After a great deal of further consideration they brought in a verdict of "Not Guilty."

The Judge was angry at so outrageous a violation of their plain duty, and did what he ought not to have done—namely, asked the reason they brought in such a verdict, when they knew the culprit was guilty and ought to have been hanged.

"That's just it, my lord," said the foreman of this distinguished body. "I assure you we had no doubt about the prisoner's guilt, but we thought there had been deaths enough in the family lately, and so gave him the benefit of the doubt!"

There was a young solicitor who had been entrusted with a defence in a case of murder. It was his first case of importance, and he was, of course, enthusiastic in his devotion to his client's interests. Indeed, his enthusiasm rather overstepped his prudence.

By dint of perseverance and persuasion he obtained a promise from a juror-in-waiting that if he should be on the jury he would consent to no other verdict than manslaughter, which would be a tremendous triumph for the young solicitor.

The case was a very strong one for wilful murder. The friendly juror-in-waiting took his seat in the box. Everything went well except the evidence, and the solicitor's heart almost failed for fear his man should give way. The jury for a long time were unable to agree.

Now the young solicitor felt it was his faithful juror who was standing out.

"All agreed but one, my lord."

"Go back to your room," said the Judge; which they did, and after another long absence returned with a verdict of "Manslaughter."

Jubilant with his success, the young solicitor met his juryman, congratulated him on his firmness, and thanked him for his exertions.

"How did you manage it, my good friend—how did you manage? It was a wonderful verdict—wonderful!"

"Oh," said he, "I was determined not to budge. I never budge. Conscience is ever my guide."

"I suppose there were eleven to one against you?"

"Eleven to one! A tough job, sir—a tough job."

"Eleven for wilful murder, eh?" said the jubilant young man. "Dear me, what a narrow squeak!"

"Eleven for murder! No, sir!" exclaimed the juror.

"What, then?"

"Eleven for an acquittal! You may depend upon it, sir, the other jurors had been 'got at.'"

Lord Watson, dining with me one Grand Day at Gray's Inn, said he recollected a very stupid and a very rude Scottish Judge (which seems very remarkable) who scarcely ever listened to an advocate, and pooh-poohed everything that was said.

One day a celebrated advocate was arguing before him, when, to express his contempt of what he was saying, the cantankerous old curmudgeon of a Judge pointed with one forefinger to one of his ears, and with the other to the opposite one.

"You see this, Mr. ——?"

"I do, my lord," said the advocate.

"Well, it just goes in here and comes out there!" and his lordship smiled with the hilarity of a Judge who thinks he has actually said a good thing.

The advocate looked and smiled not likewise, but a good deal more wise. Then the expression of his face changed to one of contempt.

"I do not doubt it, my lord," said he. "What is there to prevent it?"

The learned judge sat immovable, and looked—like a judicial—wit.

I was now getting on so well in my profession that in the minds of many of the unsuccessful there was a natural feeling of disappointment. Why one man should succeed and a dozen fail has ever been an unsolved problem at the Bar, and ever will be. But the curious part of this natural law is that it manifests itself in the most unexpected manner.

Coming one day from a County Court, where I had had a successful day, and humming a little tune, whom should I meet but my friend Morgan ——. He was a very pleasant man, what is called a nice man, of a quiet, religious turn of mind, and nobody was ever more painstaking to push himself along. He was a great stickler for a man's doing his duty, and was possessed with the idea that, getting on as I was, it was my duty to refuse to take a brief in the County Court.

Coming up to me on the occasion I refer to, Morgan said, "What, you here, Hawkins! I believe you'd take a brief before the devil in h——."

I was quite taken aback for the moment by the use of such language. If he had not been so religious a man, perhaps I should not have felt it so much; as it was, I could hardly fetch my breath.

When I recovered my equanimity I answered, "Yes, Morgan, I would, and should get one of my devils to hold it."

He seemed appeased by my frank avowal, for he loved honesty almost as much as fees.



CHAPTER XVII.

APPOINTED QUEEN'S COUNSEL—A SERIOUS ILLNESS—SAM LEWIS.

On January 10, 1859, the Lord Chancellor did me the honour of recommending my name to Her Most Gracious Majesty, and I was raised to the rank and dignity of a Queen's Counsel.

This is a step of doubtful wisdom to most men in the legal profession, for it is generally looked upon as the end of a man's career or the beginning. I had no doubt about the propriety of the step; it had been the object of my ambition, and I believe I should unhesitatingly have acted as I did even if it had been the termination of my professional life. My idea was to go forward in the career I had chosen. The junior work, if it had not lost its emoluments, no longer possessed the pleasurable excitement of the old days. It was never my ambition merely to "mark time;" that is unsatisfactory exertion, and leads no whither.

But enough; I took silk, and a new life opened before me. I was a leader.

My business rolled on in ever-increasing volume, so that I had to fairly pick my way through the constant downpour of briefs, but was always pressed forward by that useful institution known as the "barrister's clerk."

Whatever business overwhelms the counsel, no amount of it would disconcert the clerk, and it is wonderful how many briefs he can arrange in upstanding attitude along mantelpieces, tables, tops of dwarf cupboards, windows—anywhere, in fact, where there is anything to stand a brief on—without that gentleman feeling the least exhausted. It would take as long to wear him out as to wear to a level the rocks of Niagara. The loss of a brief to him is almost like the loss of an eye. It would take a week after such a disaster to get the right focus of things.

My clerk came rushing into my room one day so pale and excited that I wondered if the man had lost his wife or child. He did not leave me long in suspense as soon as he could articulate his words.

"Sir," said he, "you know those Emmets that you have done so much for?"

I remembered.

"Well, sir, they've taken a brief to another counsel."

It was a serious misfortune, no doubt, and I had to soothe him in the best manner I could; so to lessen the calamity I made the best joke I could think of in the circumstances, and said the Emmets were small people, almost beneath notice.

I don't wonder that he did not see it with tears in his eyes; his distress was painful to witness. The poor fellow was dumbfounded, but at last shook his head, saying,—

"We've had a good deal from those Emmets, sir."

"But you need not make mountains out of ant-hills."

He did not see that either.

I was now living in Bond Street, and for the first time in my life was taken seriously ill. My clerk's worry then came home to me; not about a single brief, but about a great many. Illness would be a very serious matter, as I had arrived at an important stage in my career. A barrister in full practice cannot afford to be ill. In my distress I sent to Baron Martin, as I was in every case in his list for the following day, and begged him to oblige me by adjourning his court. It was a large request, but I knew his kindness, and felt I might ask the favour. Baron Martin, I should think, never in his life did an unkind act or refused to do a kind one. He instantly complied with my request, and did not listen for a moment to the "public interest," as the foolish fetish is called which sometimes does duty for its neglect. The "public interest" on this occasion was the interests of all those who had entrusted their business to my keeping. The public interests are the interests of the suitors.

My illness threatened to be fatal. I had been overworked; and nothing but the greatest care and skill brought me round. One never knows what friendship is and what friends are till one is ill.

At length there was a consultation, Drs. Addison, Charles Johnson, Duplex, and F. Hawkins, my cousin, being present.

It was a kind of medical jury which sat upon me. I will pass over details, and come to the conclusion of the investigation. After considering the case, Dr. Addison, who acted as foreman of the jury, said,—

"We find a verdict of 'Guilty,' under mitigating circumstances. The prisoner has not injured himself with intent to do any grievous bodily or mental harm, but he has been guilty of negligence, not having taken due care of himself, and we hope the sentence we are about to pass will act as a warning to him, and deter others from following a like practice. The prisoner is released on bail, to come up for judgment when called upon; and the meaning of that is," said Dr. Addison, "that if you behave yourself you will hear no more of this; but if you return to your former practice without any regard to the warning you have had, you will be promptly called up for judgment, and I need not say the sentence will be proportioned to the requirements of the case. You may now go."

To carry on Dr. Addison's joke, I heartily thanked him for taking my good character into consideration, and practically acquitting me of all evil tendencies. Acting upon his good advice, from that time to this I have never been in trouble again.

Watson, Q.C., afterwards Baron Watson, advised me to take a long rest; but as he was not a doctor of medicine, I did not act upon his advice. A long rest would have killed me much faster than any amount of work, so I worked with judgment; and although my business went on increasing to an extent that would not have pleased Dr. Addison, I suffered no evil effects, but seemed to get through it with more ease than ever, and was soon in a fair way to achieve the greatest goal of human endeavour—a comfortable independence. The reason of getting through so much work was that I had to reject a great deal, and, of course, had my choice of the best, not only as to work, but as to clients. To use a sporting phrase, I got the best "mounts," and therefore was at the top of the record in wins.

Good cases are easy—they do not need winning; they will do their own work if you only leave them alone. Bad cases require all your attention; they want much propping, and your only chance is that, if you cannot win, your opponent may lose.

But nothing in the chatter about the Bar is more erroneous than the talk of the tremendous incomes of counsel. A man is never estimated at his true worth in this world, certainly not a barrister, actor, physician, or writer; and as for incomes, no one can estimate his neighbour's except the Income-tax Commissioners. They get pretty near sometimes, however, without knowing it.

One morning I was riding in the Park when old Sam Lewis, the great money-lender, a man for whom I had much esteem, and about whom I will relate a little story presently, came alongside. We were on friendly and even familiar terms, although I never borrowed any money of him in my life.

"Why, Mr. Hawkins," said he, "you seem to be in almost everything. What a fortune you must be piling up!"

"Not so big as you might think," I replied.

"Why, how many," he rejoined, "are making as much as you? A good many are doing twenty thousand a year, I dare say, but—"

Here I checked his curiosity by asking if he had ever considered what twenty thousand a year meant.

He never had.

"Then I will tell you, Lewis. You may make it in a day, but to us it means five hundred golden sovereigns every week in the working year!"

It somewhat startled him, I could see, and it effected my object without giving offence. What did it matter to Sam Lewis what my income was?

"There are men who make it," he answered.

"Some men have made it," I said; "and I know some who make more, but will never own to it, ask who may."

I may say I liked Sam Lewis, and having told the story of the Queen's Counsel who borrowed my money in so dishonest a manner, I will tell one of Sam, the professional money-lender.

He never was known to take advantage of a man in difficulties, and he never did, nor to charge any one exorbitant interest. I have known him lend to men and allow them to fix their own time of payment, their own rate of interest, and their own security. He often lent without any at all. He knew his men, and was not fool enough to trust a rogue at any amount of interest. He was known and respected by all ranks, and never more esteemed than by those who had had pecuniary transactions with him. He was the soul of honour, and his transactions were world-wide; business passed through his hands that would have been entrusted nowhere else; so that he was rich, and no one was more deservedly so.

Here is an incident in Lewis's business life that will show one phase of his character.

He held a number of bills, many of which were suspected by him to be forged—that is to say, that the figures had been altered after the signature of the acceptor had been written.

They were all in the name of Lord ——.

One day Lewis met his lordship in the Park, and mentioned his suspicion, at the same time inviting him to call and examine the bills. The noble lord was a little amazed, and proceeded at once to Lewis's office. Seating himself on one side of the table with his lordship on the other, Lewis handed to him the bills one by one and requested him to set aside those that were forged.

The separation having been made, it appeared that over twenty thousand-pounds' worth of the bills were forged! The noble lord was a little startled at the discovery, but his mind was soon eased by Lewis putting the whole of the forged bills into the fire.

"There's an end of them, my lord," said he. "We want no prosecution, and I do not wish to receive payment from you. I ought to have examined them with more care, and you ought not to have left space enough before the first figure to supplement it by another. The rogue could not resist the temptation."

So ended this monetary transaction, creditable alike to the honour and generosity of the money-lender.

The most steady of minds will sometimes go on the tramp. This was never better illustrated than when the young curate was being married, and the officiating clergyman asked him the formal question, "Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife?"

The poor bridegroom, losing self-control, and not having yet a better half to keep him straight, answered, "That is my desire," anticipating by a considerable period a totally different religious ceremony of the Church—namely, the Baptism of Infants. In his anticipation the young man had overreached the necessities of the situation.

This momentary digression leads me to the following story. I was staying at the house of an old friend, a wealthy Hebrew, while another of the guests was Arthur A'Becket. As will sometimes happen when you are in good spirits, the conversation took a religious turn. We drifted into it unconsciously, and our worthy host was telling us that he was in the habit of praying night and morning. Being in a communicative mood, I said, "Well, since you name it, I sometimes say a little prayer myself." The Hebrew was attentive, and seemed not a little surprised. "This is especially the case in the morning," I added. "But once upon a time my mind wavered a little between business and prayer, and I found myself in the midst of my devotional exercise saying, 'Gentlemen of the jury.'"

"Thank God!" cried A'Becket, "our friend Hawkins is not a Unitarian."

I often wonder how I was able to get through the amount of business that pressed upon me and retain my health, but happily I did so. One great factor in my fortunate condition of health was, perhaps, that I had no ridiculous ambition. What was to come would come as the result of hard work, for I was born to no miraculous interpositions or official friendships.

Having dropped gambling, I set to work, and after a long spell of nisi prius, in all its phases, had engaged my attention, a new sphere of action presented itself in the shape of Compensation Cases—an easy and lucrative branch, which seemed to be added to, rather than have grown out of, our profession; but whatever was its connection, it was a prolific branch, hanging down with such good fruit that it required no tempter to make you taste it.

Railway, Government, and Municipal authorities were everywhere taking land for public improvements, and where they were, as a rule, my friend Horace Lloyd and myself were engaged in friendly rivalry as to the amount to be paid.



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE PRIZE-FIGHT ON FRIMLEY COMMON.

I must now describe a remarkable event that occurred a great many years ago, and which caused no little amusement at the time; indeed, for years after Baron Parke used to tell the story with the greatest pleasure.

In those old days there was a prize-fight on Frimley Common, and it was known long after as the "Frimley Common Prize-Fight," although many a battle had taken place on Frimley Ridges before that time, and many a one since. This particular fight was the more celebrated because one of the combatants was killed, and I remember the events connected with it as clearly as if they had taken place only yesterday. At the following Kingston Assizes the victorious pugilist was indicted for manslaughter. It was an awful charge, especially before the Judge who was then presiding. The man, however, escaped for the moment, and a warrant was issued for his apprehension.

At a later period I was at Guildford, where the Assizes were being held. Even at that time the man "wanted" for the manslaughter could be easily identified, for he still bore visible signs of the punishment he had undergone in the encounter.

I was sitting in court one afternoon when a country sporting attorney of the name of Morris quietly sidled up to me. I ought to mention that at these Assizes Lord Chief Justice Erie was sitting, and it was well known that he also detested the Prize Ring, and had therefore, no sympathy with any of its members. He was consequently a dangerous Judge to have anything to do with in a case of this kind. His punishment would be sure to be one of severity, and a conviction a dead certainty. There was a sparkle in the sporting solicitor's eye, as he glanced at me over his shoulder, which plainly intimated that he had something good to communicate.

As he came in front of the seat where I was, he said, in a subdued whisper, that he had been instructed by Lord —— to defend the accused prize-fighter; that the man was at that moment in the town, and would like to have my opinion as to whether it would be prudent to surrender at these Assizes—surrender, that is to say, to the constables who were on the lookout for him; or whether it would be better, as they were ignorant of his whereabouts, to delay his trial until the next Assizes, when he would be better prepared to face the tribunal, as by that time he would have recovered from the punishment he had received.

It is certain the jury would have taken his battered appearance as evidence of the damage he had inflicted on his adversary, whom he had unfortunately killed; and even more likely that Erle should have regarded his injuries in the same light, and punished him more severely for having received them. I had a perfect right to answer the question put to me, and felt that it was my duty to the accused to answer frankly. So I said there was little doubt, as the man was dead, and the accused still bore unmistakable signs of the contest, there would be pretty clear evidence of identity; that as Erle was not a fool, he would most certainly convict him; while, being opposed to everything connected with the "noble art of self-defence," he might send him to penal servitude for a number of years.

I had no need to say more. The solicitor, who was a ready-witted and voluble man, was anxious to amalgamate his opinion with mine. He was shrewd, and caught an idea before you could be sure you had one yourself.

"The most prudent thing, sir," he said, "would be to surrender at the next Assizes, and not at these. That is just what I thought, sir, and so I told him, advising in the meantime that he should carefully avoid putting himself in the way of the police."

I have no doubt he acted on this opinion, for I heard that he left the town immediately, and was neither seen nor heard of again till the eve of the Spring Assizes, which were to be held at Kingston, and at which Baron Parke was to preside. The Baron was one of the shrewdest of men, as any one would discover who attempted to deceive him.

On the Commission day the attorney for the accused presented himself to me again, and once more sought my opinion with regard to the trial and the surrender of the accused.

"Would it be proper," he asked, "for my client to show his respect for the court and dress in a becoming manner; or should he appear in his everyday clothes as a working bricklayer, dirty and unwashed?"

Again I advised, as was my duty, that he should scrupulously regard the dignity of the Bench, and show the greatest respect to the learned Judge who presided; that he ought not to come in a disgraceful costume if he could help it, but appear as becomingly attired as possible. That was all I said. Let me also observe, what perhaps there is no occasion to say, that I impressed upon the attorney that his client should abstain from any appearance of attempting to deceive the Judge, and informed him, as the fact was, that his lordship was scrupulously particular in all points of etiquette and decorum. Moreover, I added as a last word, "The Judge is too shrewd to be taken in."

After thus duly impressing upon him the importance of a quiet behaviour, I suggested that any costume other than that of the man when actually engaged in the fight might throw some difficulty in the way of a young and inexperienced country constable identifying him. It was never too late for even a bricklayer to mend his garments or his manners and adjust them to the occasion. The policeman who alone could identify the Frimley champion had not seen him for many months—not since the fight, in fact; and the prisoner ought not to appear in the dock in fighting costume, as the young Surrey constable saw him on that one occasion. Moreover, Baron Parke would not like him to appear in that dress.

This was, as nearly as I can remember, all that took place between us. Judge, now, of my surprise, if you can, when the case was called on, to see the prisoner appear in the dock looking like a young clergyman, dressed in a complete suit of black, a long frock coat, fitting him up to the neck and very nearly down to the heels. He had the appearance of a very tame curate. His hair, instead of being short and stumpy, as when the young policeman saw him, was now long, shiny, and carefully brushed over both sides of his forehead, which gave him the appearance so fashionable amongst the saints of the Old Masters.

I was utterly astounded at the change from the rude, rough bricklayer, scarred all over the face, to the clergyman-like appearance of this gentlemanly prisoner. I dared not laugh, but it was difficult to maintain my countenance. Deceive Baron Parke! I thought; he would deceive the devil himself, who knew a great deal more about parsons than Parke did.

The learned Judge looked at him for a considerable time, as though he had never seen a prize-fighter before, and was determined to make the most of him. If the ghost of Hamlet had stood in the dock instead of the prisoner, he would not have surprised dear old Parke more than the prisoner did.

It was a masterpiece of deception, notwithstanding my serious warning.

On the jury, it so happened, was an elderly Quaker, in his full array of drab coat, vest, and breeches, with the regulation blue stockings. He had long whitish hair, and a Quaker hat in front of him on the ledge of the jury-box. He was what might be called a "factor" in the situation, which it was no easy matter to know in a moment how to deal with. He would be against prize-fighting to a certainty, but how far he might be inclined to convict a prize-fighter was another matter. At last I made up my mind in what way to deal with him, and it was this—not on the merits of the noble art itself, but on those of the case. If I could convince this conscientious juror that there might be (that would be good enough) a doubt as to identity, it would be sufficient for my purpose; so I mainly addressed myself to him, after disposing of the young policeman pretty satisfactorily, leaving only his bare belief to be dealt with in argument. The young policeman's belief that that there was the man showed what a strong young policeman he was.

I asked the Quaker to allow me to suggest, for the sake of argument only, that he, the Quaker, should imagine himself putting off his Quaker dress, and assuming the costume of a prize-fighter, his hair cut so short that it would present the appearance of an aged rat; "then," said I, "divest yourself of your shirt and flannel—strip yourself, in fact, quite to the skin above your belt—and with only a pair of cotton drawers of a sky blue, or any other colour you might prefer, and, say, a bird's-eye fogle round your waist, your lower limbs terminating in cotton socks and high-lows—with the additional ornamentation to all this elegant drapery of a couple of your front teeth knocked out—and I will venture to ask you, sir, and any one of the gentlemen whom I am addressing, whether you think your own good and respectable wife herself would recognize the partner of her joys?"

The burst of laughter which this little transformation of the respectable, stout old Quaker occasioned I was in no way responsible for; but even Old Parke fell back in his seat, and said,—

"Mr. Hawkins! Mr. Hawkins!"

I knew what that meant, and when the usher, by dint of much clamour, secured me another hearing, I continued,—

"Nay, sir, and if you looked at yourself in a looking-glass you would not be able to recognize a single feature you possessed, had you been battered about the face as the unfortunate man was. Why, the young policeman says in his evidence his nose was flattened, his, eyes were swollen black, blue, and red, his cheeks gashed and bloody! But it is enough: if that is a correct description, although a mild one, of the man as he appeared after the scene of the conflict, how can you expect the young constable to recognize such an individual months afterwards, or any of the witnesses, although to their dying day they would not forget the terrible disfigurement of the poor fellow whom you are supposed to be trying?"

All this time there was everywhere painfully suppressed laughter, and even the jury, all of them Epsom men, and many of whom I knew well enough, were hardly able to contain themselves.

His lordship, after summing up the case to the jury, looked down quietly to me, as I was sitting below him, and murmured,—

"Hawkins, you've got all Epsom with you!"

"Yes," I answered, "but you have got the Quaker; he was the only one I was afraid of."

"You have transformed him," said the Judge.

In a few minutes the verdict showed the accuracy of his lordship's observation, for the jury returned a verdict of "Not guilty."

I must say, however, that Parke did his utmost to obtain a conviction, but reason and good sense were too much for him.



CHAPTER XIX.

SAM WARREN, THE AUTHOR OF "TEN THOUSAND A YEAR."

Amongst the illustrious men whom I have met, the name of Sam Warren deserves remembrance, for he was a genial, good-natured man, full of humour, and generally entertained a good opinion of everybody, including himself. He not only achieved distinction in his profession and became a Queen's Counsel, but wrote a book which attained a well-deserved popularity, and was entitled "Ten Thousand a Year."

He was a member of the Northern Circuit, and I believe was as popular as his book. That he did not become a Judge, like several of his friends, was not Sam's fault, for no man went more into society, cultivated acquaintances of the best style, or had better qualifications for the honour than he.

But although he did not achieve this distinction, he was made a little lower than that order, and became in due time a Master in Lunacy, a post, as it seemed from Sam's description, of the highest importance and no little fun.

A part of his duties was to visit lunatic asylums and other places where these patients were confined, with a view to report to the authorities his opinion of the patients' mental condition. No doubt to a man of Sam's observant mind this work presented many studies of interest, as well as situations of excitement, and at times of no little humour. He found, for instance, that many of these poor creatures were possessed of a much larger income than ten thousand a year. Some of them were Dukes and some supernatural beings, who were just on a visit to this little clod of a world to see how things were going.

Soon after his appointment, and before he had become used to the work, he told me of a singular experience he once had with a particular gentleman whom he was intending to report as having perfectly recovered from any mental aberration with which he might have been afflicted. Sam wondered how it was possible that a gentleman of such culture and understanding should be considered a fit subject for confinement, for he had several pleasant and intellectual conversations with him, and found him quite agreeable and refined, and of a perfectly balanced mind.

"I had been told," said the Master, "that the peculiar form of derangement with this gentleman was that he had aspired to distinction in the English Church; and on one memorable occasion when I called he received me, not with the usual familiarity, but with a certain stiffness and solemnity of bearing which was hardly in keeping with his courteous demeanour on other occasions. One had to be on one's guard at all times, or he might get a knife plunged into him without notice. I chatted for some time in a kind and easy manner, hoping to find that the mild restraint and discipline had done the poor fellow good. Alas! how deceived I was, when, in a sudden rage, he turned upon me, and asked who the devil I thought I was talking to?"

"I told him a gentleman of a kind nature, I was sure, and of an amiable disposition.

"'Yes,' said he, 'but that is no reason why you should not treat me with proper deference and with due respect for my exalted position.'

"I bowed politely, and expressed a hope that I should never forget what was due from one gentleman to another.

"'No, no,' said he, 'that kind of excuse will not do. One gentleman to another, indeed! Whom are you talking to? I insist on your treating me with reverence and respect. Perhaps you do not know that I am St. Paul?'

"'Indeed!' said I, 'I was not aware that I was speaking to that holy Apostle, to one whom I hold in extreme reverence, and whose writings I have made my study.'"

After that, it seems, they got on very well together for the rest of the interview. Warren was able to delight him with his knowledge of Cappadocia, Phrygia, and Pamphylia, and the little incident of leaving his cloak at Troas, his shipwreck, and a vast number of things which the Apostle seemed very pleased to hear, while he conducted himself with that pious dignity which well deserved the obsequious reverence of the official visitor. On parting, St. Paul said,—

"You are rather mixed in your Scriptures; the only thing you are accurate about is leaving my cloak at Troas."

On Warren's next visit he resolved to conduct himself with more reverence. St. Paul was looking much the same as on the previous occasion. Sam genuflected, and held down his head, putting his hands devoutly together, and making such other manifestations of reverence as he thought the case required.

St. Paul looked at Warren with wonderment, and was evidently by no means satisfied with his salutations.

"Who the devil," said the madman, "do you think you are making those idiotic signs to? Whom do you take me for?"

"St. Paul, your holiness."

"'St. Paul, your holiness,' he repeated. 'My ——, you ought to be put into a lunatic asylum and looked after. You must be stark mad to think I am the holy Apostle St. Paul. What put that into your silly brains? Down on your knees, villain, at once, and prostrate yourself before the Shah of Persia—the dawn of creation and the light of the universe!'

"I thought this was coming it pretty strong," continued Sam, "but as it was all in my day's work, I conformed as well as I could to my instructions. The difficulty was in knowing how to address His Majesty, so I stammered, 'Dread potentate!' and seeing it pleased him, 'Light of the universe,' I cried, 'it is morning! May I rise?'

"'I perceive,' said the Shah, 'you are a genius,'"

"What did you think of his state of mind after that?" I asked.

Sam laughed and answered: "I thought he was getting better, more rational, and thanked him for his good opinion. 'Mighty potentate,' said I, 'monarch of the universe, I apologize for my mistake, but I was at St. Luke's yesterday,'

"'My faithful Luke!' said he, and clapped his hands. I knew once more where he was.

"'The last time,' said I (thinking I would rather have him the amiable Paul than the savage Shah), 'your Majesty informed me that you were the holy Apostle St. Paul!'

"'So I am,' answered the Shah.

"'I am at a loss, your Majesty, I humbly confess, to understand how your immortal Highness can be at one and the same time the blessed Apostle St. Paul and the Shah of Persia,'

"'Because you are such a damned fool!' replied His Highness.

"Here was the fierceness of the Shah, but immediately the gentleness of the Apostle restored him to a more amiable mood, and coming towards me with a smile, he said,—

"'The explanation, my dear sir, is simple;' and then, in a quiet, confidential tone, he added: 'It was the same mother, but two fathers!'"

"I had another experience not long after in the same asylum," continued Warren. "One of my patients told me he had married the devil's daughter when I was asking him about his relations. 'She was a nice girl enough,' he said, 'and although my people thought I had married beneath me, I was satisfied with her rank, seeing she was a Prince's daughter. We went off on our honeymoon in a chariot of fire which her father lent us for the occasion, and had a comfortable time of it at Monte Carlo, where all the hotels are under her father's special patronage.'

"'I hope,' said I, 'your marriage was a happy one.'

"'Yes,' said he with a sigh, 'but we don't get on well with the old folks!'"

* * * * *

No writer was ever more solicitous of fame than Sam Warren. It was a proud moment whenever there was the remotest allusion to his authorship, and I always loved to compliment him on his books.

In the famous case of Lord St. Leonards's will, which had been lost, I supported the lost will, and proved its contents from the evidence of Miss Sugden and others.

Sam Warren had been in the habit of visiting Lord St. Leonards at Boyle Farm, Ditton. He gave evidence as to what Lord St. Leonards had told him respecting his intentions as to the disposal of his property.

After examining him, I said with a polite bow: "Mr. Warren, I owe you an apology for bringing you into the Probate Court. I am sure no one will ever dream of disputing your will, because you have left everybody 'Ten Thousand a Year!'"

Whereupon Warren bowed most politely to me in acknowledgment of the compliment; then bowed to the Judge, and received his lordship's bow in return; then bowed to the jury, then to the Bar, and, lastly, to the gallery.

Writing of the Probate and Divorce Court reminds me of a curious application for the postponement of a trial made by George Brown, who was as good a humorist as he was a lawyer.

I have said that Judges in those days were more strict in refusing these applications than in ours, and Cresswell was no exception to the rule. He disliked them, and rarely yielded. But Brown was a man of a very persuasive manner, and it was always difficult to refuse him anything. I was sitting in Cresswell's court when George rose as soon as the Judge had taken his seat, and asked if a case might be postponed which would be in the next day's list.

"Have you an affidavit, Mr. Brown, as to the reason?"

"Yes, my lord; but I can hardly put the real ground of my application into the affidavit. I have communicated with the other side, and they are perfectly agreeable under the circumstances."

"I cannot agree to postpone without some adequate cause being stated," said Cresswell.

"I am very sorry, my lord, but it will be very inconvenient to me to be here to-morrow."

There was a laugh round the Bar, which Cresswell observing, asked what the real reason was.

Brown smiled and blushed; nothing would bring him to state plainly what the reason of his application was. At last, however, he stammered,—

"My lord, the fact is I am going to take the first step towards a divorce."

The appeal touched the Judge; the reason was sufficient. Every step in a divorce was to be encouraged, especially the first. The application was granted, and Brown was married the next day.



CHAPTER XX.

THE BRIGHTON CARD-SHARPING CASE.

From the courts of justice to the prize-ring is an easy and sometimes pleasant transition, especially in books. I visited from time to time such well-known persons as "Deaf Burke," Nat Langham, "Dutch Sam," and Owen Swift, all remarkable men, with constitutions of iron, and made like perfect models of humanity. Their names are unknown in these days, although in those of the long past gentlemen of the first position were proud of their acquaintance; and these men, although their profession was battering one another, were as little inclined to brutality as any. And when it is remembered that they played their game in accordance with strict rules and on the most scientific principles, it will be seen that cruelty formed no part of their character.

The true sportsmen of the period, amongst whom were the highest in the social and political world, took the same interest in contests in the ring as they did on the turf or in the cricket-field, and for the same reason. Whether Jem Mace would beat Tom Sayers had as much interest at fashionable dinner-tables as whether Lord Derby would dispose of Aberdeen or Palmerston. Lords and dukes backed their opinion in thousands, and the bargee and the ostler gave or took the odds according to the tips, in shillings. The gentleman of the long robe, therefore, was not to be supposed as altogether out of his element in sporting circles any more than the gentleman who had not a rag to cover him.

Nor was it uncommon to meet what was called the cream of society at the celebrated rendezvous of Ben Caunt, which was the Coach and Horses, St. Martin's Lane, or at the less pretentious resort of the Tipton Slasher; and what will our modern ladies think of their fair predecessors, who in those days witnessed the drawing of a badger or a dog-fight on a Sunday afternoon?

All mankind will attend exhibitions of skill and prowess, and although prize-fights are illegal, you never can suppress the spirit which engendered that form of competition.

I spent sometimes, with many eminent spectators, a quiet hour or two at Tom Spring's in Holborn, and met many of the best men there in all ranks and professions, always excepting the Church. After one of these entertainments I was travelling with John Gully, once a formidable champion of the ring, and at that time a great bookmaker, as well as owner of racehorses—afterwards presented at Court to her most gracious Majesty the late Queen—and Member of Parliament. We were travelling on our way to Bath, and as we approached a tunnel not far from our destination, Gully pointed out a particular spot "where," said he, "I won my first fight;" and so proud was he of the recollection that he might have been in a picture like that of Wellington pointing out the Field of Waterloo to a young lady.

This knowledge of the world, seen as I saw it, was of the greatest use in my profession. If you would know the world, you must not confine yourself to its virtues. There is another side, and it is well to look at it. I thought on one particular occasion how useful a little of this knowledge would have been during a certain cross-examination of Arthur Orton in Chancery by a member of the Chancery Bar. He put this question and many others of a similar kind,—

"Do you swear, sir, that you were on board the Bella?" in a very severe tone.

"Yes, sir," says the Claimant, "I do."

"Stop," says the advocate; "I'll take that down;" and he did, with a great deal besides, his cross-examination materially assisting the man in prolonging his fraudulent claim.

I was engaged in the Brighton card-sharping case, upon which so much stress was laid by the Claimant as proving his identity with Roger Tichborne, Roger not having been in the matter at all. I was counsel for one of the persons, the notorious Johnny Broom, who was indicted for fraud, and whose trial ought to have come on before Lord Chief Justice Jervis. He was not a good Judge, so far as the defendant was concerned, to try such a case, and that being Johnny's opinion, he absconded from his bail. The Lord Chief Justice had a great knowledge of card-sharping and of all other rogueries, so that he was an apt man to deal with delinquents who practised them. Conviction before him would have been certain in this case. He was, in fact, waiting for Johnny, as it was a case of great roguery, and intended to deal severely with him.

You may imagine, then, how angry he was when he heard that his man had flown. But there was one consolation: the Broom gang consisted of a number of men who acted on all occasions as confederates when the frauds were practised. Two of these rogues were also indicted, and placed on their trial at this assize.

A Mr. Johnson appeared for the prosecution, and in opening the case for the Crown, in order to show his uncommon fairness, was so impartial as to state that he could find no ground of complaint in respect of the cards, which, he said, had been most carefully examined by the Brighton magistrates.

Who these Brighton magistrates were I never heard, but probably they were gentlemen who knew nothing of sharpers and their ways, and whose only experience of cards was a quiet rubber with the ladies of their household. However, such was their unanimous opinion, and upon it the counsel for the Crown informed the Lord Chief Justice that he had no case so far as the fairness of the cards was concerned.

The Lord Chief Justice saw in a moment the importance of that admission on the part of the prosecution. If that were accepted the case was gone, since the fraud for which these men were indicted could not have been perpetrated by honest cards.

"The Brighton magistrates!" said the Chief Justice, with becoming emphasis. "Give me the cards; I should like to have a look at them."

They were handed up, and then a little scene took place which was picturesque and instructive. The Judge took up the cards one by one after carefully wiping and adjusting his glasses to his nose, while his confidential clerk leant over his shoulder with clerk-like familiarity. Having scrutinized them with the minutest observation, Jervis packed them up, and, turning to Mr. Johnson, said,—

"Mr. Johnson, I will show you how the trick was done. If you will take that card"—handing him one from the pack "—you will see that to the ordinary eye there is nothing to attract your attention. That is precisely as it should be in all games of cheating, for if every fool could see the private marks the rogues could not carry on their calling."

Johnson took the card, and, instructed by the Lord Chief Justice, carefully looked it over, but saw nothing. His face was a perfect blank, and his mind could not have been much more picturesque.

"Turn it over," said his lordship. Johnson obeyed. Still the cryptic hierograph did not appear. The Judge stared at his pupil. "Do you see," asked his lordship, "a tiny mark on the corner of the card at the back?"

"Oh, I see it!" says Johnson, with a face beaming with delight and simplicity.

"That means the ace of diamonds" said the Chief—"ace of diamonds, Mr. Johnson!" And thus, after a while, the cards and their secret signs were explained to the counsel for the Crown, who, on the intelligence of the Brighton magistrates, declared that, so far as the cards were concerned, he must acquit these card-sharping rogues of all intention to deceive.

In all cases the back of the card showed what was on the face; that was the simple secret of the whole contrivance, although the Brighton magistrates could not discover it, as the whole of them combined had not a hundredth part of the intelligent cuteness of Lord Chief Justice Jervis.

Two of this gang were standing near me, and I heard one of them say to the other,—

"Joey, how would you like to play blind hookey with that —— old devil?"

"O my G——!" exclaimed Joey.

The prisoners were convicted principally upon the evidence of the Lord Chief Justice, and sentenced to long terms of imprisonment. My client Johnny got away. He read about Jervis and this trial in the papers, and declared he would sooner abandon his profession than be tried by such an old thief. "Why," said he, "that old bloke knows every trick on the board."

His escape was rather interesting. He came into Lewes fully intending to take his trial, and went out of Lewes with the determination not to be tried at those assizes, for the simple reason, as he said, that Jervis was too heavy weight for his counsel.

He took a room and showed himself publicly; but at night the police—those stalwart county men—paid a tiptoe visit to his bedroom. They had no right to this privilege, but perhaps Harry thought it would be better for his brother if they did so. Why they went on tiptoe was that Harry told them his brother was in so weak a state that he woke up with the least noise. The police very kindly believed him, and paid their first and second visit on tiptoe.

When they went the third time, however, their bird had flown. Johnny had let himself down by the window, and, evading the vigilance of those who may have been on the lookout, escaped.

But he did not go without providing a substitute. Harry was to answer all inquiries, and waited the arrival of his watchers, lying in Johnny's bedroom. When the officers came he opened the door in his night apparel, and said, "Hush! don't disturb him; poor Johnny ain't slept hardly for a week over this 'ere job. But you can have a peep at him, only don't make a noise. There he is!" and he pointed to a fancy nightcap of his brother's, which only wanted Johnny's head to make the story true.

The good constables, having seen it as they saw it the night before, left the house as quietly as mice, still on tiptoe.

Harry described this performance to me himself.

Jervis had the whole country scoured for him, but unless he had scoured it himself, there was little chance of any one else finding the culprit.



CHAPTER XXI.

THE KNEBWORTH THEATRICAL ENTERTAINMENTS—SIR EDWARD BULWER—LYTTON—CHARLES DICKENS, CHARLES MATHEWS, MACREADY, DOUGLAS JERROLD, AND MANY OTHERS.

Among my pleasantest reminiscences were the partly amateur and partly professional entertainments that took place at the celebrated seat of the distinguished author, Sir Edward Bulwer-Lytton, about the year 185-.

At that time a gentleman of position usually sought to enhance the family dignity by a seat in Parliament. The most brilliant mediocrity even could not succeed without the patronage of the great families, while the great families were dependent upon those who had the franchise for the seats they coveted.

Forty-shilling freeholders were of some importance in those days; hence these theatrical performances at Knebworth Park, for Sir Edward wanted their suffrages without bribery or corruption.

Those who were the happy possessors of what they called the "frankise" were also distinguished enough, to be invited to the great performances at the candidate's beautiful estate.

It was a happy thought to give a succession of dramatic entertainments, amongst which "Every Man in his Humour" was one. Sir Edward knew his constituents and their tastes; it would be better than oratory at some village inn to ask them to the stately hall of Knebworth, and give them one of our fine old English plays.

I have already said that I had made up my mind in my earliest days to go to the Bar or on the Stage, and that love for the histrionic art (sometimes called the footlights) never left me.

For some reason or other I was invited to join the illustrious company which assembled on those eventful evenings, although I was cast for a very humble part in the performance. Nor is there much to wonder at when I tell you who my colleagues were.

First comes that most distinguished comedian of his day, Charles Mathews. I had known him for many a year, and liked him the better, if that was possible, the longer I knew him.

Mathews was the leader of the company; next was another illustrious man whose name will live for ever, and who was not only one of the greatest authors of his time, but also the most distinguished of the non-professional actors. Had he been on the stage, Mathews himself could not have surpassed him. This was Charles Dickens.

After him comes a great friend of Sir Edward, John Foster, a barrister of Lincoln's Inn, and author of the "Life of Goldsmith," as well as editor of the Examiner newspaper.

I am not quite sure whether Macready was present on this particular occasion, but I think he was; there were really so many illustrious names that it is impossible at this distance of time to be sure of every one. Macready was a great friend of Bulwer, and with Dickens and others was engaged in giving stage representations for charitable purposes in London and the provinces, so that it is at least possible I may be confounding Knebworth with some other place where I was one of the company.

Amongst us also was another whose name will always command the admiration of his countrymen, Douglas Jerrold. There were also Mark Lemon, Frank Stone, and another Royal Academician, John Leech, Frederick Dickens, Radcliffe, Eliot Yorke, Henry Hale, and others whose names escape my memory at the present moment.

No greater honour could be shown to a young barrister than to invite him to meet so distinguished a company, and what was even more gratifying to my vanity, asking me to act with them in the performance. There were many ladies, some of them of the greatest distinction, but without the leave of those who are their immediate relatives, which I have no time now to obtain, I forbear to mention their names in this work.

The business—for business it was, as well as the greatest pleasure—was no little strain on my energies, for I was now obtaining a large amount of work, and appearing in court every day. I had the orthodox number of devils—at least seven—to assist me, and every morning they came and received the briefs they were to hold.

Alas! of the illustrious people I have mentioned all are dead, all save one lady and myself.

When will such a company meet again?

I was no sooner in the midst of Knebworth's delightful associations than I was anxious to return to the toilsome duties of the Law Courts, with their prosaic pleadings and windbag eloquence. I was wanted in several consultations long before the courts met, so that it was idle to suppose I could stay the night at Knebworth. But what would I have given to be able to do so?

Not my briefs! They were the business of my life, without which the Knebworth pleasures would not have been possible. I never looked with any other feeling than that of pleasure on my work, and whenever the question arose I decided without hesitation in favour of the more profitable but less delightful occupation.

But I managed a compromise now and then. For instance, after I had done my duty in the consultations, and seen my work fairly started in court, I contrived to take the train pretty early to Knebworth, in order to attend rehearsals as well as perform in the evening.

Sir Edward's good-nature caused him much distress at my having to journey to and fro. What could he do? He offered me the sole use of his library during the time I was there if I could make it in any way helpful, and said it should be fitted up as a bedroom and study. But it was impossible to do other than I did. The rehearsals were nearly always going on—we had audiences as though they were matinees—and they afforded much amusement to us as well as the spectators when we made our corrections or abused one another for some egregious blunder. This, of course, did not include Mathews, who coached us from an improvised royalty box, where he graciously acted as George IV., got up in a wonderful Georgian costume for the occasion. George was so good that he diverted the attention of the audience from us, and made a wonderful hit in his new character.

I will not say that at our regular performances we always won the admiration, but I will affirm that we certainly received the forbearance, of our audience, which says a great deal for them. This observation, however, does not, of course, apply to the professional artists, but only to myself, who, luckily, through all the business still kept my head.

And it will be easily understood that this was the more difficult, especially if I may include my temper with it, when the good-natured Baronet actually invited several of his Hertford friends and neighbours to take part in the performances, some of them being friends of my own and members of my profession.

So that at this electioneering time the whole of that division was alive with theatricals and "Every Man in his Humour," which was exactly what Sir Edward wanted.

It was an ordeal for some of us to rehearse with the celebrities of the stage, but I need not say their good-humour and delight in showing how this and that should be done, and how this and that should be spoken, was, I am sure, reciprocated by all the amateurs in studying the corrections. Never were lessons more kindly given, or received with more pleasurable surprise. Some could scarcely conceive how they could so blunder in accent and emphasis. However, most things require learning, even advocacy and acting.

Eliot Yorke was stage-manager, and wrote a very excellent prologue. It must have been good, it was so heartily applauded, and the same may be said of all of us. I think Radcliffe studied the part of Old Knowell, while I played Young Knowell. Speaking after this interval of many years, I believe we were all word-perfect and pretty well conscious of our respective duties. Charles Dickens arranged our costumes, while Nathan supplied them. He arranged me well. I was quite satisfied with my Elizabethan ruff wound round my throat, but must confess that it was a little uncomfortable for the first three or four hours. My hose also gave me great satisfaction and some little annoyance.

I thought if I could walk into court without changing my costume, what a sensation I should create! What would Campbell or Jervis say to Young Knowell?

My father, as I have mentioned, lived at Hitchin, about six miles from Knebworth, and my professional duties calling me so early to town, I arranged to sleep at Hitchin, and go to London by an early train in the morning. Sir Edward was much concerned at all this, and again wondered whether his library could not be appropriated. But the other was the only practicable plan, and was adopted. Every day I was in court by nine o'clock, sometimes worked till five, then went by rail to Stevenage and drove to Knebworth, three miles. That was the routine. It was then time to put on my Elizabethan ruff and hose. After the play I once more donned my private costume, and supped luxuriously at a round table, where all our splendid company were assembled.

After supper some of us used to retire to Douglas Jerrold's room in one of the towers, and there we spent a jovial evening, prolonging the entertainment until the small hours of the morning.

Then my fly, which had been waiting a long time, enabled me to reach Hitchin and get three hours' sleep.

All this was hard work, but I was really strong, and in the best of health, so that I enjoyed the labour as well as the pleasure. One cannot now conceive how it was possible to go through so much without breaking down. I attribute it, however, to the attendant excitement, which braced me up, and have always found that excitement will enable you to exceed your normal strength.

I had very many theatrical friends, all of them delightful in every way. Amongst them Wright and Paul Bedford. Such companions as these are not to be met with twice, each with his individuality, while the two in combination were incomparable. They kept one in a perpetual state of laughter. Paul was irresistible in his drollery, and whether it was mimicry or original humour, you could not but revel in its quaint conceits.

Such men are benefactors; they brighten the darkest hours of existence, turn sorrow into laughter, and enable men to forget their troubles and live a little while in the sunshine of humour. Banish philosophy if you please, banish ambition if you must banish something, but leave us humour, the light of the social world. All who have experienced its beautiful influence can appreciate its value, and understand it as one of the choicest blessings conferred on our existence.

The dullest company was enlivened when Wright entered upon the scene. I remember Paul being told one day at the Garrick Club that a certain poor barrister, who had been an actor, was going to marry the daughter of an old friend. "Ah!" said he, "yes, he's a lover without spangles."

Who but Paul would have thought of so grotesque a simile? And yet its applicability was simply due to the language of the stage.

I remember Robson, too, and his wonderful acting; he had no rival. Nature had given him the talent which Art had cultivated to the highest perfection. Next come the Keelys' impersonations of every phase of dramatic life—originals in acting, and actors of originals.

But I must not linger over this portion of my story. It would occupy many pages, and time and space are limited; I therefore take my leave of one of the pleasantest chapters in my reminiscences.

All, alas! have passed away—all I knew and loved, all who made that time so happy; and reluctantly as I say it, it must be said: "Farewell, dear, grand old. Knebworth, with all thy glories and all the glad faces and merry hearts I met within your walls—a long, long, farewell!"



CHAPTER XXII.

CROCKFORD'S—"THE HOOKS AND EYES"—DOUGLAS JERROLD.

"Crockford's" has become a mere reminiscence, but worthy, in many respects, of being preserved as part of the history of London. It was historic in many of its associations as well as its incidents, and men who made history as well as those who wrote it met at Crockford's. It was celebrated alike for high play and high company.

As I never had a real passion for gambling, it was to me a place of great enjoyment, for there were some of the celebrated men of the day amongst its invited guests—wits, poets, novelists, playwrights, painters—in fact, all who had distinguished themselves in art or literature, law, science, or learning of any kind were always welcomed.

It was as pleasant a lounge as any in London, not excepting Tattersall's, which has equal claims on my memory. At Crockford's I met Captain H——, a wonderful gamester; he died early, but not too early for his welfare, seeing that all the chances of life are against the gambler. Padwick, too, I knew; he entertained with refined and lavish hospitality. He was one of the winners in the game of life who did not die early. He told good stories and put much interest into them. He knew Palmer, the Rugeley poisoner—a sporting man of the first water, who poisoned John Parsons Cook for the sake of his winnings, and his wife and mother, it was said, for the sake of the insurance on their lives. Padwick knew everybody's deeds and misdeeds who sought to increase his wealth on the turf or at the gaming-table. He was a just and honourable man, but without any sympathy for fools.

Others I could recall by the score, men of character and of no character. Some I knew afterwards professionally, and especially one, who, although convicted of crime, escaped by collusion the sentence justly passed upon him. Another was a man of position without character, whose evil habits destroyed the talent that would have made him famous.

But I need not dwell on the manifold characters and scenes of Crockford's. There has been nothing like it either in its origin or its subsequent history. There will never be anything like it in an age of refinement and laws, which have been wisely passed for the protection of fools.

The founder of this fashionable gambling place was at one time a small fishmonger in either the Strand or Fleet Street, I forget which, and lived there till he removed to St. James's Street, where he became a fisher of men, but never in any other than an honourable way.

"His Palace of Fortune" was of the grandest style of architectural beauty. It was one in which the worshippers of Fortune planked down the last acre of their patrimonial estates to propitiate the fickle goddess in the allurements of the gaming-table. But how can Fortune herself give two to one on all comers? Some must lose to pay the winners.

At this palatial abode the most sumptuous repasts were prepared by the most celebrated chefs the world could produce, and were eaten by the most fastidious and expensive gourmands Nature ever created; gamblers of the most distinguished and the most disreputable characters; gentlemen of the latest pattern and the oldest school, the worst of men and the best, sporting politicians and political sportsmen, place-hunters, Ministers, ex-Ministers, scions of old families and ancient pedigrees, as well as men of new families and no pedigrees, who purchased, as we do now, a coat of arms at the Heralds' tailoring shop, and selected their ancestors in Wardour Street.

Only the wealthy could be members of this club, for only the wealthy could lose money and pay it. Landscape painters might be guests, but it was only the man who belonged to the landscape who could belong to the body that gambled for it. Young barristers might visit the place, possibly with an eye to business, but only members of large practice or Judges could be members of this society.

Lord Palmerston defended it manfully before the committee appointed really for its destruction. He said it did a great deal of good—much more good than all the gambling hells of London did harm. Whether his lordship contended that there was no betting carried on at Crockford's I am not prepared to say, but when evidence is given before Parliamentary Committees it is sometimes difficult to understand its exact meaning. Palmerston, however, positively said, without any doubt as to his meaning, that candidates were not elected in order that they might be plucked of every feather they possessed, and that any one who maintained the contrary was slandering one of the most respectable clubs in London. Some men would rather have pulled down St. Paul's than Crockford's.

It was the very perfection of a club, said the statesman, and its principal game was chicken hazard. What could be stronger evidence than that of its usefulness and respectability? At this game they usually lost all they had, of little consequence to those who could not do better with their property, and perhaps the best thing for the country, because when it got into better hands it stood some chance of being applied to more legitimate purposes.

After a while Crockford quarrelled with his partner, and they separated.

Whatever men may say in these days against an institution which flourished in those, ex-Prime Ministers, Dukes, Earls, and ex-Lord Chancellors, as well as future Ministers of State and future Judges, belonged to it, or sought eagerly for admission to its membership. To be under the shadow of the fishmonger was greatness itself.

At the mention of the name of Crockford's a procession of the greatest men of the day passes before my eyes; their name would be legion as to numbers, but an army of devoted patriots I should call them in every other sense, for they were English to the backbone, whether gamblers or saints.

Of course there were some amongst them, as in every large body of men, who were not so desirable to know as you could wish; but they were easy to avoid and at all times an interesting study.

There were wise men and self-deluded fools, manly, well-bred men, and effeminate, conceited coxcombs, who wore stays and did up their back hair, used paint, and daubed their cheeks with violet powder. These men, while they had it, planked down their money with the longest possible odds against them. There was one who was the very opposite to these in the person of old Squire Osbaldistone. True, he had squandered more money than any one had ever seen outside the Bank of England, but he had done it like a gentleman and not like a fool. A real grand man was the old squire, and I enjoyed many a walk with him over Newmarket Heath, listening to his amusing anecdotes, his delightful humour and brilliant wit. His manner was so buoyant that no one could have believed he had spent hundreds of thousands of pounds, but he had, without compunction or regret.

The novelist and the painter could artistically describe Squire Osbaldistone. I can only say he was a "fine old English gentleman, one of the olden time." It was in a billiard-room at Leamington where I first met him, and as he was as indifferent a player as you could meet, he thought himself one of the best that ever handled a cue.

I neither played chicken hazard nor any other game, but enjoyed myself in seeing others play, and in picking up crumbs of knowledge which I made good use of in my profession.

The institution was not established for the benefit of science or literature, except that kind of literature which goes by the name of bookmaking. Its founder was a veritable dunce, but he was the cleverest of bookmakers, and made more by it in one night than all the authors of that day in their lives. One hundred thousand pounds in one night was not bad evidence of his calculation of chances and his general knowledge of mankind.

To be a member of this club, wealth was not the only qualification, because in time you would lose it; you had to be well born or distinguished in some other way. The fishmonger knew a good salmon by its appearance; he had also a keen respect for the man who had ancestors and ancestral estates.

I ought not to omit to mention another celebrated bookie of that day; he was second only to Crockford himself, and was called "The Librarian." He was also known as "Billy Sims."

Billy lived in St. James's Street, in a house which has long since been demolished, and thither people resorted to enjoy the idle, witty, and often scandalous gossip of the time. It was as easy to lose your reputation there as your money at Crockford's, and far more difficult to keep it. The only really innocent conversation was when a man talked about himself.

From that popular gossiping establishment I heard a little story told by the son of Sydney Smith. His father had been sent for to see an old lady who was one of his most troublesome parishioners. She was dying. Sad to say, she had always been querulous and quarrelsome. It may have been constitutional, but whatever the cause, her husband had had an uncomfortable time with her. When Sydney Smith reached the house the old lady was dead, and the bereaved widower, a religious man in his way, and acquainted with Scripture, said,—

"Ah, sir, you are too late: my poor dear wife has gone to Abraham's bosom."

"Poor Abraham!" exclaimed Sydney; "she'll tear his inside out."

As all these things pass through my memory, I recall another little incident with much satisfaction, because I was retained in the case. It was a scandalous fraud in connection with the gaming-table. An action was brought by a cheat against a gentleman who was said to have lost L20,000 on the cast of the dice. I was the counsel opposed to plaintiff, who was said to have cheated by means of loaded dice. I won the case, and it was generally believed that the action was the cause of the appointment of the "Gaming Committee," at which tribunal all the rascality of the gaming-tables was called to give evidence, and the witnesses did so in such a manner as to shock the conscience of the civilized world, which is never conscious of anything until exposure takes place in a court of law or in some other legal inquiry.

Diabolical revelations were brought to light. However, as I have said, Lord Palmerston effectually cleared Crockford's, and it almost seemed, from the evidence of those who knew Crockford's best, that they never played anything there but old-fashioned whist for threepenny points, patience, and beggar-my-neighbour.

His Royal Highness the then Prince of Wales came into court during the trial I refer to, and seemed interested in the proceedings. I wonder if his Majesty now remembers it!

In those days Baron Martin and I met once a year, he on the Bench and I in court, with a hansom cab waiting outside ready to start for the Derby. It is necessary for Judges to sit on Derby Day, to show that they do not go; but if by some accident the work of the court is finished in time to get down to Epsom, those who love an afternoon in the country sometimes go in the direction of the Downs. There is usually a run on the list on that day.

There was another club to which I belonged in those old days, called "The Hooks and Eyes," where I met for the last time poor Douglas Jerrold. He was one of the Eyes, and always on the lookout for a good thing, or the opportunity of saying one. He was certainly, in my opinion, the wittiest man of his day. But at times his wit was more hurtful than amusing. Wit should never leave a sting.

He was sometimes hard on those who were the objects of his personal dislike. Of these Sir Charles Taylor was one. He was not a welcome member of the Hooks and Eyes, and Jerrold knew it. There was really no reason why Sir Charles should not have been liked, except perhaps that he was dull and prosaic; rather simple than dull, perhaps, for he was always ready to laugh with the rest of us, whether he understood the joke or not. And what could the most brilliant do beyond that?

Sir Charles was fond of music. He mentioned in Jerrold's company on one occasion "that 'The Last Rose of Summer' so affected him that it quite carried him away."

"Can any one hum it?" asked Jerrold.



CHAPTER XXIII.

ALDERSON, TOMKINS, AND A FREE COUNTRY—A PROBLEM IN HUMAN NATURE.

Alderson was a very excellent man and a good Judge. I liked him, and could always deal with him on a level footing. He was quaint and original, and never led away by a false philanthropy or a sickly sentimentalism.

Appealed to on behalf of a man who had a wife and large family, and had been convicted of robbing his neighbours, "True," said Alderson—"very true, it is a free country. Nothing can be more proper than that a man should have a wife and a large family; it is his due—as many children as circumstances will permit. But, Tomkins, you have no right, even in a free country, to steal your neighbour's property to support them!"

I liked him where there was a weak case on the other side; he was particularly good on those occasions.

In the Assize Court at Chelmsford a barrister who had a great criminal practice was retained to defend a man for stealing sheep, a very serious offence in those days—one where anything less than transportation would be considered excessive leniency.

The principal evidence against the man was that the bones of the deceased animal were found in his garden, which was urged by the prosecuting counsel as somewhat strong proof of guilt, but not conclusive.

It must have struck everybody who has watched criminal proceedings that the person a prisoner has most to fear when he is tried is too often his own counsel, who may not be qualified by nature's certificate of capacity to defend. However, be that as it may, in this case there was no evidence against the prisoner, unless his counsel made it so.

"Counsel for the defence" in those days was a wrong description—he was called the friend of the prisoner; and I should conclude, from what I have seen of this relationship, that the adage "Save me from my friends" originated in this connection.

The friend of this prisoner, instead of insisting that there was no evidence, since no one could swear to the sheep bones when no man had ever seen them, endeavoured to explain away the cause of death, and thus, by a foolish concession, admitted their actual identity. It was not Alderson's duty to defend the prisoner against his own admission, although, but for that, he would have pointed out to the Crown how absolutely illogical their proposition was in law. But the "friend" of the prisoner suggested that sheep often put their heads through gaps or breakages in the hurdles, and rubbed their necks against the projecting points of the broken bars; and that being so, why should the jury not come to a verdict in favour of the prisoner on that ground? It was quite possible that the constant rubbing would ultimately cut the sheep's throat. If it did not, the prisoner submitted to the same operation at the hand of his "friend."

"Yes," said Baron Alderson, "that is a very plausible suggestion to start with; but having commenced your line of defence on that ground, you must continue it, and carry it to the finish; and to do this you must show that not only did this sheep in a moment of temporary insanity—as I suppose you would allege in order to screen it—commit suicide, but that it skinned itself and then buried its body, or what, was left of it after giving a portion to the prisoner to eat, in the prisoner's garden, and covered itself up in its own grave. You must go as far as that to make a complete defence of it. I don't say the jury may not believe you; we shall see. Gentlemen, what do you say—is the sheep or the prisoner guilty?" The sheep was instantly acquitted.

There was another display of forensic ingenuity by the same counsel in the next case, where he was once again the "friend" of the prisoner.

A man was charged with stealing a number of gold and silver coins which had been buried a few hours previously under the foundation-stone of a new public edifice.

The prisoner was one of the workmen, and had seen them deposited for the historical curiosity of future ages. Antiquity, of course, would be the essence of the value of the coins, except to the thief. The royal hand had covered them with the stone, duly tapped by the silver trowel amidst the hurrahs of the loyal populace, in which the prisoner heartily joined. But in the night he stole forth, and then stole the coins.

They were found at his cottage secreted in a very private locality, as though his conscience smote him or his fear sought to prevent discovery. His legal friend, however, driven from the mere outwork of facts, had taken refuge in the citadel of law; he was equal to the occasion. Alas! Alderson knew the way into this impregnable retreat.

Counsel suggested that it was never intended by those who placed the coins where they were found that they should remain there till the end of time; they were intended, said he, to be taken away by somebody, but by whom was not indicated by the depositors, and as no time or person was mentioned, they must belong to the first finder. It was all a mere chance as to the time of their resurrection. Further, it was certain they were not intended to be taken by their owners who had placed them there—they never expected to see them again—but by any one who happened to come upon them. Those who deposited them where they were found parted not only with the possession, but with all claims of ownership. Nor could any one representing him make any claim.

All this was excellent reasoning as far as it went, and the only thing the prosecution alleged by way of answer was that they were intended to be brought to light as antiquities.

"Very well," said the prisoner's counsel; "then there is no felonious intent in that case—it is merely a mistake. Antiquity came too soon."

And so did the conviction.

I was instructed, with the Hon. George Denman, son of my old friend, whom I have so often mentioned, to defend three persons at the Maidstone Assizes for a cruel murder. Mr. Justice Wightman was the Judge, and there was not a better Judge of evidence than he, or of law either.

The prisoners were father, mother, and son, and the deceased was a poor servant girl who had been engaged to be married to another son of the male prisoner and his wife.

The unfortunate girl had left her service at Gravesend, and gone to this family on a visit. The prisoners, there could be no doubt, were open to the gravest suspicion, but how far each was concerned with the actual murder was uncertain, and possibly could never be proved.

The night before the trial the attorney who acted for the accused persons called on me, and asked this extraordinary question,—

"Could you secure the acquittal of the father and the son if the woman will plead guilty?"

It is impossible to conceive the amount of resolution and self-sacrifice involved in this attempt to save the life of her husband and son. It was too startling a proposal to listen to. I could advise no client to plead guilty to wilful murder. It was so extraordinary a proposition, look at it from whatever point I might, that it was perfectly impossible to advise such a course. I asked him if the woman knew what she was doing, and that if she pleaded guilty certain death would follow.

"Oh yes," said he; "she is quite prepared."

"The murder," I said, "is one of the worst that can be conceived—cruel and fiendish."

He agreed, but persisted that she was perfectly willing to sacrifice her own life if her husband and son could be saved.

This woman, so full of feeling for her own family, had thought so little of that of others that she had held down the poor servant girl in bed while her son strangled her.

"If," said I, "she were to plead guilty, the great probability is that the jury would believe they were all guilty—very probably they are; and most certainly in that case they would all be hanged." I therefore strongly advised that the woman should stand her trial "with the others," which she did. In the end they all got off! the evidence not being sufficiently clear against any.

It was a strange mingling of evil and good in one breast—of diabolical cruelty and noble self-sacrifice.

I leave others to work out this problem of human nature.



CHAPTER XXIV.

CHARLES MATHEWS—A HARVEST FESTIVAL AT THE VILLAGE CHURCH.

The sporting world has no greater claim on my memory than the theatrical or the artistic. I recall them with a vividness that brings back all the enjoyments of long and sincere friendships. For instance, one evening I was in Charles Mathews's dressing-room at the theatre and enjoying a little chat when he was "called."

"Come along," said he; "come along."

Why he should "call" me to come along I never knew. I had no part in the piece at that moment. But he soon gave me one. I followed, with lingering steps and slow, having no knowledge of the construction of the premises; but in a moment Mathews had disappeared, and I found myself in the middle of the stage, with a crowded house in front of me. The whole audience burst into an uproar of laughter. I suppose it was the incompatibility of my appearance at that juncture which made me "take" so well; but it brought down the house, and if the curtain had fallen at that moment, I should have been a great success, and Mathews would have been out of it. In the midst of my discomfiture, however, he came on to the stage by another entrance as "cool as a cucumber." He told me afterwards that he had turned the incident to good account by referring to me as "Every man in his humour," or, "A bailiff in distressing circumstances!"

I was visiting the country house of a respectable old solicitor, who was instructing me in a "compensation case" which was to be heard at Wakefield.

"I don't know, Mr. Hawkins," said he on Sunday morning, "whether you would like to see our little church?"

"No, thank you," I answered; "we can have a look at it to-morrow when we have a 'view of the premises.'"

"I thought, perhaps," said Mr. Goodman, "you might like to attend the service."

"No," said I, "not particularly; a walk under the 'broad canopy' is preferable on a beautiful morning like this to a poky little pew; and I like the singing of the birds better than the humming of a clergyman's nose.

"Very well," he said; "we will, if you like, take a little walk."

With surprising innocence he inflicted upon me a pious fraud, leading me over fields and meadows, stiles and rustic bridges, until at last the cunning old fox brought me out along a by-path and over a plank bridge right into the village. Then turning a corner near a picturesque farmhouse, he smilingly observed, "This is our church."

"It's a very old one, and looks much more picturesque in the distance. Shall we have a view a little farther off?"

"St. Mary's," said he; "1694 is the date—"

"St. Mary's?" said I. "Fancy! And what is the date—1694?"

"It has some fine tablets, Mr. Hawkins, if you'd like to look in—"

"I don't care for tablets," I answered; "if I go to church it is not to stare at tablets."

At last my host summed up courage to say,—

"Mr. Hawkins, this is our little harvest festival of thanksgiving, and I should not like to be absent."

"Why on earth, Mr. Goodman," I answered, "did you not say that before? Let us go in by all means. I like a good harvest as well as any Christian on earth."

The pew was the family pew—the whole family pew, and nothing but the family pew; bought with the estate, with the family estate; and was in an excellent situation for the congregation to have a fine view of Mr. Goodman. Indeed, his cheery face could be seen by everybody in church.

I must say the little edifice looked very nice, and had been adorned with the most artistic taste by the young ladies of the Vicarage and the Hall. Mr. Goodman was "the Hall." There were bunches of neatly-arranged turnips and carrots, with potatoes, barley, oats, and mangel-wurzel, and almost every variety of fruit from the little village; and every girl had barley and wheat-ears in her straw hat. It was an affecting sight, calculated to make any one adore the young ladies and long for dinner.

The sermon was an excellent one so far as I could pronounce an opinion, but would have been considerably improved had it been three-quarters of an hour shorter. It contained, however, the usual allusions to harvest-homes, gathering into barns, and laying up treasures; which last observation reminded Mr. Goodman that he had left his purse at home, and had come away without any money.

I saw him fumbling in his pocket. Now, thought I, the time has come for showing my devotion to Mr. Goodman. As soon, therefore, as he had whispered to me, I handed him all I had, which consisted of a five-pound note. He gratefully took it, and although about five times as much as he intended to give, when the bag was handed to him in went the five-pound note.

I knew my friend was chuckling as soon as we got into his family pew at the way in which he had lured me step by step, till we walked the last plank over the ditch, so I was not sorry to return good for evil and lend him my note.

He stared somewhat sideways at me when the bag passed, but I bore it with fortitude. I took particular notice that the crimson bag passed along the front of our family pew at a very dilatory pace, and tarried a good deal, as if reluctant to leave it. To and fro it passed in front of my nose as if it contained something I should like to smell, and at last moved away altogether. I was glad of that, because it prevented my following the words of the hymn in my book, and, unfortunately, it was one of those harvest hymns I did not know by heart.

On our way home over the meadows, where the grasshoppers were practising for the next day's sports, and were in high glee over this harvest festival, Mr. Goodman seemed fidgety; whether conscience-stricken for the Sabbath fraud he had practised upon me or not, I could not say, but at last he asked how I liked their little service.

I said it was quite large enough.

"You"—he paused—"you did not, I think"—another pause—"contribute to our little gathering?"

"No," I said, "but it was not my fault; I lent you all I had. The fund, however, will not suffer in the least, and you have the satisfaction of having contributed the whole of our joint pocket-money. It does not matter who the giver is so long as the fund obtains it." I then diverted his mind with a story or two.

Cockburn, I said, was sitting next to Thesiger during a trial before Campbell, Chief Justice, in which the Judge read some French documents, and, being a Scotsman, it attracted a good deal of attention. Cockburn, who was a good French scholar, was much annoyed at the Chief Justice's pronunciation of the French language.

"He is murdering it," said he—"murdering it!"

"No, my dear Cockburn," answered Thesiger, "he is not killing it, only Scotching it."

Sir Alexander was at a little shooting-party with Bethell and his son, one of whom shot the gamekeeper. The father accused the son of the misadventure, while the son returned the compliment. Cockburn, after some little time, asked the gamekeeper what was the real truth of the unfortunate incident—who was the gentleman who had inflicted the injury?

The gamekeeper, still smarting from his wounds, and forgetting the respect due to the questioner, answered,—

"O Sir Alexander—d—n 'em, it was both!"

A remark made by Lord Young, the Scotch Judge, one of the wittiest men who ever adorned the Bar, and who is a Bencher of the Middle Temple, struck me as particularly happy. There was a conversation about the admission of solicitors to the roll, and the long time it took before they were eligible to pass from their stage of pupilage to that of solicitor, amounting, I think, to seven years; upon which Lord Young said, "Nemo repente fuit turpissimus."



CHAPTER XXV.

COMPENSATION—NICE CALCULATIONS IN OLD DAYS—EXPERTS—LLOYD AND I.

As my business continued to increase, it took me more and more from the ordinary nisi prius, and kept me perpetually employed in special matters. I had a great many compensation cases, where houses, lands, and businesses had been taken for public or company purposes. They were interesting and by no means difficult, the great difficulty being to get the true value when you had, as I have known, a hundred thousand pounds asked on one side and ten thousand offered on the other.

Railway companies were especially plundered in the exorbitant valuation of lands, and therefore an advocate who could check the valuers by cross-examination was sought after. Juries were always liable to be imposed upon, and generally gave liberal compensation, altogether apart from the market value. Experts, such as land agents and surveyors, were always in request, and indeed these experts in value caused the most extravagant amounts to be awarded. Even the mean sum between highest and lowest was a monstrously unfair guide, for one old expert used to instruct his pupils that the only true principle in estimating value was to ask at least twice as much as the business or other property was worth, because, he said, the other side will be sure to try and cut you down one-half, and then probably offer to split the difference. If you accept that, you will of course get one-quarter more than you could by stating what you really wanted. No one could deal with the real value, because there was no such thing known in the Compensation Court.

On one occasion I was travelling north in connection with one of these cases, retained, as usual, on behalf of a railway company. In my judgment the claim would have been handsomely met by an award of L10,000, and that sum we were prepared to give.

On my way I observed in my carriage a gentleman who was very busy in making calculations on slips of paper, and every now and again mentioning the figures at which he had arrived—repeating them to himself. When we got to a station he threw away his paper, after tearing it up, and when we started commenced again, but at every stoppage on our journey he increased his amount. After we had travelled 250 miles, the property he was valuing had attained the handsome figure of L100,000.

He evidently had not observed me. I was very quiet, and well wrapped up. The next day, when he stepped into the witness-box he had not the least idea that I had been his fellow-traveller of the previous night. He was not very sharp except in the matter of figures; but his opinion, like that of all experts, was invincible. His name was Bunce.

"When did you view this property, Mr. Bunce? I understand you come from London."

"I saw it this morning, sir."

"Did you make any calculation as to its value before you saw it?"

This puzzled him, and he stared at me. It was a hard stare, but I held out.

He said, "No."

"Not when you were travelling? Did it not pass through your mind when you were in the train, for instance—'I wonder, now, what that property is worth?'"

"I dare say it did, sir."

"But don't dare say anything unless it's true."

"I did, then, run it over in my mind."

"And I dare say you made notes and can produce them. Did you make notes?" After a while I said, "I see you did. You may as well let me have them."

"I tore them up."

"Why? What became of the pieces?"

"I threw them away."

"Do you remember what price you had arrived at when you reached Peterborough, for instance?"

The expert thought I was some one whom we never mention except when in a bad temper, and he was more and more puzzled when he found that at every stoppage I knew how much his price had increased.

As the case was tried by an arbitrator and not a jury, my task was easy, arbitrators not being so likely to be befooled as the other form of tribunal. This arbitrator, especially, knew the elasticity of an expert's opinion, and therefore I was not alarmed for my client. The amount was soon arrived at by reducing the sum claimed by no less than L90,000. Thus vanished the visionary claim and the expert. He evidently had not been trained by the cunning old surveyor whose experience taught him to be moderate, and ask only twice as much as you ought to get.

In another claim, which was no less than L10,000, the jury gave L300. This was a state of things that had to be stopped, and it could only be accomplished at that time by counsel who appeared on behalf of the companies.