Sir Henry Hunt was one of the best of arbitrators, and it was difficult to deceive him. It took a clever expert to convince him that a piece of land whose actual value would be L100 was worth L20,000.

Sir Henry once paid me a compliment—of course, I was not present.

"Hawkins," said he, "is the very best advocate of the day, and, strange to say, his initials are the same as mine. You may turn them upside down and they will still stand on their legs" (H.H.).

Sir Henry was sometimes a witness, and as such always dangerous to the side against whom he was called, because he was a judge of value and a man of honour.

One instance in which I took a somewhat novel course in demolishing a fictitious claim is, perhaps, worth while to relate, although so many years have passed since it occurred.

It was so far back as the time of the old Hungerford Market, which the railway company was taking for their present Charing Cross terminus. The question was as to the value of a business for the sale of medical appliances.

Mr. Lloyd, as usual, was for the business, while I appeared for the company. My excellent friend proceeded on the good old lines of compensation advocacy with the same comfortable routine that one plays the old family rubber of threepenny points. I occasionally finessed, however, and put my opponent off his play. He held good hands, but if I had an occasionally bad one, I sometimes managed to save the odd trick.

Lloyd had expatiated on the value of the situation, the highroad between Waterloo Station and the Strand, immense traffic and grand frontage. To prove all this he called a multitude of witnesses, who kissed the same book and swore the same thing almost in the same words. But to his great surprise I did not cross-examine. Lloyd was bewildered, and said I had admitted the value by not cross-examining, and he should not call any more witnesses.

I then addressed the jury, and said, "A multitude of witnesses may prove anything they like, but my friend has started with an entirely erroneous view of the situation. The compensation for disturbance of a business must depend a great deal on the nature of the business. If you can carry it on elsewhere with the same facility and profit, the compensation you are entitled to is very little. I will illustrate my meaning. Let us suppose that in this thoroughfare there is a good public-house—for such a business it would indeed be an excellent situation; you may easily imagine a couple of burly farmers coming up from Farnham or Windlesham to the Cattle Show, and walking over the bridge, hot and thirsty. 'Hallo!' says one; 'I say, Jim, here's a nice public; what d'ye say to goin' in and havin' a glass o' bitter? It's a goodish pull over this 'ere bridge."

"'With all my heart,' says Jim; and in they go.

"There you see the advantage of being on the highroad. But now, let us see these two stalwart farmers coming along, and—instead of the handsome public and the bitter ale there is this shop, where they sell medical arrangements—can you imagine one of them saying to the other, 'I say, Jim, here's a very nice medical shop; what d'ye say to going in and having a truss?'"

The argument considerably reduced the compensation, but what it lacked in money the claimant got in laughter.

Sometimes I led a witness who was an expert valuer for a claimant to such a gross exaggeration of the value of a business as to stamp the claim with fraud, and so destroy his evidence altogether.

Sir Henry Hunt used to nod with apparent approval at every piece of evidence which showed any kind of exaggeration, but every nod was worth, as a rule, a handsome reduction to the other side.

I shall never forget an attorney's face who, having been offered L10,000 for a property, stood out for L13,000.

It was a claim by a poulterers' company for eight houses that were taken by a railway company. I relied entirely on my speech, as I often did, because the threadbare cross-examinations were almost, by this time, things of course, as were the figures themselves mere results of true calculations on false bases.

This attorney, who had, perhaps, never had a compensation case before, was quite a great man, and took the arbitrator's assenting nods as so much cash down.

So encouraged, indeed, was he that he became almost impudent to me, and gave me no little annoyance by his impertinent asides. At last I looked at him good-humouredly, and politely requested him, as though he were the court itself, to suspend his judgment while I had the honour of addressing the arbitrator for twenty minutes, "at the end of which time I promise to make you, sir," said I, "the most miserable man in existence."

I was supported in this appeal by the arbitrator, who hoped he would not interrupt Mr. Hawkins.

As I proceeded the attorney fidgeted, puffed out his cheeks, blew out his breath, twirled his thumbs as I twirled his figures, and grated his teeth as he looked at me sideways, while I concluded a little peroration I had got up for him, which was merely to this effect, that if railway companies yielded to such extortionate demands as were made by this attorney on behalf of the poulterers' company, they would not leave their shareholders a feather to fly with.

The attorney looked very much like moulting himself, and the end of it was that he got two thousand pounds less than we had offered him in the morning, and consequently had to pay all the costs.

As I have stated, John Horatio Lloyd was my principal opponent in these great public works cases, and I remember him with every feeling of respect. He was an advocate whom no opponent could treat lightly, and was uniformly kind and agreeable.

Of course I had a very large experience in those times—I suppose, without vanity, I may say the very largest. I was retained to assess compensation for the immense blocks of buildings acquired for the space now occupied by the Law Courts. In the very early cases the law. officers of the Crown were concerned, but after that the whole of the business was entrusted to my care, although for reasons best known to themselves the Commissioners declined to send me a general retainer, which would have been one small sum for the whole, but gave instead a special retainer on every case. If my memory serves me, on one occasion I had ninety-four of these special retainers delivered at my chambers. This was in consequence of their refusing to retain me generally for the whole, which would have been a nominal fee of five guineas.



CHAPTER XXVI.

ELECTION PETITIONS.

Another class of work which gave me much pleasure and interest was that of election petitions. These came in such abundance that I had to put on, as I thought, a prohibitory fee, which in reality increased the volume of my labour.

One day Baron Martin asked me if I was coming to such and such an election petition.

"No," I answered, "no; I have put a prohibitory fee on my services; I can't be bothered with election petitions."

"How much have you put on?"

"Five hundred guineas, and two hundred a day."

The Baron laughed heartily. "A prohibitory fee! They must have you, Hawkins—they must have you. Put on what you like; make it high enough, and they'll have you all the more."

And I did. It turned out a very lucrative branch of my business, and my electioneering expenses were a good investment. My experience at Barnstaple, to be told hereafter, repaid the outlay, and no feature of an election ever came before me but I recognized a family likeness.

Amongst the earliest was that of W.H. Smith, who had been returned for Westminster. The petitioner endeavoured to unseat him on the ground of bribery, alleged to have been committed in paying large sums of money for exhibiting placards on behalf of the candidate. It was tried before Baron Martin.

About the payments there was no element of extravagance, but there were undoubtedly many cases of payment, and these were alleged to be illegal.

Ballantine was my junior. One of the curious matters in the case was that these payments had been principally made by, or under, the advice of my old friend, whom I cannot mention too often, the Hon. Robert Grimston.

Ballantine, as I thought, most injudiciously advised me not to call "that old fool;" but believing in Grimston, and having charge of the case, I resolved to call him. Baron Martin knew Grimston as well as I did, and believed in him as much.

"Who is this?" asked the Judge.

"Another bill-sticker, my lord."

Grimston gave his evidence, and was severely cross-examined by my friend, J. Fitzjames Stephen. He fully and satisfactorily explained every one of the questioned items, evidently to the satisfaction of Martin, who dismissed the petition, and thus Mr. Smith retained his seat.

The learned Judge said, in giving judgment, that without Grimston's evidence the seat would have been in great danger, but that he had put an innocent colour on the whole case, and that, knowing him to be an honourable man and incapable of saying anything but the truth, he had implicitly trusted to every word he spoke.

Mr. Smith, whom I met some days after, said he was perfectly assured that if I had not had the conduct of the case, and Grimston had not been called, his seat would have been lost.

In the petition against Sir George Elliot for Durham there was nothing of any importance in the case, except that Sir George gave a very interesting history of his life.

He had been a poor boy who had worked in the cutting of the pit, lying on his back and picking out from the roof overhead the coal which was shovelled into the truck. From this humble position literally and socially he had proceeded, first to his feet, and then step by step, until, from one grade to another, he had amassed a large fortune, and sufficient income to enable him to incur, not only the expenses of an election and a seat in Parliament, but also those of a bitterly hostile election petition, enormously extravagant in every way. I succeeded in winning his case, and never was more proud of a victory. It had lasted many days.

There is one matter almost of a historical character, which I mention in order to do all the justice in my power to a man who, although deserving of reprobation, is also entitled to admiration for the chivalry of his true nature. I speak of it with some hesitation, and therefore without the name. Those who are interested in his memory will know to whom I allude, and possibly be grateful for the tribute to his character, however much it may have been sullied by his temporary absence of manly discretion.

He was charged with assaulting a young lady in a railway train between Aldershot and Waterloo. There was much of the melodramatic in the incidents, and much of the righteous indignation of the public before trial. There was judgment and condemnation in every virtuous mind. The assault alleged was doubtless of a most serious character, if proved. I say nothing of what might have been proved or not proved; but, speaking as an advocate, I will not hesitate to affirm that cross-examination may sometimes save one person's character without in the least affecting that of another.

But this was not to be. Whatever line of defence my experience might have suggested, I was debarred by his express command from putting a single question.

I say to his honour that, as a gentleman and a British officer, he preferred to take to himself the ruin of his own character, the forfeiture of his commission in the army, the loss of social status, and all that could make life worth having, to casting even a doubt on the lady's veracity in the witness-box.

My instructions crippled me, but I obeyed my client, of course, implicitly in the letter and the spirit, even though to some extent he may have entailed upon himself more ignominy and greater severity of punishment than I felt he deserved.

He died in Egypt, never having been reinstated in the British army. I knew but little of him until this catastrophe occurred; but the manliness of his defence showed him to be naturally a man of honour, who, having been guilty of serious misconduct, did all he could to amend the wrong he had done; and so he won my sympathy in his sad misfortune and misery.

In the days when burglary was punished with death, there was very seldom any remission, I was in court one day at Guildford, when a respectably-dressed man in a velveteen suit of a yellowy green colour and pearl buttons came up to me. He looked like one of Lord Onslow's gamekeepers. I knew nothing of him, but seemed to recognize his features as those of one I had seen before. When he came in front of my seat he grinned with immense satisfaction, and said,—

"Can I get you anything, Mr. Orkins?"

I could not understand the man's meaning.

"No, thank you," I said. "What do you mean?"

"Don't you recollect, sir, you defended me at Kingston for a burglary charge, and got me off., Mr. Orkins, in flyin' colours?"

I recollected. He seemed to have the flying colours on his lips. "Very well," I said; "I hope you will never want defending again."

"No, sir; never."

"That's right."

"Would a teapot be of any use to you, Mr. Orkins?"

"A teapot!"

"Yes, sir, or a few silver spoons—anything you like to name, Mr. Orkins."

I begged him to leave the court.

"Mr. Orkins, I will; but I am grateful for your gettin' me off that job, and if a piece o' plate will be any good, I'll guarantee it's good old family stuff as'll fetch you a lot o' money some day."

I again told him to go, and, disappointed at my not accepting things of greater value, he said,—

"Sir, will a sack o' taters be of any service to you?"

This sort of gratitude was not uncommon in those days. I told the story to Mr. Justice Wightman, and he said,—

"Oh, that's nothing to what happened to the Common Serjeant of London. He had sent to him once a Christmas hamper containing a hare, a brace and a half of pheasants, three ducks, and a couple of fowls, which he accepted."

I sometimes won a jury over by a little good-natured banter, and often annoyed Chief Justice Campbell when I woke him up with laughter. And yet he liked me, for although often annoyed, he was never really angry. He used to crouch his head down over his two forearms and go to sleep, or pretend to, by way of showing it did not matter what I said to the jury. I dare say it was disrespectful, but I could not help on these occasions quietly pointing across my shoulder at him with my thumb, and that was enough. The jury roared, and Campbell looked up,—

"What's the joke, Mr. Hawkins?"

"Nothing, my lord; I was only saying I was quite sure your lordship would tell the jury exactly what I was saying."

"Go on, Mr. Hawkins—"

Then he turned to his clerk and said,—

"I shall catch him one of these days. Confine yourself to the issue, Mr. Hawkins."

"If your lordship pleases," said I, and went on.

The eccentricities of Judges would form a laughable chapter. Some of them were overwhelmed with the importance of their position; none were ever modest enough to perceive their own small individuality amidst their judicial environments; and this thought reminds me of an occurrence at Liverpool Assizes, when Huddlestone and Manisty, the two Judges on circuit, dined as usual with the Lord Mayor. The Queen's health was proposed, of course, and Manisty, with his innate good breeding, stood up to drink it, whereupon his august brother Judge pulled him violently by his sleeve, saying, "Sit down, Manisty, you damned fool! we are the Queen!"

I was addressing a jury for the plaintiff in a breach of promise case, and as the defendant had not appeared in the witness-box, I inadvertently called attention to an elderly well-dressed gentleman in blue frock-coat and brass buttons—a man, apparently, of good position. The jury looked at him and then at one another as I said how shameful it was for a gentleman to brazen it out in the way the defendant did—ashamed to go into the witness-box, but not ashamed to sit in court.

Here the gentleman rose in a great rage amidst the laughter of the audience, in which even the ushers and javelin-men joined, to say nothing of the Judge himself, and shouted with angry vociferation,—

"Mr. Hawkins, I am not the defendant in this case, Sir ——"

"I am very sorry for you," I replied; "but no one said you were."

There was another outburst, and the poor gentleman gesticulated, if possible, more vehemently than before.

"I am not the def—"

"Nobody would have supposed you were, sir, if you had not taken so much trouble to deny it. The jury, however, will now judge of it."

"I am a married man, sir."

"So much the worse," said I.



CHAPTER XXVII.

MY CANDIDATURE FOR BARNSTAPLE.

Although the House of Commons dislikes lawyers, constituencies love them. The enterprising patriots of the long robe are everywhere sought after, provided they possess, with all their other qualifications, the one thing needful, and possessing which, all others may be dispensed with.

Barnstaple was no exception to the rule. It had a character for conspicuous discernment, and, like the unseen eagle in the sky, could pick out at any distance the object of its desire.

Eminent, respectable, and rich must be the qualification of any candidate who sought its suffrages—the last, at all events, being indispensable.

Up to this time I had not felt those patriotic yearnings which are manifested so early in the legal heart. I was never a political adventurer; I had no eye on Parliament merely as a stepping-stone to a judgeship; and probably, but for the events I am about to describe, I should never have been heard of as a politician at all. There were so many candidates in the profession to whom time was no object that I left this political hunting-ground entirely to them.

In 1865 I was waited upon at Westminster by a very influential deputation from the Barnstaple electors—honest-looking electors as any candidate could wish to see—bringing with them a requisition signed by almost innumerable independent electors, and stating that there were a great many more of the same respectable class who would have signed had time been permitted. Further signatures were, however, to be forwarded. It was urged by the deputation that I should make my appearance at Barnstaple at the earliest possible date, as no time was to be lost, and they were most anxious to hear my views, especially upon topics that they knew more about than I, which is generally the case, I am told, in most constituencies. I asked when they thought I ought to put in an appearance.

"Within a week at latest," said the leading spirit of the deputation. "Within a week at latest," repeated all the deputation in chorus." Because," said the leading personage, "there is already a gentleman of the name of Cave" (it should have been pronounced as two syllables, so as to afford me some sort of warning of the danger I was confronting) "busily canvassing in all directions for the Liberal party, and Mr. Howell Gwynne and Sir George Stukely will be the Conservative candidates. However, it would be a certain seat if I would do them the honour of coming forward. There would be little trouble, and it would almost be a walk-over."

A walk-over was very nice, and the tantalizing hopes this deputation inspired me with overcame my great reluctance to enter the field of politics; and in that ill-advised moment I promised to allow myself to be nominated.

It was arranged that I should make my appearance by a specified afternoon train on a particular day in the week (apparently to be set apart as a public holiday), so that I had little time for preparation. By the next day's post I received a kind of official communication from "our committee," stating that a very substantial deputation from the general body would have the honour to meet me at the station, and accompany me to the committee-rooms for the purpose of introduction.

Down, therefore, I went by the Great Western line, and in due time arrived at my destination, as I thought.

I found, instead of the "influential body of gentlemen" who were to have the honour of conducting me to the headquarters of the Liberal party, there was only a small portion of it, almost too insignificant to admit of counting. But he was an important personage in uniform, and dressed somewhat like a commissionaire.

After much salutation and deferential hemming and stammering, he said I had better proceed to a little station only a few miles farther on and dine, "and if so be I'd do that, they would meet me in the evening."

Not being a professional politician, nor greatly ambitious of its honours, I was somewhat disconcerted at such extraordinary conduct on the part of my committee, and would have returned to town, but that the train was going the wrong way, and by the time I reached the little station I had argued the matter out, as I thought. It might be a measure of precaution, in a constituency so respectable as Barnstaple, to prevent the least suspicion of treating or corrupt influence. Had I dined at Barnstaple it might have been suggested that some one dined with me or drank my health. Whatever it was, the revelation was not yet.

I was to return "as soon as I had dined." Everything was to be ready for my reception.

All these instructions I obeyed with the greatest loyalty, and returned at an early hour in the evening. But if I was disappointed at my first reception, how was I elated by the second! All was made up for by good feeling and enthusiasm. We were evidently all brothers fighting for the sacred cause, but what the cause was I had not been informed up to this time.

At the station was a local band of music waiting to receive me, and to strike up the inspiring air, "See the conquering hero comes;" but, unfortunately, the band consisted only of a drum, of such dimensions that I thought it must have been built for the occasion, and a clarionet.

Before the band struck up, however, I was greeted with such enthusiastic outbursts that they might have brought tears into the eyes of any one less firm than myself. "Orkins for ever!" roared the multitude. It almost stunned me. Never could I have dreamt my popularity would be so great. "Orkins for ever!" again and again they repeated, each volley, if possible, louder than before. "Bravo, Orkins! Let 'em 'ave it, Orkins! don't spare 'em." I wish I had known what this meant.

I must say they did all that mortals could do with their mouths to honour their future member.

Hogarth's "March to Finchley" was outdone by that march to the Barnstaple town hall. An enormous body of electors, "free and independent" stamped on their faces as well as their hands, was gathered there, and it was a long time before we could get anywhere near the door.

Again and again the air was rent with the cries for "Orkins," and it was perfectly useless for the police to attempt to clear the way. They had me as if on show, and it was only by the most wonderful perseverance and good luck that I found myself going head first along the corridor leading to the hall itself.

When I appeared on the platform, it seemed as if Barnstaple had never seen such a man; they were mad with joy, and all wanted to shake hands with me at once. I dodged a good many, and by dint of waving his arms like a semaphore the chairman succeeded, not in restoring peace, but in moderating the noise.

I now had an opportunity of using my eyes, and there before me in one of the front seats was the redoubtable Cave—the great canvassing Cave—who instantly rose and gave me the most cordial welcome, trusted I was to be his future colleague in the House, and was most generous in his expressions of admiration for the people of Barnstaple, especially the voting portion of them, and hoped I should have a very pleasant time and never forget dear old Barnstaple. I said I was not likely to—nor am I.

Of course I had to address the assembled electors first after the introduction by the chairman, who, taking a long time to inform us what the electors wanted, I made up my mind what to say in order to convince them that they should have it. I gave them hopes of a great deal of legal reform and reduction of punishments, for I thought that would suit most of them best, and then gladly assented to a satisfactory adjustment of all local requirements and improvements, as well as a determined redress of grievances which should on no account be longer delayed. ("Orkins for ever!")

Then Cave stood up—an imposing man, with a good deal of presence and shirt-collar—who invited any man—indeed, challenged anybody—in that hall to question him on any subject whatever.

The challenge was accepted, and up stood one of the rank and file of the electors—no doubt sent by the Howell Gwynne party—and with a voice that showed at least he meant to be heard, said,—

"Mr. Cave, first and foremost of all, I should like to know how your missus is to-day?"

It was scarcely a political or public question, but nobody objected, and everybody roared with laughter, because it seemed at all political meetings Cave had started the fashion, which has been adopted by many candidates since that time, of referring to his wife! Cave always began by saying he could never go through this ordeal without the help and sympathy of his dear wife—his support and joy—at whose bidding and in pursuit of whose dreams he had come forward to win a seat in their uncorruptible borough, and to represent them—the most coveted honour of his life—in the House of Commons.

Of course this oratory, having a religious flavour, took with a very large body of the Barnstaple electors, and was always received with cheers as an encouragement to domestic felicity and faithfulness to connubial ties.

When this gentleman put the question, Cave answered as though it was asked in real earnest, and was cheered to the echo, not merely for his domestic felicity, but his cool contempt for any man who could so far forget connubial bliss as to sneer at it.

For a few days all went tolerably well, and then I was told that a very different kind of influence prevailed in the borough than that of religion or political morality, and that it would be perfectly hopeless to expect to win the seat unless I was prepared to purchase the large majority of electors; indeed, that I must buy almost every voter. (That's what they meant by "Give it 'em, Orkins! Let 'em 'ave it!")

This I refused to believe; but it was said they were such free and independent electors that they would vote for either party, and you could not be sure of them until the last moment; in fact, if I would win I must bribe! to say nothing of all sorts of subscriptions to cricket clubs and blanket clubs, as well as friendly societies of all kinds.

I declined to accept these warnings, and looked upon it as some kind of political dodge got up by the other side.

I resolved to win by playing the game, and made up my mind to go to the poll on the political questions which were agitating the public mind, as I was informed, by a simple honest candidature, thinking that in political as in every other warfare honesty is the best policy. On that noble maxim I entered into the contest, believing in Barnstaple, and feeling confident I should represent it in Parliament.

To indulge in bribery of any sort would, I knew, be fatal to my own interests even if I had not been actuated by any higher motive. I placed myself, therefore, in the hands of my friend and principal agent, Mr. Kingston, as well as the other agents of the party.

We did not long, however, remain true to ourselves. There was a hitch somewhere which soon developed into a split; and it was certain some of us must go to the wall. I could not, however, understand the reason of it; we professed the same politics, the same "cause," the same battle-cry, the same enemies. But, whatever it was, we were so much divided that my chances of heading the poll were diminishing.

I had been cheered to the echo night after night and all day long, so that there was enough shouting to make a Prime Minister; my horses had time after time been taken from my carriage, and cheering voters drew me along. These unmistakable signs of popular devotion to my interests had been most encouraging; and as they shouted themselves hoarse for me, I talked myself hoarse for them. We had a mutual hoarseness for each other. Everything looked like success; everything sounded like success; and night after night out came drum and clarionet to do their duty manfully in drumming me to my hotel.

It had been a remarkable success; everybody said so. Most of them declared solemnly they had never seen anything like it. They pronounced it a record popularity. I thought it was because the good people had selected me as their candidate on independent and purity of election principles. This explanation gave them great joy, and they cheered with extra enthusiasm for their own virtue. Judge, then, my surprise a short while after, when, notwithstanding the firm principles upon which we had proceeded, and by which my popularity was secured, I began to perceive that money was the only thing they wanted! Their uncorruptible nature yielded, alas! to the lowering influence of that deity.

It was at first a little mysterious why they should have postponed their demands—secret and silent—until almost the last moment; but the fact is, a large section of my party were dissatisfied with the voluntary nature of their services; they declined to work for nothing, and having shown me that the prize—that is, the seat—was mine, they determined to let me know it must be paid for. A large number of my voters would do nothing; they kept their hands in their pockets because they could not get them into mine.

This was no longer a secret, but on the eve of the election was boldly put forward as a demand, and I was plainly told that L500 distributed in small sums would make my election sure.

As, however, in no circumstances would I stoop to their offer, this demand did not in the least influence me—I never wavered in my resolution, and refused to give a farthing. Furthermore, showing the web in which they sought to entangle me, the same voice that suggested the L500 also informed me that I was closely watched by a couple of detectives set on by the other side.

I was well aware that the "other side" had given five-pound notes for votes, but I could neither follow the example nor use the information, as it was told me "in the strictest confidence."

I was therefore powerless, and felt we were drifting asunder more and more. At last came the polling day, and a happy relief from an unpleasant situation it certainly was.

A fine bright morning ushered in an exciting day. There was a great inrush of voters at the polling-booth, friendly votes, if I may call them so—votes, I mean to say, of honest supporters; these were my acquaintances made during my sojourn at Barnstaple; others came, a few for Cave as well as myself. Cave did not seem to enjoy the popularity that I had achieved. Still, he got a few votes.

Now came an exciting scene. About midday, the working man's dinner hour, the tide began to turn, for the whole body of bribed voters were released from work. My majority quickly dwindled, and at length disappeared, until I was in a very hopeless minority. Everywhere it was "Stukely for ever!" Some cried, "Stukely and free beer!" Stukely, who till now had hardly been anybody, and had not talked himself hoarse in their interests as I had, was the great object of their admiration and their hopes.

The consequence of this sudden development of Stukely's popularity was that Cave united his destiny with the new favourite, and such an involution of parties took place that "Stukely and Cave" joined hand in hand and heart to heart, while poor Howell Gwynne and myself were abandoned as useless candidates. At one o'clock it was clear that I must be defeated by a large majority.

The Cave party then approached me with the modest request that, as it was quite clear that I could not be returned, would I mind attending the polling places and give my support to Cave?

This piece of unparalleled impudence I declined to accede to, and did nothing. The election was over so far as I was interested in its result; but I was determined to have a parting word with the electors before leaving the town. I was mortified at the unblushing treachery and deception of my supporters.

I was next asked what I proposed to do. It was their object to get me out of the town as soon as possible, for if unsuccessful as a candidate, I might be troublesome in other ways. Such people are not without a sense of fear, if they have no feeling of shame.

I said I should do nothing but take a stroll by the river, the day being fine, and come back when the poll was declared and make them a little speech.

The little speech was exactly what they did not want, so in the most friendly manner they informed me that a fast train would leave Barnstaple at a certain time, and that probably I would like to catch that, as no doubt I wished to be in town as early as possible to attend to my numerous engagements. If they had chartered the train themselves they could not have shown greater consideration for my interests. But I informed them that I should stop and address the electors, and with this statement they turned sulkily away.

At the appointed hour for the declaration of the poll I was on the hustings—well up there, although the lowest on the poll. Stukely and Cave were first and second, Howell Gwynne and myself third and last!

When my turn came to address the multitude, I spoke in no measured terms as to the conduct of the election, which I denounced as having been won by the most scandalous bribery and corruption.

All who were present as unbiassed spectators were sorry, and many of them expressed a wish that I would return on a future day.

"Not," said I, "until the place has been purged of the foul corruption with which it is tainted."

I had resolved to leave by the mail train, and was actually accompanied to the station by a crowd of some 2,000 people, including the Rector, or Vicar of the parish, who gave me godspeed on my journey home.

This kind and sincere expression of goodwill and sympathy was worth all the boisterous cheers with which I had been received.

On the platform at the railway station I had to make another little speech, and then I took my seat, not for Barnstaple, but London. As the train drew out of the station, the people clung to the carriage like bees, and although I had not even honeyed words to give them, they gave me a "send-off" with vociferous cheers and the most cordial good wishes.

Thus I bade good-bye to Barnstaple, never to return or be returned, and I can only say of that enlightened and independent constituency that, while seeking the interests of their country, they never neglected their own.

I need not add that I learnt a great deal in that election which was of the greatest importance in the conduct of the Parliamentary petitions which were showered upon me.

Before I accepted the candidature of Barnstaple, a friend of mine said he had been making inquiries as to how the little borough of Totnes could be won, and that the lowest figure required as an instalment to commence with was L7,000.

After this I had no more to do with electioneering in the sense of being a candidate, but a good deal to do with it in every other.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE TICHBORNE CASE.

[The greatest of all chapters in the life of Mr. Hawkins was the prosecution of the impostor Arthur Orton for perjury, and yet the story of the Tichborne case is one of the simplest and most romantic. The heir to the Tichborne baronetcy and estates was shipwrecked while on board the Bella and drowned in 1854. In 1865 a butcher at Wagga Wagga in Australia assumed the title and claimed the estates. But the story is not related in these reminiscences on account of its romantic incidents, but as an incident in the life of Lord Brampton. It is so great that there is nothing in the annals of our ordinary courts of justice comparable with it, either in its magnitude or its advocacy. I speak particularly of the trial for perjury, in which Mr. Hawkins led for the prosecution, and not of the preceding trial, in which he was junior to Sir John Coleridge.

It is impossible to give more than the points of this strange story as they were made, and the real facts as they were elicited in cross-examination and pieced together in his opening speech and his reply in the case for the Crown. What rendered the task the more difficult was that his predecessors had so bungled the cross-examination in many ways that they not only had not elicited what they might have done, but actually, by many questions, furnished information to the Claimant which enabled him to carry on his imposture.]

The Tichborne trials demand a few words by way of introduction, for although there were two trials, they were of a different character, the first being an ordinary action of ejectment in which the Claimant sought to dispossess the youthful heir, whose title he had already assumed, under circumstances of the most extraordinary nature.

The action of ejectment was tried before Chief Justice Bovill at the Common Pleas, Westminster. Ballantine and Giffard (now Lord Halsbury) led for the plaintiff, the butcher, while on behalf of the trustees of the estate (that is, the real heir) were the Solicitor-General Coleridge, myself, Bowen (afterwards Lord Bowen), and Chapman Barber, an equity counsel.

I must explain how it was that I, having been retained to lead Coleridge, was afterwards compelled to be led by him; and it is an interesting event in the history of the Bar as well as of the Judicial Bench.

The action was really a Western Circuit case, although the venue was laid in London. Coleridge led that circuit and was retained. I belonged to the Home Circuit, and had no idea of being engaged at all for that side. I had been retained for the Claimant, but the solicitor, with great kindness, withdrew his retainer at my request.

I was brought into the case for the purpose of leading, and no other; but by the appointment of Coleridge to the Solicitor-Generalship in 1868, I was displaced, and Coleridge ultimately led. His further elevation happened in this way: Sir Robert Collier was Attorney-General, and it was desired to give him a high appointment which at that moment was vacant, and could only be filled by a Judge of the High Court. Collier was not a Judge, and therefore was not eligible for the post. The question was how to make him eligible. The Prime Minister of the day was not to be baffled by a mere technicality, and he could soon make the Attorney-General a Judge of the High Court if that was a condition precedent.

There was immediately a vacancy on the Bench; Collier was appointed to the judgeship, and in three days had acquired all the experience that the Act of Parliament anticipated as necessary for the higher appointment in the Privy Council.

Instead of leading, therefore, in the case before Chief Justice Bovill, I had to perform whatever duties Coleridge assigned to me. My commanding position was gone, and it was no longer presumable that I should be entrusted with the cross-examination of the plaintiff. I was bound to obey orders and cross-examine whomsoever I was allowed to.

[The one thing Mr. Hawkins was retained for was the cross-examination of the plaintiff. Lord Chief Justice Cockburn said, "I would have given a thousand pounds to cross-examine him." It would have been an excellent investment of the Tichborne family to have given Hawkins ten thousand pounds to do so, for I am sure there would have been an end of the case as soon as he got to Wapping.

Coleridge acknowledged that the Claimant cross-examined him instead of his cross-examining the Claimant.

When that shrewd and cunning impostor was asked, "Would you be surprised to hear this or that?" "No," said he, "I should be surprised at nothing after this long time and the troubles I have been through; but, now that you call my attention to it, I remember it all perfectly well." Coleridge said: "I am leader by an accident." "Yes," said Hawkins, "a colliery accident."]

I had also been retained by the trustees of the Doughty estate. Lady Doughty was an aunt of Sir Roger Tichborne, and it was her daughter Kate whom the heir desired to marry. Had the Claimant succeeded in the first case, he would have brought an action against her also.

No copy of the proceedings had been supplied to me, and I was informed that at this preliminary cross-examination they would not require my assistance; that their learned Chancery barrister was merely going to cross-examine the Claimant on his affidavits—a matter of small consequence. So it was in one way, but of immeasurable importance in many other ways. But they said I might like to hear the cross-examination as a matter of curiosity.

I did.

The Claimant had it all his own way. I was powerless to lend any assistance; but had I been instructed, I am perfectly sure I could then and there have extinguished the case, for the Claimant at that time knew absolutely nothing of the life and history of Roger Tichborne.

So the case proceeded, with costs piled on costs; information picked up, especially by means of interminable preliminary proceedings, until the impostor was left master of the situation, to the gratification of fools and the hopes of fanatics.

I was, however, allowed in the trial to cross-examine some witnesses. Amongst them was a man of the name of Baigent, the historian of the family, who knew more of the Tichbornes than they knew of themselves. The cross-examination of Baigent, which did more than anything to destroy the Claimant's case, occupied ten days. He was the real Roger's old friend, and knew him up to the time of his leaving England never to return. I drew from him the confession that he did not believe he was alive, but that he had encouraged the Dowager Lady Tichborne to believe that the Claimant was her son; and that her garden was lighted night after night with Chinese lanterns in expectation of his coming.

Admissions were also obtained that when he saw the Claimant at Alresford Station neither knew the other, although Baigent had never altered in the least, as he alleged.

There was another witness allotted to me, and that was Carter, an old servant of Roger whilst he was in the Carabineers. This man supplied the plaintiff with information as to what occurred in the regiment while Roger belonged to it; but he only knew what was known to the whole regiment. He did not know private matters which took place at the officers' mess, and it was upon these that my cross-examination showed the Claimant to be an impostor. I "had him there."

As Parry and I were sitting one morning waiting for the Judges, I remarked on the subject of the counsel chosen for the prosecution: "Suppose, Parry, you and I had been Solicitor and Attorney-General, in the circumstances what should we have done?"

"Plunged the country into a bloody war before now, I dare say," said Parry, elevating his eyebrows and wig at the same time.

I confess when I undertook the responsibility of this great trial I was not aware of the immense labour and responsibility it would involve; nor do I believe any one had the smallest notion of the magnitude of the task.

Instead of the work diminishing as we proceeded, it increased day by day, and week by week; one set of witnesses entailed the calling of another set. The case grew in difficulty and extent. It seemed absolutely endless and hopeless.

Within a few weeks of the start, a necessity arose for procuring the testimony of a witness from Australia, a matter of months; and the trial being a criminal one, the defendant was entitled to have the case for the prosecution concluded within a reasonable time. If we had no evidence, it was to his advantage, and we had no right to detain him for a year while we were trying to obtain it.

However, the Australian evidence came in time. Numbers of witnesses had to be called who not only were not in our brief, but were never dreamed of. For instance, there was the Danish perjurer Louie, who swore he picked up the defendant at sea when the Bella went down.

Instead of this man going away after he had given his evidence, he remained until two gentlemen from the City, seeing his portrait in the Stereoscopic Company's window in Regent Street, identified him as a dishonest servant of theirs, who was undergoing a sentence of penal servitude at the time he swore he picked Roger up. He received five years' penal servitude for his evidence.

I had pledged myself to the task, which extended over many months more than I ever anticipated. At every sacrifice, however, I was bound to devote myself to the case, and did so, although I had to relinquish a very large portion of my professional income.

What made things worse, there was not only no effort made to curtail the business, but advantage was taken of every circumstance to prolong it. The longer it was dragged out the better chance there was of an acquittal. Had a juryman died after months of the trial had passed, the Government must have abandoned the prosecution. It would have been impossible to commence again. This was the last hope of the defence.

[The trial before Bovill ended at last, as it ought to have done months before, in a verdict for the defendants and the order for the prosecution of the Claimant for perjury. It was this prosecution that occupied the attention of the court and of the world for 188 days, extending over portions of two years.

There is no doubt that Coleridge would a second time have deprived the country of Mr. Hawkins's services, but higher influences than his prevailed, and the distinguished counsel was appointed to lead for the Crown, with Mr. Serjeant Parry as his leading junior. It is not too much to say that no one knew the case so well as Mr. Hawkins, and none could have done it so well. Bowen and Mathews were also his juniors.

The whole case, from the commencement of the Chancery proceedings down to the commencement of this trial, had been a comedy of blunders. The very claim was an absurdity, every step in the great fraud was an absurdity, and every proceeding had some ridiculous absurdity to accompany it. It was not until the cross-examination of Baigent by Mr. Hawkins that the undoubted truth began to appear.

"You are the first," said Baron Bramwell, "who has let daylight into the case." It will be seen presently what the simple story was which the learned counsel at last evolved from the lies and half-truths which had for so many years imposed upon a great number even of the intelligent and educated classes of the community. And I would observe that until nearly the end of the trial the case was never safe or quite free from doubt; it was only what was elicited by Mr. Hawkins that made it so. No Wonder the advocate said to Giffard, who was opposed to him on the first trial: "If you and I had been together in that case in the first instance, we should have won it for the Claimant." Being on the other side, this is how the case stood when he had completed it:—

The real heir to the family was a fairly well-formed, slender youth of medium height. The personator of this youth was a man an inch and a half or two inches taller, and weighing five-and-twenty stone. His hands were a great deal larger than those of Roger, and at least an inch longer; his feet were an inch and a half longer. He was broader, deeper, thicker, and altogether of a different build. The lobes of his ears, instead of being pendent like Roger's, adhered to his cheeks. But he was not more unlike in physical outline than in mental endowment, taste, character, pursuits, and sentiment, in manners and habits, in culture and education, connection and recollection.

Roger had been educated at Stonyhurst, with the education of a gentleman; this man had never had any education at all. Roger had moved in the best English society; this man amongst slaughtermen, bushrangers, thieves, and highwaymen. Roger had been engaged to a young lady, his cousin, Kate Doughty; this man had been engaged to a young woman of Wapping, of the name of Mary Ann Loader, a respectable girl in his own sphere of life.

Roger's engagement to this young lady, his cousin, was disapproved of by the Tichborne family, and was the cause of his leaving England. But before he went he gave her a writing, and deposited a copy of it with Mr. Gosford, the legal adviser of the family.

This document was one of the most important incidents in the history of the case, and upon it, if the cross-examination had been conducted by Mr. Hawkins in Chancery, the case would have been crushed at the outset. It is not my task to show how, but to state what it all came to when the learned counsel left it to the jury to say whether the claimant was the Roger Tichborne he had sworn himself to be, or whether he was Arthur Orton, the butcher of Wapping, whom he swore he was not.

This document forms the subject of the "sealed packet" left with Mr. Gosford, and contained in effect these words: "If God spares me to return and marry my beloved Kate within a year, I promise to build a church and dedicate it to my patron saint."

Till his cross-examination in Chancery he had never heard of this packet, and when he was informed of it his solicitor naturally demanded a copy. Gosford had destroyed the original, and of course there was no end of capital out of it; a concocted original was made, which was to the effect that this gentleman, "so like Roger," had seduced his cousin, and that if she proved to be enceinte, Gosford was to take care of her. Luckily "Kate Doughty" had her original preserved with sacred affection. But such was the memory of this man's early life, contrasted with what would have been the memory of Sir Roger Tichborne.

He did not recollect being "at Stonyhurst, but said positively he was at Winchester, where certainly Roger never was. He did not remember his mother's Christian names, and could not write his own.

He came to England to see his mother, and then would not go to her; she went to see him, and he got on to the bed and turned his face to the wall. She did not see his face, but recognized him by his ears, because they were like his uncle's, then ordered the servant to undo his braces for fear he should choke.

Such a piece as this on the stage would not have lasted one night; in real life it had a run for many years. But then there never was a rogue that some fool would not believe in. How else was it possible that millions believed in this man, who had forgotten the religion he had been brought up in, and was married by a Wesleyan minister at a Wesleyan church, he being, as his mother informed him, a strict Roman Catholic from his birth? However, he did his best to reform his error by getting married again by a Roman priest, although he made another blunder, and forgetting he was Sir Roger Tichborne, married as Arthur Orton, the son of the Wapping butcher. When his dear mother reminded him of his being a Catholic, he wrote and thanked her for the information, and hoped the Blessed Maria would take care of her for evermore, little dreaming that the "Black Maria" would one day take particularly good care of himself.

So that he forgot the place of his birth, the seat of his ancestors, the friends of his youth, the face, features, and form of his mother, his education and religion, his brother officers in the regiment, the regiment itself, and the position he occupied, thinking he had been a private for fifteen days instead of a painstaking, studious, diligent officer, who was beloved by his fellows. He had forgotten all his neighbours, servants, dependants, as well as the family solicitor who made his will and was appointed his executor. He forgot his life in Paris, the village church of his ancestral seat—nay, the ancestral seat itself—and the very road that led to it. He forgot his old friend and historian, who swore he had never altered the least in appearance since Roger left—historian and picture-cleaner to the family. In short, there was not one single thing in the life of Roger that he knew. He forgot what any but a born fool would remember while he was in poverty and bankruptcy for a couple of hundred pounds; the real Roger had written home on hearing of the death of his uncle, from whom he derived his title and estates, saying, "Pray go to Messrs. Glyn's and exchange my letter of credit for L2,000 for three years for one for L3,000."

Imagine a man forgetting he had L3,000 a year and an estate in England worth L30,000, and earning his bread in a slaughter-house and in the Bush, borrowing money from a poor woman and running away with it.

But now another singular thing stamps this fraudulent impostor who makes so many believe in him. He, alleged by his supporters to be Sir Roger Tichborne, recollected all about a place that he had never been to; people he had never heard of, far less seen; events that he could not know and which never happened to him, but did happen to Arthur Orton. He knew Wapping well—every inch of it; Old Charles Orton, the father of Arthur; Charles Orton the brother, the sisters, the people who kept this shop and that; so that when on his return to England he went to the Wapping seat of his ancestors instead of Ashford, he asked all about them, and reminded them so faithfully of the little events of Arthur's boyhood, and resembled that person so much in the face, that they said, "Why, you are Arthur Orton yourself!" True, he paid some of them to swear he was not, but the impression remained.

Mr. Hawkins told the jury how he picked up his second-hand knowledge of the things he spoke about concerning the Tichbornes, for it was necessary to be able to answer a good many questions wherever he went, especially when he went into the witness-box.

There was an old black servant, quite black, who had been a valet in the Tichborne family. His name was Bogle; and the Claimant was told by the poor old dowager that if he could meet with him, Bogle could tell him a good many things about himself.

Bogle was an excellent diplomatist, and no sooner heard from Lady Tichborne that her son Roger was in Australia than the two began to look for one another, the one as black inside as the other was out. Bogle announced that he was the man before he saw him, on the mother's recommendation, and became and was to the end one of his principal supporters—so much so that "Old Bogle" spread the Claimant's knowledge of the Tichbornes abroad, and, like everybody else, believed in him because he knew so much which he could not have known unless he had been the veritable Roger, all which Bogle had told him.

But in the interests of justice "Old Bogle" and Mr. Hawkins became acquainted, much to the advantage of the latter, as he happened to meet Bogle in the witness-box, a place where the counsel unravelled the trickster's most subtle of designs. The advocate liked "Old Bogle," as he called him, because, said he, Bogle, having white hair, was so like a Malacca cane with a silver knob, white at the top and black below.

Bogle had sworn that Roger had no tattoo marks when he left England. In point of fact he had, and Bogle had to fit them to the Claimant, who had had tattoo marks of a very different kind from Roger's. The Claimant had removed his, and therefore was presented to the court without any.

"How do you know Roger had no tattoo marks?" asked Mr. Hawkins.

"I saw his arms on three occasions." This was a serious answer for Bogle.

"When and where, and under what circumstances?" followed in quick succession, so that there was no escape. The witness said that Roger had on a pair of black trousers tied round the waist, and his shirt buttoned up.

"The sleeves, how were they?"

"Loose."

"How came you to see his naked arms?"

"He was rubbing one of them like this."

"What did he rub for?"

"I thought he'd got a flea."

"Did you see it?"

"No, of course."

"Where was it?"

"Just there."

"What time was this?"

"Ten minutes past eleven."

"That's the first occasion; come to the second."

"Just the same," says Bogle.

"Same time?"

"Yes."

"Did he always put his hand inside his sleeve to rub?"

"I don't know."

"But I want to know."

"If your shirt was unbuttoned, Mr. Hawkins, and you was rubbin' your arm, you would draw up your sleeve—"

"Never mind what I should do; I want to know what you saw."

"The same as before," answers Bogle angrily.

"A flea?"

"I suppose."

"But did you see him, Bogle?"

"I told you, Mr. Hawkins, I did not."

"Excuse me, that was on the first occasion."

"Well, this was the same."

"Same flea?"

"I suppose."

"Same time—ten minutes past eleven?"

"Yes."

"Then all I can say is, he must have been a very punctual old flea."

Exit Bogle, and with him his evidence.

After the trial had been proceeding for some time, Baigent was giving evidence of the family pedigree.

Honeyman whispered, "We might as well have the first chapter of Genesis and read that."

"Genesis!" said Hawkins; "I want to get to the last chapter of Revelation."

One day Mr. J.L. Toole came in, and was invited to sit next to Mr. Hawkins, which he did.

At the adjournment for luncheon the Claimant muttered as they passed along, "There's Toole come to learn actin' from 'Arry Orkins."

There was one witness who ought not to be forgotten. It was Mr. Biddulph, a relation of the Tichborne family, a good-natured, amiable man, willing to oblige any one, and a county magistrate—"one of the most amiable county magistrates I have ever met, a man of the strictest honour and unimpeachable integrity."

He had been asked by the dowager lady to recognize her son.

"I don't see how I can," said he. "I am willing to oblige, but not at the expense of truth. Better get some one else who knew him better than I did. This man bears no resemblance to the man I knew. I cannot do it." And so he resisted all entreaties with that firmness of purpose for which he was remarkable.

"He was then invited," said Mr. Hawkins, "to a little dinner at another supporter of the Claimant's, and one somewhat shrewder than the rest." The Claimant described this party as consisting of a county magistrate, a money-lender, a lawyer, and a humbug.

This is how the advocate dealt with this little party in his address to the jury:—

"Gentlemen, can't you imagine the scene? Perkins, the lawyer, says to Biddulph, 'Come, now, Mr. Biddulph, you know you have had great experience in cross-examining as a county magistrate at Petty Sessions; now, cross-examine this man firmly, and you'll soon find he knows more than you think. If he's not the man, he's nobody else, you may be quite sure of that. But first of all,' says Perkins, 'what did you know of Roger? That's the first thing; let's start with that.'

"'Oh, not very much,' says Biddulph. 'He stayed at Bath once for a fortnight, while his mother was there.'

"'Pass Mr. Biddulph the champagne,' says Perkins. (Laughter.)

"'Now,' he adds, 'how did you amuse yourselves, eh?'

"'Well,' says Biddulph, 'we used to smoke together at the hotel—the—the—White something it was called.'

"'Did you smoke pipes or cigars?'

"'Well, I remember we had some curious pipes.'

"'Another glass of champagne for Mr. Biddulph,' (More laughter.) 'What sort of pipes?' asks the Claimant; 'death's-head pipes?'

"The magistrate remembered, opened his eyes, and lifted his hands. Thus the amiable magistrate was convinced, although he said, candidly enough, 'I did not recognize him by his features, walk, voice, or twitch in his eye, but I was struck with his recollection of having met me at Bath.' The death's-head pipes settled him.

"As for Miss Brain the governess, she was of a different order from Mr. Biddulph. She told us she had listened to the defendant when he solemnly swore that he had seduced her former pupil, that he had stood in the dock for horse-stealing, and had been the associate of highwaymen and bushrangers, and had made a will for the purpose of fraud; and yet this woman took him by the hand, and was not ashamed of his companionship. His counsel described her as a ministering angel. Heaven defend me from ministering angels if Miss Brain is one!"

The Claimant, while in Australia, being asked what kind of lady his mother (the dowager Lady Tichborne) was, answered, "Oh, a very stout lady; and that is the reason I am so fond of Mrs. Butts of the Metropolitan Hotel, she being a tall, stout, and buxom woman; and like Mrs. Mina Jury (of Wapping), because she was like my mother."

A witness of the name of Coyne was called to give evidence of the recognition of the Claimant by the mother in Paris, and the solicitor said to Coyne, "You see how she recognizes him."

"Yes," said Coyne; "he's lucky."

There was no cross-examination, and Mr. Hawkins said to the jury, "They need not cross-examine unless they like; it's a free country. They may leave this man's account unquestioned if they like, but if it is a true account, what do you say to the recognition?"

Louie, the Dane, said that while the Claimant was on board his ship he amused himself by picking oakum and reading "The Garden of the Soul."

There were several Ospreys spoken to as having picked up the Claimant after the wreck of the Bella, and the defendant had not the least idea which one was the best to carry him safely into harbour. The defendant's counsel, notwithstanding, had told the jury that he, Hawkins, had not ventured to contradict one or other of the stories of the wreck, and had not called the captain of the Osprey which had picked him up.

Comment on such a proposition in advocacy would be ridiculous. Mr. Hawkins dealt with it by an example which the reader will remember as having occurred in his early days:—

"'We don't know which Osprey you mean.' 'Take any one,' says the defendant's counsel, reminding me of the defence of a man charged with stealing a duck, and having given seven different accounts as to how he became possessed of it, his counsel was at last asked which he relied on. 'Oh, never mind which,' he answered; 'I shall be much obliged if the jury will adopt any one of them.'

"You remember, gentlemen, the touching words in which the defendant's counsel spoke of Bogle: 'He is one of those negroes,' said he, 'described by the author of "Paul and Virginia," who are faithful to the death, true as gold itself. If ever a witness of truth came into the box, that witness was Bogle.'

"Well, you have seen him—Old Bogle! What do you think of him? Was there ever a better specimen of feigned simplicity than he? 'Bogle,' cries the defendant, after all those years of estrangement, 'is that you?' 'Yes, Sir Roger,' answered Bogle; how do you do?'

"'Do you remember giving me a pipe o' baccy?' asks a poor country greenhorn down at Alresford. 'Yes,' answers the Claimant. 'Then you're the man,' says the greenhorn. Such was the way evidence was manufactured.

"A poor lady—you remember Mrs. Stubbs—had a picture of her great-great-grandfather's great-grandfather. In goes the Claimant, and in his artful manner shows his childhood's memory. 'Ah, Mrs. Stubbs,' says he, looking at another picture, 'that is not the old picture, is it?' (Somebody had put him up to this.) No, sir,' cries Mrs. Stubbs, delighted with his recollection—'no, sir; but please to walk this way into my parlour,' And there, sure enough, was the picture he had been told to ask for.

"'Ah!' he exclaims, 'there it is; there's the old picture!'

"How could Mrs. Stubbs disbelieve her own senses?"

One, Sir Walter Strickland, declined to see the Claimant and be misled, and was roundly abused by the defendant's counsel. One of the jury asked if he was still alive. "Yes," said the Lord Chief Justice, although the defendant expressed a hope that they would all die who did not recognize him....

"In a letter to Rous, my lord, where he said, 'I see I have one enemy the less in Harris's death. Captain Strickland, who made himself so great on the other side, went to stay at Stonyhurst with his brother, and died there. He called on me a week before and abused me shamefully. So will all go some day'—this," said Mr. Hawkins, "was not exhibiting the same Christian spirit which he showed when he said, 'God help those poor purgured sailors!'"

"Why should the defendant," asked Mr. Hawkins at the close of one of the day's speeches, "if he were Sir Roger, avoid Arthur Orton's sisters? Why, would he not have said, 'They will be glad indeed to see me, and hear me tell them about the camp-fire under the canopy of heaven,' as his counsel put it, 'where their brother Arthur told me all about Fergusson, the old pilot of the Dundee boat, who kept the public-house at Wapping, and the Shetland ponies of Wapping, and the Shottles of the Nook at Wapping, and wished me to ask who kept Wright's public-house now, and about the Cronins, and Mrs. MacFarlane of the Globe—all of Wapping.'"

The Judges fell back with laughter, and the curtain came down, for these were the questions with many more the Claimant asked on the evening of his landing.

"I shall attack the noble army of Carabineers," said Mr. Hawkins on another occasion. He did so, and conquered the regiment in detail.

One old Carabineer was librarian at the Westminster Hospital. His name was Manton, and he was a sergeant. He told Baigent something that had happened while Roger was his officer, and Baigent told the Claimant. Manton afterwards saw the huge man, and failed to recognize him in any way. But when the Claimant repeated to him what he had told Baigent, Manton opened his eyes. This looked like proof of his being the man. He was struck with his marvellous recollection, and was at once pinned down to an affidavit:—

"The Claimant's voice is stronger, and has less foreign accent," he swore; "but I recognized his voice, and found his tone and pronunciation to be the same as Roger Tichborne's, whom I knew as an officer."

Truly an affidavit is a powerful auxiliary in fraud.

While Mr. Hawkins was replying one afternoon, Mr. Whalley, M.P., came in and sat next to the Claimant. He was from the first one of his most enthusiastic supporters.

"Well," he said, "and how are we getting on to-day? How are we getting on, eh?"

"Getting on!" growled the Claimant; "he's been going on at a pretty rate, and if he goes on much longer I shall begin to think I am Arthur Orton after all."

I will conclude this chapter with the following reminiscences by Lord Brampton himself.]

* * * * *

I had a great deal to put up with from day to day in many ways during this prolonged investigation. The Lord Chief Justice, Cockburn, although good, was a little impatient, and hard to please at times.

My opponent sought day by day some cause of quarrel with me. At times he was most insulting, and grew almost hourly worse, until I was compelled, in order to stop his insults, to declare openly that I would never speak to him again on this side the grave, and I never did. My life was made miserable, and what ought to have been a quiet and orderly performance was rendered a continual scene of bickering and conflict, too often about the most trifling matters.

With every one else I got on happily and agreeably, my juniors loyally doing their very utmost to render me every assistance and lighten my burden.

Even the Claimant himself not only gave me no offence from first to last, but was at times in his manner very amusing, and preserved his natural good temper admirably, considering what he had at stake on the issue of the trial, and remembering also that that issue devolved mainly upon my own personal exertions.

Nor was the Claimant devoid of humour. On the contrary, he was plentifully endowed with it.

One morning on his going into court an elderly lady dressed in deep mourning presented him with a religious tract. He thanked her, went to his seat, and perused the document. Then he wrote something on the tract, carefully revised what he had written, and threw it on the floor.

The usher was watching these proceedings, and, as soon as he could do so unobserved, secured the paper and handed it to me.

The tract was headed, "Sinner, Repent!"

The Claimant had written on it, "Surely this must have been meant for Orkins, not for me!"

Louie's story of picking him up in the boat must have amused him greatly. If he was amused at the ease with which fools can be humbugged, he must also have been astounded at the awful villainy of those who, perfect strangers to him, had perjured themselves for the sake of notoriety.

I did what I could to shorten the proceedings. My opening speech was confined to six days, as compared with twenty-eight on the other side; my reply to nine. But that reply was a labour fearful to look back upon. The mere classification of the evidence was a momentous and necessary task. It had to be gathered from the four quarters of the world. It had to be sifted, winnowed, and arranged in order as a perfect whole before the true story could be evolved from the complications and entanglements with which it was surrounded.

And when I rose to reply, to perform my last work and make my last effort for the success of my cause, I felt as one about to plunge into a boundless ocean with the certain knowledge that everything depended upon my own unaided efforts as to whether I should sink or swim. Happily, for the cause of justice, I succeeded; and at the end, although nattering words of approval and commendation poured upon me from all sides, from the highest to the humblest, I did Hot then realize their value to the extent that I did afterwards. The excitement and the exertion had been too great for anything to add to it.

But I afterwards remembered—ay, and can never forget—the words of the Lord Chief Justice himself, the first to appreciate and applaud, as I was passing near him in leaving the court: "Bravo! Bravo, Hawkins!" And then he added, "I have not heard a piece of oratory like that for many a long day!" And he patted me cordially on the back as he looked at me with, I believe, the sincerest appreciation.

Lord Chelmsford, too, who years before had given me my silk gown, was on the Bench on this last day, and I shall never forget the compliment he paid me on my speech. It was of itself worth all the trouble and anxiety I had undergone.

Beyond all this, and more gratifying even still, my speech was liked by the Bar, from the most eminent to the briefless.

But greatest of all events in that eventful day was one which went deeper to my feelings. My old father, who had taken so strong a view against my going to the Bar, and who told me so mournfully that after five years I must sink or swim; my old father, who had never once seen me in my wig and gown from that day to this, the almost closing scene in my forensic career, came into court and sat by my side when I made successfully the greatest effort of my life.



CHAPTER XXIX.

A VISIT TO SHEFFIELD—MRS. HAILSTONE'S DANISH BOARHOUND.

The remembrance of my Sessions days will never vanish from my mind, although at the period of which I am speaking they had long receded into the distant past. Even Nisi Prius was diminishing in importance, although increasing in its business and fees.

Solicitors no longer condescended to deliver their briefs, but competed for my services. I say this without the smallest vanity, and only because it was the fact, and a great fact in my life. I was wanted to win causes by advocacy or compromise; and the innumerable compensation cases which continually came in with so steady and so full a tide were a sufficient proof that, at all events, the solicitors and others thought my services worth having. So did my clerk!

Those were the days of the golden harvest, the very gleanings of which were valuable to those who came after.

Lloyd must have made L20,000 a year with the greatest ease. What my income was is of no consequence to any one; suffice it to say that no expectations of mine ever came up to its amount, and even now when I look back it seems absolutely fabulous. I will say no more, notwithstanding the curiosity it has excited amongst the members of the profession.

Of course it was a step for me from the humble "one three six;" but I have had a more lively satisfaction from that little sum than from many a larger fee.

In the midst of all this rush of London business I still found time to run down to country places in cases of election petitions or compensation.

One day I found myself on my way to Sheffield to support the member against an attempt to deprive him of his seat in Parliament. I went with the Hon. Sir Edward Chandos Leigh, my distinguished junior on that memorable occasion.

The journey was pleasant until we got near the end of it, and then the smoke rolled over and around in voluminous dense clouds, for a description of which you may search in vain through "Paradise Lost." We were met at the station with great state, and even splendour, and treated with almost boundless hospitality.

To keep up our spirits, we were taken for a drive by the sitting member a few miles out, into what they call "the country" in those parts. The suburban residence was situated in a well-wooded park, if that can be called well-wooded where there are no woods, but only stunted undergrowths sickening with the baleful fumes that proceed from the city of darkness in the distance, and black with the soot of a thousand chimneys. The member apologized politely enough for bringing us to this almost uninhabitable and Heaven-forsaken region; but I begged him not to mind: it was only a more blasted scene than the heath in "Macbeth."

"Yes," said he, still apologetically; "it is very bad, I admit. You see, the fumes and fires from those manufactories make such havoc of our woods."

This was apparent, but the question was how to pass the time amidst this gloom and sickening atmosphere.

I found his residence, however, to my great joy, was farther than I expected from the appalling city of darkness, and hope began to revive both in my junior's heart and mine.

Our friend and host, seeing our spirits thus elated, began, to talk with more life-like animation.

"The fumes from the factories, Mr. Hawkins, have so played the devil with our trees that the general impoverishment of nature has earned for the locality of Sheffield the unpleasant title of the 'Suburbs of Hell.'"

"I don't wonder," I answered; "no name could be more appropriate or better deserved; but if it were my fate to choose my locality, I should prefer to live in the city itself."

A curious incident happened to us during this Yorkshire visit. An excursion was arranged to see Warburton's, situated some few miles off, and notable for many oddities.

We were driven over, and when we arrived were by no means disappointed by the singularities of the mansion. It was enclosed within a high wall, which had been built, not for the purpose, as you might suppose, of preventing the house from getting away, but for that of keeping out rats and foxes; for there were birds to be preserved from these destructive animals. Next, this portion of the estate was surrounded by water, which afforded an additional security to its isolation, access to the island being attainable only by means of a bridge.

The mansion was occupied by a Mrs. Hailstone, whose duty it was to show visitors over the house and explain everything as she went along, ghost stories as well; and being a remarkably affable lady, with a great gift of language, we had a very intelligent and edifying lecture in every room we passed through, now upon ornithology, now chronology, next on pisciculture and the habits of stuffed pike and other fish. But this was not all. Our guide was wonderfully well read in architecture, and displayed no end of knowledge in pointing out the different orders and sub-orders, periods of, and blendings of the same, so that we were quite ready for lunch as soon as that period should mercifully arrive.

But it was not exactly yet. There were many other curiosities to be shown. For instance, we had not done the Warburton Library, which was a most singular apartment, as we were informed, I don't know how many stories high, at the top of a very singular tower, with as many languages in it as the Tower of Babel itself, and very nearly as tall. One only wished the whole thing would topple down before we could come to it.

At last, however, we climbed to this lofty eminence and revelled as well as we could amongst the musty old books, which themselves revelled in the dust of ages.

Having seen all the shelves and the backs of the books, and heard all the accounts of them without receiving any information, we commenced our descent by means of the winding staircase towards the garden. On our way a curious circumstance took place. There was an enormously great Danish boarhound, which had, unperceived by us, followed Mrs. Hailstone from the library; it pushed by without ceremony, and proceeded until it reached the lady, who was some distance in advance. He then carefully took the skirt of her dress with his mouth and carried it like an accomplished train-bearer until she reached the bottom of the stairs and the garden, when he let go the dress and gazed as an interested spectator. We were now in the midst of a very beautiful and well-kept garden, with a lawn like velvet stretching far away to the lake, where ultimately we should have to wait for a boat to ferry us along its placid water. This was part of our entertainment, and a very beautiful part it was.

But before we parted from Mrs. Hailstone, and while I was talking to her, I felt my hand in the boarhound's mouth, and a pretty capacious mouth it was, for I seemed to touch nothing but its formidable fangs.

It was not a pleasant experience, but I preserved sufficient presence of mind to make no demonstration. Dogs know well enough when a man or woman loves their kind, and I am sure this one was no exception, or he would never have behaved with such gentlemanly politeness. So soft was the touch of his fangs that I was only just conscious my hand was in his mouth by now and then the gentlest reminder. I knew animals too well to attempt to withdraw it, and so preserved a calm more wonderful than I could have given myself credit for.

While I was wondering what the next proceeding might be, Mrs. Hailstone begged me to be quite easy, and on no account to show any opposition to the dog's proceedings, in which case she promised that he would lead me gently to the other side of the lawn, and there leave me without doing the least harm.

All this was said with such cool indifference that I wondered whether it was a part of the day's programme, and rather supposed it was; but it turned out that she said it to reassure me and prevent mischief. I also learned that it was not by any means the first occasion when this business had taken place. It was the first time in my life that I had been in custody, and if I had had my choice I should have preferred a pair of handcuffs without teeth.

As I was being led away Mrs. Hailstone said,—

"Do exactly as he wishes; he is jealous of your talking to me, and leads any one away who does so to the other side of the garden."

Having conducted me to the remotest spot he could find, he opened his huge jaws and released my hand, wagged his tail, and trotted off, much pleased with his performance. He returned to his mistress and put his large paws on her arms—a striking proof, I thought, of the dog's sagacity.

There will be in this history some stories of my famous "Jack," but as he belonged to me after I became a Judge, they are deferred until that period arrives. The reminiscences of Jack are amongst my dearest and most pleasant recollections.

The changeful nature of popular clamour was never more manifested than on this visit.

The Claimant had been convicted and sentenced to penal servitude, but to deprive a man of his title and estate because he was a butcher's son did not coincide with the wishes of a generous democracy, who lingered round the Sheffield court, where the fate of their sitting member was to be tried. They believed in their member, and, not knowing on which side I was retained, when I went along the corridor into the court they "yah! yah'd!" at me with lungs that would have been strong enough to set their furnaces going or blow them out.

After the petition was tried, and I had been successful, they changed their minds and their language. This same British public, which not long before had "yah! yah'd!" at me, now came forward with true British hoorays and bravos. "'Orkins for ever!" "Hooray for Orkins!" "Bravo, Orkins!" "Hooray! a —— hooray! Hooray for Wagga Wagga!"

This last cry had reference to a village in Australia where the great Tichborne fraud had its origin; where the first advertisement of the dowager seeking her lost son was shown to the butcher in his own little shop, the son of the respectable butcher of Wapping.

The number of people who professed to believe in the Claimant long after he was sent to penal servitude was prodigious, although not one of them could have given a reason for his faith, or pointed to a particle of unimpeachable evidence to support his opinion. It had never been anything other than feeling in the dark for what never existed.



CHAPTER XXX.

AN EXPERT IN HANDWRITING—"DO YOU KNOW JOE BROWN?"

I always took great interest in the class of expert who professed to identify handwriting. Experts of all classes give evidence only as to opinion; nevertheless, those who decide upon handwriting believe in their infallibility. Cross-examination can never shake their confidence. Some will pin their faith even to the crossing of a T, "the perpendicularity, my lord," of a down-stroke, or the "obliquity" of an upstroke.

Mr. Nethercliffe, one of the greatest in his profession, and a thorough believer in all he said, had been often cross-examined by me, and we understood each other very well. I sometimes indulged in a little chaff at his expense; indeed, I generally had a little "fling" at him when he was in the box.

It is remarkable that, at the time I speak of, Judges, as a rule, had wonderful confidence in this class of expert, and never seemed to think of forming any opinion of their own. A witness swore to certain peculiarities; the Judge looked at them and at once saw them, too often without considering that peculiarities are exactly the things that forgers imitate.

"You find the same peculiarity here, my lord, and the same peculiarity there, my lord; consequently I say it is the same handwriting."

In days long gone by the eminent expert in this science had a great reputation. As I often met him, I knew his peculiarities, and how annoyed he was if the correctness of his opinion was in the least doubted.

He had a son of whom he was deservedly proud, and he and his son, in cases of importance, were often employed on opposite sides to support or deny the genuineness of a questioned handwriting. On one occasion, in the Queen's Bench, a libel was charged against a defendant which he positively denied ever to have written.

I appeared for the defendant, and Mr. Nethercliffe was called as a witness for the plaintiff.

When I rose to cross-examine I handed to the expert six slips of paper, each of which was written in a different kind of handwriting. Nethercliffe took out his large pair of spectacles—magnifiers—which he always carried, and began to polish them with a great deal of care, saying,—

"I see, Mr. Hawkins, what you are going to try to do—you want to put me in a hole."

"I do, Mr. Nethercliffe; and if you are ready for the hole, tell me—were those six pieces of paper written by one hand at about the same time?"

He examined them carefully, and after a considerable time answered: "No; they were written at different times and by different hands!"

"By different persons, do you say?"

"Yes, certainly!"

"Now, Mr. Nethercliffe, you are in the hole! I wrote them myself this morning at this desk."

He was a good deal disconcerted, not to say very angry, and I then began to ask him about his son.

"You educated your son to your own profession, I believe, Mr. Nethercliffe?"

"I did, sir; I hope there was no harm in that, Mr. Hawkins."

"Not in the least; it is a lucrative profession. Was he a diligent student?"

"He was."

"And became as good an expert as his father, I hope?"

"Even better, I should say, if possible."

"I think you profess to be infallible, do you not?"

"That is true, Mr. Hawkins, though I say it."

"And your son, who, as you say, is even better than yourself, is he as infallible as you?"

"Certainly, he ought to be. Why not?"

Then I put this question; "Have you and your son been sometimes employed on opposite sides in a case?"

"That is hardly a fair question, Mr. Hawkins."

"Let me give you an instance: In Lady D——'s case, which has recently been tried, did not your son swear one way and you another?"

He did not deny it, whereupon I added: "It seems strange that two infallibles should contradict one another?"

The case was at an end.

* * * * *

One evening, after a good hard day's work, I was sitting in my easy-chair after dinner, comfortably enjoying myself, when a man, who was quite a respectable working man, came in. I had known him for a considerable time.

"What's the matter, Jenkins?" I inquired, seeing he was somewhat troubled.

"Well, Mr. Hawkins, it's a terrible job, this 'ere. I wants you to appear for me."

"Where?" I inquired.

"At Bow Street, Mr. Hawkins."

"Bow Street! What have you been doing, Jenkins?"

"Why, nothing, sir; but it's a put-up job. You knows my James, I dessay. Well, sir, that there boy, my son James, have been brought up, I might say, on the Church Catechism."

"There's not much in that," I said, meaning nothing they could take him to Bow Street for. "Is that the charge against him?"

"No, sir; but from a babby, sir, his poor mother have brought that there boy up to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. And it's a curious thing, Mr. Hawkins—a very curious thing, sir—that arter all his poor mother's care and James's desire to speak the truth, they've gone and charged that there boy with perjury! 'At all times,' says his mother, 'James, speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth;' and this is what it's come to—would anybody believe it, sir? Could anybody believe it? It's enough to make anybody disbelieve in Christianity. And what's more, sir, that there boy was so eager at all times to tell the whole truth that, to make quite sure he told it all, he'd go a little beyond on the other side, sir—he would, indeed."

When he heard my fee was a hundred guineas to appear at the police court, I heard no more of truthful James.

* * * * *

In dealing with a case where there is really no substantial defence, it is sometimes necessary to throw a little ridicule over the proceedings, taking care, first, to see what is the humour of the jury. I remember trying this with great success, and reducing a verdict which might have been considerable to a comparatively trifling amount.

[In illustration of this Mr. Cecil A. Coward has given an incident that occurred in an action for slander tried at the Guildhall many years ago, in which Mr. Hawkins, Q.C., was for the defendant, and Mr. Joseph Brown, Q.C., for the plaintiff. The slander consisted in the defendant pointing his thumb over his shoulder and asking another man, "Do you know him? That's Joe Smith."

Mr. Joseph Brown, Q.C., had to rely upon his innuendo—"meaning thereby Joe Smith was a rogue"—and was very eloquent as to slander unspoken but expressed by signs and tone. After an exhausting speech he sat down and buried his head in his bandana, as his habit was.

Hawkins got up, and turned Mr. Joseph Brown's speech to ridicule in two or three sentences.

"Gentlemen," he almost whispered, after a very small whistle which nobody could hear but those close around, at the same time pointing his thumb over his shoulder at his opponent, "do you know him—do you know Joe Brown?" There was a roar of laughter. Joe looked up, saw nothing, and retired again into his bandana.

Again the performance was gone through. "Do you know Joe Brown, the best fellow in the world?"

Brown looked up again, and was just in time to hear the jury say they had heard quite enough of the case. No slander—verdict for the defendant.

It was one of the best pieces of acting I ever saw him do.]



CHAPTER XXXI.

APPOINTED A JUDGE—MY FIRST TRIAL FOR MURDER,

No sooner was the Tichborne case finished than I was once more in the full run of work.

One brief was delivered with a fee marked twenty thousand guineas, which I declined. It would not in any way have answered my purpose to accept it. I was asked, however, to name my own fee, with the assurance that whatever I named it would be forthcoming. I promised to consider a fee of fifty thousand guineas, and did so, but resolved not to accept the brief on any terms, as it involved my going to Indie, and I felt it would be unwise to do so.

In 1874 I was offered by Lord Cairns the honour of a judgeship, which I respectfully declined. It was no hope of mine to step into a puisne judgeship, or, for the matter of that, any other judicial position. I was contented with my work and with my career. I did not wish to abandon my position at the Bar, and my friends at the Bar, and take up one on the Bench with no friends at all; for a Judge's position is one of almost isolation. This refusal gave great dissatisfaction to many, and a letter I have before me says, "I got into a great row with my editor by your refusal." Another said he lost a lot of money in consequence: "I thought it was any odds upon your taking it."

Sir Alexander Cockburn gave me a complimentary side-cut in a speech he made to some of his old constituents.

"The time comes," said he, "when men of the greatest eminence are called upon to give up their professional emoluments for the interests of their country. In my opinion they have no right to refuse their services; no man has this right when his country calls for them."

But these animadversions did not affect me. I held on to the course which I had deliberately chosen, and which I thought my labours and sacrifices in the Tichborne case on behalf of my country entitled me to enjoy. Let any one who has the least knowledge of advocacy consider what it was to carry that case to a successful issue, and then condemn me for not taking a judgeship if he will. I was entitled to freedom and rest. A judgeship is neither, as one finds out when once he puts on the ermine. But it requires no argument to justify the course I took. I was entitled to decline, and I did. There is nothing else to be said; all other considerations are idle and irrelevant.

A judgeship was, however, a second time offered by Lord Cairns in 1876. This, after due consideration, I accepted, and received my appointment as a Judge of the Exchequer Court on November 2 of that year.

The first and most sensational case that I was called upon to preside over was known as the Penge case. Sir Alexander Cockburn had appointed himself to try it, on account of its sensational character; but as it came for trial at a time when the Lord Chief Justice could not attend, it fell to the junior Judge on the Bench.

I am not going to relate the details of that extraordinary case,[A] which are best left in the obscurity of the newspaper files; but I refer to it because it cannot well be passed over in the reminiscences of my life. I shall, however, only touch upon one or two prominent points.

[Footnote A: The great sensation of the case was almost overpowered by the great sensation that "a new power had come upon the Bench." These are, as nearly as I can give them, the words of one of our most distinguished advocates, and one of the most brilliant who was in the Penge case:—

"We felt, and the Bar felt, that a great power had come upon the Bench; he summed up that case as no living man could have done. Every word told; every point was touched upon and made so clear that it was impossible not to see it."

Another distinguished advocate said there was no other Judge on the Bench who could have summed that case up as Sir Henry Hawkins did.—R.H.]

"Every person," I said in my summing up, "who is under a legal duty, whether such duty was imposed by law or contract, to take charge of another person must provide that person with the necessaries of life. Every person who had that legal duty imposed upon him was criminally responsible if he culpably neglected that duty, and the death of the person for whom he ought to provide ensued. If the death was the result of mere carelessness and without criminal intent, the offence would be manslaughter, provided the jury came to the conclusion that there had been culpable neglect of the duty cast upon the individual who had undertaken to perform it."

With regard to the evidence of one of the witnesses who was said to be an accomplice, so that it was necessary that she should be corroborated, I said a jury might convict without it, but recommended them strongly not to take for granted her evidence unless they found there was so much corroboration of her testimony as to induce them to believe she was telling the truth.

As to one of the accused, I said: "If she had no legal object to fulfil in providing the deceased with the necessaries of life, the mere omission to do so would not render her guilty; but if she did an act wrongfully which had a tendency to destroy life, but which was not clone with that intention, she would be guilty of manslaughter."

The jury found a verdict of guilty against all, but with a strong recommendation in favour of one, in which I joined.

When a verdict of guilty of wilful murder is returned, a Judge, whatever may be his opinion of its propriety or justice, has no alternative but to deliver the sentence of death, and in the very words the law prescribes. It is not his judgment or decision, but it is so decreed that the sentence shall in no way depend upon the sympathy or opinion of the Judge. Whatever mitigating circumstances there may be must be considered by the Secretary of State for the Home Department as representing the Sovereign, and upon his advice alone the Sovereign acts.

But the Home Secretary never allows a sentence of death to be executed without the fullest possible inquiry as to mitigating circumstances, and it is at this stage that the opinion of the Judge is almost all-powerful.

My judgment in this case was the result of much anxious thought and consideration. The responsibility cast upon me was great. The case was as difficult as it was serious; but my line of duty was plain, and it was to leave the facts as clearly as I could possibly state them, with such explanation of the law applicable to each case as my ability would allow, and then leave the jury to find according to their honest belief. No duty more arduous has ever since been imposed upon me, and I performed it in my honest conscience, without swerving from what I believed, and believe still, to be my strict line of duty.

I have had many opportunities of reconsidering the whole circumstances, but I have never changed or varied my opinion after all these years, and am certain I never shall—namely, that I did my duty according to the best of my judgment and ability.

A Judge may go wrong in many ways, and often does in one way or other, especially if he does not know his own mind—the worst of all weaknesses, because it usually leads to an attempt to strike a medium line between innocence and guilt.

One great weakness, too, in a Judge is not having the faculty of setting out the facts in language which is intelligible to the jury, or in not setting them out at all, but repeating them so often and in so many forms that they are at last left in an absolutely hopeless muddle. A Judge once kept on so at the jury about "if you find burglarious intent, and if you don't find burglarious intent," that at last the jury found nothing except a verdict of not guilty, giving the "benefit of the doubt as to what the Judge meant."