographies that have ever been written could not furnish more illustrations of the ups and downs of life, especially the downs, nor of more illustrious men. The names of all the great and mediocre people who visited the famous rendezvous would fill a respectable Court guide, and the money transactions that have taken place would pay off the National Debt. All this is a pleasant outcome of the national character.

Do not suppose that Judges, other than Baron Martin, never looked in, for they did, and so did learned and illustrious Queen's Counsel and Serjeants-at-Law, authors, editors, actors, statesmen, and, to sum it up in brief, all the real men of the day of all professions and degrees of social position.

At first my visits were infrequent; afterwards I went more often, and then became a regular attendant. I loved the "old Ring," and yet could never explain why. I think it was the variety of human character that charmed me. I was doing very little at the Bar, and was, no doubt, desirous to make as many acquaintances as possible, and to see as much of the world as I could. It is a long way back in my career, but I go over the course with no regrets and with every feeling of delight. Everything seems to have been enjoyable in those far-off days, although I was in a constant state of uncertainty with regard to my career. There were three principal places of pleasure at that time: one was Tattersall's, one Newmarket, and the Courts of Law a third.

There used to be, in the centre of the yard or court at Tattersall's, a significant representation of an old fox, and I often wondered whether it was set up as a warning, or merely by way of ornamentation, or as the symbol of sport. It might have been to tell you to be wary and on the alert. But whatever the original design of this statue to Reynard, the old fox read me a solemn lesson, and seemed to be always saying, "Take care, Harry; be on your guard. There are many prowlers everywhere."

But there was another monitor in constant attendance, who was deservedly respected by all who had the pleasure of his acquaintance—that is to say, by all who visited Tattersall's more than once. He was not in the least emblematic like the old fox, but a man of sound sense, with no poetry, of an extremely good nature, and full of anecdote. You might follow his advice, and it would be well with you; or you might follow your opinion in opposition to his and take your chance. His name was Hill—Harry Hill they familiarly called him—and although you might have many a grander acquaintance, you could never meet a truer friend.

He was an old and much-respected friend of the Baron, and that says a great deal for him; for if anybody in the world could understand a man, it was Baron Martin. Whether it was the Prime Minister or the unhappy thief in the dock, he knew all classes and all degrees of criminality. He was not poetical with regard to landscapes, for if one were pointed out to him by some proprietor of a lordly estate, he would say, "Yes, a vera fine place indeed; and I would have the winning-post there!"

The old fox and Harry Hill! The two characters at Tattersall's in those days can never be forgotten, by those who knew them.

It may seem strange in these more enlightened days that at that time I was under the impression that no one could make a bet unless he had the means of paying if he lost. This statement will provoke a smile, but it is true. The consequence was that I was debarred from speculating where I thought I had a most excellent chance of winning, having been brought up to believe that the world was almost destitute of fraud—a strange and almost unaccountable idea which only time and experience proved to be erroneous. Judge of the vast unexplored field of discovery that lay before me! Harry Hill was better informed. He had lived longer, and had been brought in contact with the cleverest men of the age. He knew at a glance the adventurous fool who staked his last chance when the odds were a hundred to one, and also the man of honour who staked his life on his honesty—and sometimes lost!

There were "blacklegs" in those days who looked out for such honest gentlemen, and won—scoundrels who degrade sport, and trade successfully on the reputations of men of honour. You cannot cope with these; honesty cannot compete with fraud either in sport or trade.

It was a very brief Sunday sermon which Harry preached to me this afternoon, but it was an effective one, and out of the abundance of his good nature he gave me these well-remembered words of friendly warning,—

"Mr. Hawkins, I see you come here pretty regularly on Sunday afternoons; but I advise you not to speculate amongst us, for if you do we shall beat you. We know our business better than you do, and you'll get nothing out of us any more than we should get out of you if we were to dabble in your law, for you know that business better than we do."

This disinterested advice I took to heart, and treated it as a warning. I thanked Mr. Hill, promised to take advantage of his kindness, and kept my word during the whole time that Tattersall's remained in the old locality, which it did for a considerable period.

The establishment at this time was at Hyde Park Corner, and had been rented from Lord Grosvenor since 1766. It was used for the purpose of selling thoroughbreds and other horses of a first-rate order, until the expiration of the lease, which was, I think, in 1865. It was then removed to Knightsbridge, where I still continued my visits.

The new premises, or, as it might be called, the new institution, was inaugurated with a grand dinner, chiefly attended by members of the sporting world, including Admiral Rous, George Payne, and many other well-known and popular patrons of our national sport. There were also a great many who were known as "swells," people who took a lively interest in racing affairs, and others who belonged to the literary and artistic world, and enjoyed the national sports as well. It was a large assembly, and if any persons can enjoy a good dinner and lively conversation, it is those who take an interest in sport. Mixed as the company might be, it was uniform in its object, which was to be happy as well as jolly.

That I should have been asked to be present on this historic occasion was extremely gratifying, but I could find no reason for the honour conferred upon me, except that it 'might be because I had always endeavoured to make myself agreeable—a faculty, if it be a faculty, most invaluable in all the relations and circumstances of life. I was flattered by the compliment, because in reality I was the guest of all the really great men of the day.

But a still more striking honour was in store. I was called upon to respond for somebody or something; I don't remember what it was to this day, nor had I the faintest notion what I ought to say. I was perfectly bewildered, and the first utterance caused a roar of laughter. I did not at that time know the reason. It is of no consequence whether you know what you are talking about in an after-dinner speech or not, for say what you may, hardly anybody listens, and if they do few will understand the drift of your observations. You get a great deal of applause when you stand up, and a great deal more when you sit down. I seemed to catch my audience quite accidentally by using a word tabooed at that time in sporting circles, because it represented the blacklegs of the racecourse, and was used as a nickname for rascaldom. "Gentlemen," I said, "I have been unexpectedly called upon my legs—" Then I stammered an apology for using the word in that company, and the laughter was unbounded. Next morning all the sporting papers reported it as an excellent joke, although the last person who saw the joke was myself.

After dinner we adjourned to the new premises, which included a betting-room, since christened "place," by interpretation of a particular statute by myself and others. Oh the castigation I received from the Jockey Club on that account! Whether the monitory fox was anywhere within the precincts I do not know, but I missed him at that time, and attributed to his absence the lapse from virtue which undermined my previous resolution, and in a moment undid the merits of exemplary years. However, it brought me to myself, and was, after all, a "blessing in disguise"—and pleasant to think of.

We were in the betting-room, and there was Harry Hill, my genial old friend, who had advised me to take care, and never to bet, "because we know our business better than you do." Alas! amidst the hubbub and excitement, to say nothing of the joviality of everybody and the excellence of the champagne, I said in a brave tone,—

"Come now, Mr. Hill, I must have a bet, on the opening of the new Tattersalls. I will give you evens for a fiver on —— for the Derby!"

Alas! my friend, who ought to have known better, forgot the good advice he had given me only a few years before, and I, heedless of consequences in my hilarity, repeated the offer of evens on the favourite.

"Done!" said two or three, and amongst them Hill. I might have repeated the offer and accepted the bet over and over again, so popular was it. "Done, done, done!" everywhere.

But Hill was the man for my money, and he had it. Before morning the favourite was scratched!

It was the race which Hermit won! Poor Hastings lost heavily and died soon after. I had backed the wrong horse, and have never ceased to wonder how I could have been so foolish. "Let me advise you not to speculate amongst us," were Hill's words, "for if you do we shall beat you;" and it cost me five pounds to learn that. A lawyer's opinion may be worth what is paid for it in a case stated; but of the soundness of of a horse's wind, or the thousand and one ailments to which that animal's flesh and blood are heir, I knew nothing—not so much as the little boy who runs and fetches in the stable, and who could give the ablest lawyer in Great Britain or Ireland odds on any particular favourite's "public form" and beat him.

Put not your trust in tipsters; they no more knew that Hermit had a chance for the Derby than they could foretell the snowstorm that was coming to enable him to win it.

This was the last bet I ever made; and I owe my abandonment of the practice to Harry Hill, who gave me excellent advice and enforced it by example.



CHAPTER XVI.

ARISING OUT OF THE "ORSINI AFFAIR."

The "Orsini Affair" was one of high treason and murder. It was the attempt on the part of a band of conspirators to murder Napoleon III. In order to accomplish this political object, they exploded a bomb as nearly under his Majesty's carriage as they could manage, but instead of murdering the Emperor they killed a policeman.

Orsini was captured, tried, and executed in the good old French fashion. His political career ended with the guillotine—a sharp remedy, but effective, so far as he was concerned.

One Dr. Simon Bernard was more fortunate than his principal, for he was in England, the refuge of discontented foreign murderers, who try to do good by stealth, and sometimes feel very uncomfortable when they find that it turns out to be assassination.

Bernard was a brother conspirator in this famous Orsini business, and being apprehended in England, was taken to be tried before Lord Chief Justice Campbell, Edwin James and myself being retained for the defence.

There was no defence on the facts, and no case on the law. He was indicted for conspiracy with Orsini to murder the Emperor in Paris.

I had prepared a very elaborate and exhaustive argument in favour of the prisoner, on the law, and had little doubt I could secure his acquittal; but the facts were terribly strong, and we knew well enough if the jury convicted, Campbell would hang the prisoner, for he never tolerated murder. With this view of the case, we summoned Dr. Bernard to a consultation, which was held in one of the most ghastly rooms of Newgate.

No more miserable place could be found outside the jail, and it could only be surpassed in horror by one within. It might have been, and probably was, an anteroom to hell, but of that I say nothing. I leave my description, for I can do no more justice to it. The only cheerful thing about it was Dr. Bernard himself. He was totally unconcerned with the danger of his situation, and regarded himself as a hero of the first order. Murder, hanging, guillotine—all seemed to be the everyday chances of life, and to him there was nothing sweeter or more desirable, if you might judge by his demeanour.

I thought it well to mention the fact that, if the jury found him guilty, Lord Campbell would certainly sentence him to death. He exhibited no emotion whatever, but shrugging his shoulders after the manner of a Frenchman who differed from you in opinion, said,—

"Well, if I am hanged, I must be hanged, that is all."

With a man like him it was impossible to argue or ask for explanations. He seemed to be possessed with the one idea that to remedy all the grievances of the State it was merely necessary to blow up the Emperor with his horses and carriage, and coolly informed us, without the least reserve, that the bombs manufactured with this political object had been sent over to Paris from England concealed in firkins of butter. I can find no words in which to express my feelings.

So ended our first consultation. The "merits" of the case were gone; there was no defence. But whatever might be our opinion on Dr. Bernard's state of mind, we could not abandon him to his fate. We were retained to defend him, and defend him we must, even in spite of himself, if we could do so consistently with our professional honour and duty.

Accordingly we had another consultation, and as I have said there was one other room in England more ghastly than that where we held our first interview, so now I reluctantly introduce you to it.

If a man about to be tried for his life could look on this apartment and its horrors unmoved, he would certainly be a fit subject for the attentions of the hangman, and deserving of no human sympathy. It was enough to shake the nerves of the hangman himself.

We were in an apartment on the north-east side of the quadrangular building, where the sunshine never entered. Even daylight never came, but only a feeble, sickening twilight, precursor of the grave itself. It was not merely the gloom that intensified the horrors of the situation, or the ghastly traditions of the place, or the impending fate of our callous client; but there was a tier of shelves occupying the side of the apartment, on which were placed in dismal prominence the plaster-of-Paris busts of all the malefactors who had been hanged in Newgate for some hundred years.

No man can look attractive after having been hanged, and the indentation of the hangman's rope on every one of their necks, with the mark of the knot under the ear, gave such an impression of all that can be conceived of devilish horror as would baffle the conceptions of the most morbid genius.

Whether these things were preserved for phrenological purposes or for the gratification of the most sanguinary taste, I never knew, but they impressed me with a disgust of the brutal tendency of the age.

Dr. Bernard, however, seemed to take a different view. Probably he was scientific. He went up to them, and examined, as it seemed, every one of these ghastly memorials with an interest which could only be scientific. It did not seem to have occurred to his brain that his head would probably be the next to adorn that repository of criminal effigies.

He was in charge of a warder, and looked round with the utmost composure, as though examining the Caesars in the British Museum, and was as interested as any fanatical fool of a phrenologist. He shrugged his shoulders, raised his eyebrows, and repeated his old formula, "Well, if I am to be hanged, I must be hanged."

He was acquitted. My elaborate arguments on the law were not necessary, for the jury actually refused to believe the evidence as to the facts!

Such are the chances of trial by jury!

As a relief to this gloomy chapter I must tell you of a distinguished Judge who had to sentence a dishonest butler for robbing his master of some silver spoons. He considered it his duty to say a few words to the prisoner in passing sentence, in order to show the enormity of the crime of a servant in his position robbing his master, and by way of warning to others who might be tempted to follow his example.

"You, prisoner," said his lordship, "have been found guilty, by a jury of your country, of stealing these articles from your employer—mark that—your employer! Now, it aggravates your offence that he is your employer, because he employs you to look after his property. You did look after it, but not in the way that a butler should—mark that!" The judge here hemmed and coughed, as if somewhat exhausted with his exemplary speech; and then resumed his address, which was ethical and judicial: "You, prisoner, have no excuse for your conduct. You had a most excellent situation, and a kind master to whom you owed a debt of the deepest gratitude and your allegiance as a faithful servant, instead of which you paid him by feathering your nest with his silver spoons; therefore you must be transported for the term of seven years!"

The metaphor was equal to that employed by an Attorney-General, who at a certain time in the history of the Home Rule agitation, addressing his constituents, told them that Mr. Gladstone had sent up a balloon to see which way the cat jumped with regard to Ireland! He was soon appointed a Judge of the High Court.

Judges, however, are not always masters of their feelings, any more than they are of their language; they are sometimes carried away by prejudice, or even controlled by sentiment. I knew one, a very worthy and amiable man, who, having to sentence a prisoner to death, was so overcome by the terrible nature of the crime that he informed the unhappy convict that he could expect no mercy either in this world or the next!

Littledale, again, was an uncommonly kind and virtuous man, a good husband and a learned Judge; but he was afflicted with a wife whom he could not control. She, on the contrary, controlled him, and left him no peace unless she had her will. At times, however, she overdid her business. Littledale had a butler who had been in the family many years, and with whom he would not have parted on any account. He would sooner have parted with her ladyship. One morning, however, this excellent butler came to Sir Joseph and said, with tears in his eyes,—

"I beg your pardon, my lord—"

"What's the matter, James?"

"I'm very sorry, my lord," said the butler, "but I wish to leave."

"Wish to leave, James? Why, what do you wish to leave for? Haven't you got a good situation?"

"Capital sitiwation, Sir Joseph, and you have always been a good kind master to me, Sir Joseph; but, O Sir Joseph, Sir Joseph!"

"What then, James, what then? Why do you wish to leave? Not going to get married, eh—not surely going to get married? O James, don't do it!"

"Heaven forbid, Sir Joseph!"

"Eh, eh? Well, then, what is it? Speak out, James, and tell me all about it. Tell me—tell me as a friend! If there is any trouble—"

"Well, Sir Joseph, I could put up with anything from you, Sir Joseph, but I can't get on with my lady!"

"My lady be—. O James, what a sinner you make of me! Is that all, James? Then go down on your knees at once and thank God my lady is not your wife!"

It was a happy thought, and James stayed.

I don't think I have mentioned a curious reason that a jury once gave for not finding a prisoner guilty, although he had been tried on a charge of a most terrible murder. The evidence was irresistible to anybody but a jury, and the case was one of inexcusable brutality. The man had been tried for the murder of his father and mother, and, as I said, the evidence was too clear to leave a doubt as to his guilt.

The jury retired to consider their verdict, and were away so long that the Judge sent for them and asked if there was any point upon which he could enlighten them. They answered no, and thought they understood the case perfectly well.