As an illustration of the necessity of giving the jury a clear idea of the evidence in the simplest case, I will state what took place at Exeter. Juries are unused to evidence, and have very often to be told what is the bearing of it. In a case of fowl-stealing which I was trying, there was a curious defence raised, which seemed too ridiculous to notice. It was that the fowls had crept into the nose-bag in which they had been found, and which was in the prisoner's possession, in order to shelter themselves from the east wind.

Forgetting that possibly I had an unreasoning and ignorant jury to deal with, I thought they would at once see through so absurd a defence, and did not insult their common sense by summing up. I merely said,—

"Gentlemen, do you believe in the defence?"

They put their heads together, and kept in that position for some time, and at last, to my utter amazement, said,—

"We do, my lord; we find the prisoner not guilty."

It was a verdict for the prisoner and a lesson for me.

It was always my practice, founded on much calculation of the respective and relative merits and demerits of prisoners, to do what no other Judge that I am aware of ever did, which was to put convicted prisoners back until the whole calendar had been tried, then to bring them up and pass sentence after deliberate consideration of every case. I thus had the opportunity of reading over my notes and forming an opinion as to whether there were any circumstances which I could take into consideration by way of mitigation, or, in the same manner, as to whether there were matters of aggravation, such as cruelty or deliberate, wilful malice. The result of this plan on one occasion at Stafford Assizes, which I remember very well, was this. Two men were convicted of bigamy. The offence was the same in law as to both the prisoners. The one was altogether, physically and morally, a brute, cruel and merciless. The other man found guilty had been a bad husband to his wife before he went through the form of the second marriage; but as he had been already punished for his misconduct in that respect, I thought it fair that he should not be punished again for the same offence. Such is my idea of the law of England, although I fear it is sometimes forgotten. I therefore treated this man's crime as one of a very mitigated character, no harm having been done to the second woman, and released him on his own recognizances to come up for judgment if he should be called upon. I would not revisit upon him his past misdeeds. The other man I sent into penal servitude for five years.



CHAPTER XXXII.

ON THE MIDLAND CIRCUIT.

"That's Orkins hover there," said a burly-looking sportsman as I arrived one day at Newmarket Heath—"'im a-torkin' to Corlett. See 'im? Nice bernevolent old cove to look at, ain't 'e? Yus. That didn't stop 'is guvin' me five of his wery best, simply becorze by accident I mistook someb'dy else's 'ouse and plate-chest for my own. Sorter mistake which might 'appen a'most to henybody. There 'e is; see 'im? That's Orkins!"

I need not say I was frequently spoken of in this complimentary manner by persons who had been introduced to me at the Bar. I was once leading a little fox terrier with a string, because on several occasions he had given me the slip and caused me to be a little late in court. I led him, therefore, in the leash until he knew his duty.

On this day, however, as the crowd was waiting for me on the little platform of a country station, my fox terrier jumped out in front of me while I was holding him by the string.

"Good ——!" cried a voice from a gentleman to whom I had previously given a situation under Government, livery and all found; "why, blow me if the old bloke ain't blind! Lookee there, 'is dawg's a-leadin' 'im; wot d'ye think o' that?"

But persons in much higher station were no less at times fond of chaff, which I always took good-humouredly. A story of Lord Grimthorpe, who, many years after, had some fun with me at times over my little Jack, will appear in his reminiscences a little farther on. I used to lead Jack with a string in the same manner as I had done the other, for educational purposes, and Lord Grimthorpe jocularly called me Jack's prisoner. But I must let him tell his own story in his own way when his turn comes.

The Midland Circuit was always famous for its ill accommodation of her Majesty's Judges, and of late years even in the supply of prisoners to keep them from loitering away their days in idleness or lonely diversions.

I always loved work and comfortable lodgings, and may say from the first to the last of my judicial days set myself to the improvement of both the work and the accommodation.

Some Judges in their charges used to discourse with the grand jury of our foreign relations, turnips, or the state of trade; but I took a more humble theme at Aylesbury, when I informed that august body that the quarters assigned to her Majesty's Judges were such that an officer would hardly think them good enough to billet soldiers in.

"My rest, gentlemen, has been rudely disturbed," said I, "in the lodgings assigned to me. My bedroom was hardly accessible, on account of what appeared to be a dense fog which was difficult to struggle through. I sought refuge in the dressing-room. Being a bitterly cold night and a very draughty room, some one had lighted a fire in it; but, unfortunately, all the smoke came down the chimney after going up a little way, bringing down as much soot as it could manage to lay hold of. All this is the fault of the antiquated chimneys and ill-contrived building generally. My marshal was the subject of equal discomfort; and I think I may congratulate you, gentlemen, not only on there being very few prisoners, but also on the fact that you are not holding an inquest on our bodies."

The grand jury were good enough to say that there was "an institution called the Standing Joint Committee, who will, no doubt, inquire into your lordship's subject of complaint." The "Standing Joint Committee" sounded powerfully, but I believe no further notice was taken, and the question dropped.

"That's a nice un," said one of the javelin-men at the door when a friend of his came out. "Did yer 'ear that, Jimmy? Orkins is a nice un to talk about lodgings. Let him look to his own cirkit—the 'Orne Cirkit—where my brother told me as at a trial at Guildford the tenant of that there house wouldn't pay his rent. For why? Because they was so pestered wi' wermin. And what do you think Orkins told the jury?—He was counsel for the tenant.—'Why,' he says, 'gentlemen, you heard what one of the witnesses said, how that the fleas was so outrageous that they ackshally stood on the backs o' the 'all chairs and barked at 'em as they come in.' That's Orkins on his own circuit; and 'ere he is finding fault with our lodgings."

It was not long after my arrival at Lincoln, on the first occasion of my visiting that drowsy old ecclesiastical city, that I was waited upon, first by one benevolent body of gentlemen, and then another, all philanthropists seeking subscriptions for charitable objects.

One bitterly cold morning I was standing in my robes with my back to the fire at my lodgings, waiting to step into the carriage on my way to court, when a very polite gentleman, who headed quite a body of other polite gentlemen, asked "if his lordship would do them the honour of receiving a deputation from the L. and B. Skating Club." I assented—nothing would give me more pleasure; and in filed the deputation, arranging themselves, hats in hand, round me in a semicircle.

"We have the honour, my lord, to call upon your lordship in pursuance of a resolution passed last night at a special meeting of our club—"

"What is the name of your club?"

"The L. and B. Skating Club, my lord."

"What is its object?"

"Our object, my lord?"

"No, the object of your society. I can guess your object."

The leader answered with a smile of the greatest satisfaction,—

"Er—skating, my lord."

"Your own amusement?"

The head of the deputation bowed.

"Do you want me to skate?"

"No, my lord; but we take the liberty of asking your lordship to kindly support our club with a subscription."

"When I see," I replied, "so much poverty and misery around me which needs actual relief, and when I look at this inclement weather and think how these poor creatures must suffer from the cold, it seems to me that they are the people who should apply to those who have anything to bestow in charity; not those who are the only people, as it would appear, who can take pleasure in this excruciating weather. See if your club cannot do something for these poor sufferers instead of collecting merely for your own personal amusement; contribute to their necessities, and then come and see me again. I shall be here till Monday."

The head of the deputation stared, but it did not lose its presence of mind or forget its duty. The deputation made a little speech "thanking me heartily for the kind manner in which they had been received."

I never saw anything more of them from that day to this.

[In a case at Devizes Sir Henry showed in a striking manner the character he always bore as a humane Judge. He was not humane where cruelty was any part of the culprit's misdeeds, for he visited that with the punishment he thought it deserved, and his idea of that was on a somewhat considerable scale.]

I was down upon cruelty, and always lenient where there were any mitigating circumstances whatever, either of mental weakness, great temptation, provocation, or unhappy surroundings.

A woman was brought up before me who had been committed to take her trial on a charge of concealing the birth of a child. For prisoners in these circumstances I always felt great sympathy, and regarded the moral guilt as altogether unworthy of punishment. The law, however, was bound to be vindicated so far as the legal offence was concerned. She had already been in prison for three months, because she was too poor and too friendless to find bail. I am always pointing out that if magistrates would send more cases to the Judges than they do, they would get some precedents as to the appropriate measure of punishment, which they seem badly to need. This woman had already been punished, without being found guilty, with three times the punishment she ought to have received had she been found guilty. A month's imprisonment would have been excessive.

Prisoners should always be released on their own recognizances where there is a reasonable expectation that they will appear.

The result was that the unhappy woman, who had been punished severely while in the eye of the law she was innocent, was discharged when she was found to be guilty.

We have seen how Mr. Justice Maule examined a little boy as to his understanding the nature of an oath. I once examined a little girl upon a preliminary point of this kind, before she had arrived at that period of mental acuteness which enables one to understand exactly the meaning of the words uttered in the administration of the oath. The child was called, and after allowing the form of "the evidence you shall give," etc., and "kiss the book," to be gabbled over, I said, before the Testament could reach the child's lips,—

"Stop! Do you understand what that gentleman has been saying?"

"No, sir."

I think it is a great farce to let little children be sworn who cannot be expected to understand even the language in which the oath is administered, to say nothing of the oath itself. How can they comprehend the meaning of the phrases employed? And many grown-up uneducated people are in the same situation. Surely a simple form, such as, "You swear to God to speak the truth"—or, even better still, to make false evidence punishable without any oath at all—would be far better.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

JACK.

I was always fond of dogs, and never cease to admire their intelligence and sagacity.

My little Jack was given to me when quite a puppy by my old and very dear friend Lord Falmouth. He was brought to me by Lady Falmouth, and from that time his history was my history, for his companionship was constant and faithful; in my hours of labour and of pleasure he was always with me, and I believe, if I had had any sorrows, he would have shared them as he did my pleasures—nay, these he enhanced more than I can tell.

Of course he invariably came circuit, and sat with me in my lodgings and on the Bench, where he would patiently remain till the time came to close my notebook for the day. Whether he liked it or not I am unable to say, but he seemed to take an interest in the proceedings. About this, however, his reminiscences will speak for themselves. He always occupied the seat of honour in the Sheriff's carriage, and walked to it with a dignity worthy the occasion. I am glad to say the Judges all loved Jack, and treated him most kindly, not for my sake, but, I believe, for his own—although, I may add in passing, he sometimes gave them a pretty loud rebuke if they showed any approach to ill-humour on an occasional want of punctuality in coming into court. Some of them were exceedingly particular in being up to time to a moment; and I should have equal to the occasion at all times, but that I had to give Jack a run before we started for the duties of the day. It was necessary for his health and good behaviour. On circuit, of course, whenever there was little to do—I am speaking of the Midland particularly, although the Western was quite as pleasant—I gave him longer runs. For instance, in Warwick Park nothing could be more beautiful than to loiter there on a summer morning amongst the cedars on the beautiful lawn.

It may seem unreasonable to say so, but Jack almost seemed to be endowed with human instincts. He was as restless as I was over long, windy speeches and cross-examinations that were more adapted for the smoking-room of a club than a court of justice; and in order to repress any tendency to manifest his displeasure I gave him plenty of exercise in the open air, which made him sleep generally when counsel began to speak.

Having mentioned the commencement of my companionship with Jack, which in these reminiscences I would on no account omit, I shall let him hereafter tell his own experience in his own way.

JACK'S REMINISCENCES.

I was born into the family of my Lord Falmouth, and claim descent from the most well bred of my race in this kingdom, the smooth fox terrier. All my ancestors were noted for their love of sport, their keen sense of humour, and hatred of vermin.

At a very early period of my infancy I was presented to Sir Henry Hawkins, one of Her Majesty's Judges of the High Court, who took a great fancy to me, and, if I may say so without appearing to be vain, at once adopted me as his companion and a member of his family.

Sir Henry, or, as I prefer to call him, my lord, treated me with the sweetest kindness, and I went with him wherever it was possible for him to take me. At first my youthful waywardness and love of freedom—for that is inherent in our race—compelled him to restrain me by a string, which I sometimes pulled with such violence that my lord had to run; and on seeing us so amusing ourselves one morning, old Lord Grimthorpe, I think they called him, who was always full of good-natured chaff, cried out,—

"Halloa, Hawkins! What, has Jack made you his prisoner? Ha! ha! Hold him, Jack; don't let him get away!"

Well, this went on for several weeks, what I think you call chaff, and at last I was allowed to go without the string. It happened that on the very first morning when I was thus given my liberty, whom should we meet but this same old Lord Grimthorpe.

"Halloa!" he cries again—"halloa, Hawkins! Does your keeper let you go without being attached to a string?"

"No, no," says my lord—"no, no; Jack's attached to me now."

Thereupon dear old Grimthorpe, who loved a joke, laughed till his elbows rested on his knees as he stooped down.

"Well," said he, "that's good, Hawkins, very good indeed."

On one occasion one of those country yokels who always met us at Assize towns, and got as close up to our javelin-men as they could, so that we could not only see them but indulge our other senses at the same time, seeing us get out of our carriage, said to another yokel, "I say, Bill, blarmed if the old bloke ain't brought his dawg again—that there fox terrier—to go a-rattin'."

I did not know what "rattin'" meant at that time, and did not learn it till we got to Warwick. I thought it was rude to call my lord a "bloke," especially in his red robes; but did not quite know what "bloke" meant, for I had seen so little of mankind.

One morning before we opened the Commission at Warwick—I may as well come to it at once—my lord and I went for a walk along the road that leads over the bridge by Warwick Castle towards Leamington. There is a turning to a village which belonged to the old days, but does not seem now to belong to anything, and looks something like a rural watering-place, quiet and unexciting. We turned down this quiet road, and came alongside a beautiful little garden covered with flowers of all kinds.

I had occasion afterwards to learn whom they belonged to; but I will tell you before we go further, so as to make the situation intelligible. He was a countryman who used to make it his boast that he never had a day's schooling in his life (so that he ought to have been leader of the most ignorant classes), and this made him the independent man he was towards his betters. Then my Lady Warwick used to take notice of him, and this also gave him another lift in his own estimation. He learnt to read in the long run, for he really had a good deal of native talent for a man, and set himself up for a politician and a something they call a philosopher, which any man can be with a pint pot in front of him, I am told, especially at a village alehouse.

He was a great orator at the Gridiron beershop in the lane which runs round one part of my Lord Warwick's park, and it was said that old Gale—such was his name—had picked up most of his education from his own speeches. Gale was also the lawyer of the village—he could tell everybody what his rights were, if anybody had any besides Gale; but he declared he had been done out of his rights by a man who had lent his old father some money on the bit of land I am coming to.

As we went along, what should we see but a rat! I knew what he was in a moment, although I had never seen such a thing before, and knew I had to hunt him. My lord cries, "Cis!—rat, Jack—rats!"

Away I went after the rat—I did not care what his name was—and Sir Henry after me, with all the exuberance he used to show when he was following the "Quorn." Presently we heard the dreadful orator's voice using language only uttered, I am glad to say, amongst men.

"Where the h—l are you coming to like this?" he cried.

I forgot to say that our marshal was with us, and of course he took upon himself to explain how matters stood; indeed, it was one of his duties when Judges went out a-ratting to explain who they were. So when we arrived at the place where they were talking together, I heard the dreadful man say,—

"Judge o' th' land! He ain't much of a judge o' th' land to tear my flowers to pieces like that. Look at these 'ere toolips."

The marshal explained how that it was for the improvement of Sir Henry Hawkins's health that a little fresh air was taken every morning.

"Lookee 'ere," says Gale, "I didn't know it wur the Judge doin' me the honour to tear my flower-beds to pieces. I bin workin' at these 'ere beds for months, and here they are spilt in a minit; but I tell ee what, Orkins or no Orkins, he ain't gwine to play hell with my flower-beds like that 'ere. If he wants the ground for public improvement, as you call it, well, you can take it under the Act. There's room enough for improvement, I dessay."

Now, instead of his lordship sending the man to prison, as I thought to be sure he must do, he speaks to him as mild as a lamb, and tells him he commends his spirit, and actually asks him what he valued the flowers at. A Judge condescending to do that! This mollified the old man's temper, and turned away his flowery wrath, so he said at once he wasn't the man to make a profit out o' the circumstarnce; but right was right, and wrong worn't no man's right, with a great many other proverbs of a like nature, which are as hard to get rid of amongst men and women as precedents amongst Judges; and then the old man, much against his will and inclination, had a sovereign forced upon him by our marshal, which he put into his pocket, and then accompanied us to the gate.

Now came this remarkable circumstance. When we got back to our lodgings after being "churched," what should we find but a beautiful nosegay of cut flowers in our drawing-room from old Gale, and every morning came a similar token of his good-nature and admiration while we were there, and the same whenever we went on that circuit.

One of our servants was kind enough to make me a set of robes exactly like my lord's, which I used to wear in the Court of Crown Cases Reserved and at high functions, such as the Queen's Birthday or Chancellor's breakfast. In court I always appeared in mufti on ordinary occasions—that is to say, I did not appear at all ostentatiously, like some men, but sat quietly on my lord's robe close to his chair.

I well remember one occasion while we were at Hereford, a very pompous and extremely proper town, as all cathedral cities are; my lord and I were robed for the reception of the High Sheriff (as he is called) and his chaplain, who were presently coming with the great carriage to take us to be churched before we charged the grand jury.

Hereford is a very stately place, and enjoys a very high opinion of its own importance in the world. It is almost too respectable to admit of the least frivolity in any circumstances. You always seemed to be going to church at Hereford, or just coming out—the latter was nicest—so that there was, in my time, a sedateness only to be equalled by the hardness of a Brazil nut, which would ruin even my teeth to crack. I don't know if that is a proper way in which to describe a solid Herefordian; but if so, judge of the High Sheriff's surprise, as well as that of the chaplain, when I walked by the side of my lord into our drawing-room! I never saw a clergyman look so glum! We were both in robes, as I observed, and my lord was so pleased with my appearance that he held me up for the two dignitaries to admire. But Hereford does not admire other people; they confine their admirations within their own precincts.

On our way from the station to our lodgings, I ought to have said, both these gentlemen were full of praises. Who would not admire a Judge's companion?

Although Sheriff and chaplain were highly proper, the former could not restrain a hearty laugh, while the latter tightened his lips with a reproving smile. But then the chaplain, with a proper reverence for the State function, afterwards looked very straight down his nose, and, hemming a little, ventured to say,—

"My lord, are you really going to take the little dog to divine service in the cathedral?"

My lord looked quite astonished at the question, and then put his face down to me and pretended to whisper and then to listen. Afterwards he said,—

"No. Jack says not to-day; he doesn't like long sermons."

The chaplain would much rather I had gone to church than have heard such a reprimand.

But this is not quite the end of my reminiscence. I heard on the best authority that the sermon of the chaplain on that morning was the shortest he had ever preached as an Assize discourse, and my lord attributed it entirely to my supposed observation on that subject, so that my presence, at all events, was useful.

I have always observed that lesser dignitaries are more jealous of their dignity than greater ones. Here was an excellent example of it. The chaplain looked very severe, but when this little story reached the ears of the good Bishop Atlay he was delighted, and wished to see me. I was becoming famous. I made my call in due course, and let him see that a Judge's dog was not to be put down by a mere chaplain, and came away much gratified with his lordship's politeness. After this, during our stay in the city, the Bishop gave me the run of his beautiful new garden along the riverside. And there my lord and I used to gambol for an hour after our duties in court were over. This lovely garden was an additional pleasure to me, because I was relieved from a muzzle. There was only one thing wanting: the Bishop kept no rats.

After this his lordship never saw my lord without asking the question, "How's dear Jack?" which showed how much a Bishop could respect a little dog, and how much superior he was to a chaplain. I heard him say once we were all God's creatures, but that, of course, I was not able to understand at the time. I did not know if it included the chaplain.

I think I must now tell a little story of myself, if you will not think me conceited. It is about a small matter that happened at Cambridge. One day a very amiable but dreadfully noisy advocate was cross-examining a witness, as I thought, rather angrily, because the man would not say exactly what he wanted him to say. My lord did not take notice of this, and it went on until I thought I would call his attention to the counsel's manner, and, accordingly, gave a growl—merely a growl of inquiry. Brown—which was the counsel's name—was a little startled at this unexpected remonstrance, and paused, looking up at the Judge.

"Go on," said my lord—"go on, pray," pretending not to know the cause of the interruption.

He went on accordingly for a considerable time, with a very noisy speech—so noisy that one could not hear one's self bark, which I did two or three times without any effect. However, at last I made one of my best efforts.

But this was bad policy, inasmuch as it attracted too much attention to myself, who had been hitherto unseen.

My lord, however, thanks to his presence of mind, had the kindness to say,—

"Dear me! I wish people would not bring their dogs into court." Then turning to our marshal, he said, "Take Jack into Baron Pollock's room"—the Baron had just gone in to lunch, for he was always punctual to a minute—"and ask him to give him a mutton-chop."

And when, five minutes later, my lord came in, the Baron was enjoying his chop, and I was eating my lord's.

In another court the Judge administered a well-timed rebuke to a flippant and very egotistical counsel, and I could hardly restrain myself from administering another. During the progress of a dreadfully long address to the jury for the defence, he said,—

"Why, gentlemen, there is not sufficient evidence against the prisoner on which to hang a dog."

"And how much evidence, Mr. ——, would you consider sufficient to hang a dog?"

"That would depend, my lord, as to whom the dog belonged."

I thought how like human nature that young man was.

I used to have a very good view of all that took place in court, and could tell some very funny as well as interesting stories about persons I have seen.

One day I was amused so much that, had I not remembered where I was, I must, like my friends mentioned by Robert Burns in his "Twa Dogs," have "barked wi' joy," because I thought it so strange. Here was a Queen's Counsel, a man of so proper a countenance that I do not think it ever smiled in its life, and so very devoted to his profession that he would never think of leaving it to go to a racecourse. I should have as soon expected to meet him in our dogs' home looking for a greyhound to go coursing with on Primrose Hill,—and here he was standing up on his hind legs, and making an application to the court which my lord was never in his life known to grant.

It was the night before the Derby, and we always took care to have a full list of cases for that Wednesday, for fear the public should think we went to the Derby and left the work to look after itself. We generally had about a dozen in pretty early in the afternoon of Tuesday, so that the suitors and witnesses, solicitors and all others whom it concerned, might know where they were, and that they could not go to the Derby the following day.

What a scene it was as soon as this list was published! I used to sit and watch the various applicants sidle into their seats with the most sheepish faces for men I ever saw. In came the first gentleman, flustered with excitement.

"Would your lordship allow me to make an application?"

"Yes," said my lord—"yes; I see no objection. What is your application, Mr. ——?" I will not give his name.

"There is a case, my lord, in to-morrow's list—number ten. It is quite impossible, seeing the number of cases before it, that that case can be reached."

"If that is so," said my lord, "there is no necessity for making any application—if you know it is impossible to reach it, I mean to say—"

"It is ex abundanti cautela, my lord."

I think that was the expression, but, as it is not dog-Latin, I am not sure.

"It is a good horse to run, I dare say," said my lord, "but I don't think he'll win this time."

The counsel shook his head and would have smiled, I could see that, only he was disappointed. I felt sorry for him, because his clients had made arrangements to go to the Derby. As he was turning disconsolately away my lord spoke with a little more encouragement in his tone and a quiet smile.

"We will see later, Mr. ——. Is your client unable to appear to-morrow?"

"I'm afraid so, my lord, quite."

"Have you a doctor's certificate?"

"I am afraid not, my lord; he is not ill."

"Then you can renew the application later; but understand, I am determined to get through the list."

That was so like my lord; nothing would turn him from his resolution, if he sat till midnight, and I nearly barked with admiration.

Then came number six on the list, with the same complaint that it was not likely to be reached.

"I'm not so sure," said Sir Henry. "I have just refused number ten; yours is a long way before that. Some of the previous ones may go off very soon; there does not seem to be anything very long in front of you, Mr. ——. What's your difficulty about being here?"

"The real difficulty, my lord—" And as he hesitated the Judge said,—

"You want to be elsewhere?"

"Frankly, my lord, that is so."

"Very well; if both sides are agreed, I have no objection. If I am not trying your case I shall be trying some one else's, and it is a matter of perfect indifference to me whose case it is."

An hour after in came a brisk junior stating that his leader was unavoidably absent.

"What is the application, Mr. Wallsend?"

"There's a case on your lordship's list for to-morrow, my lord."

"Yes. What number?"

"Number seven, my lord. I am told number six is a long case, and sure to be fought. My application is that, as that case will last over Friday—"

"Friday? Why Friday?"

There was a little laughter, because it happened to be the Oaks day.

"I'm told it's a long case, my lord."

"Yes, but number six has gone, so that you will stand an excellent chance of coming on about two o'clock, perhaps a little before. What is the nature of your case?"

"Illegal imprisonment, my lord."

"Very well; if it is any convenience to you, Mr. Wallsend, I will take it last."

By the look of the young man it seemed of no great convenience.

"That will give your witnesses time to be here, I hope."

The counsel shook his head, and then began to say that the fact was that his client had an engagement, and his lordship would see it was the great race of the year.

"I do not like these applications made in this random manner. I am willing to oblige the parties in all cases if I can, but these constant motions to postpone interfere very much with the public convenience, and I mean to say that the public are to be considered."

Now came the gentleman who never attended races, and devoted himself to business. He could not have told you the name of a horse to save his life. But he also made his application to postpone a case until Thursday. Delightful day, Thursday; such a convenient day, too—between the Derby and the Oaks.

Said my lord, who was very friendly to the learned counsel, and liked him not only as a member of his old circuit, but as a brother Bencher and a clever advocate,—

"Oh, I see; I see where you want to be to-morrow."

"My lord!"

It was no use; in spite of the gentleman's remonstrance and protestations, he said,—

"You may go, Mr. ——, and I hope you will enjoy yourself."

I need hardly say nothing was left of the list by twelve o'clock the next day, and Sir Henry had the honour of going in the royal train and dining at Marlborough House in the evening.

I ought, perhaps, to mention that there was a case proceeding when all these interruptions took place. I don't know the name, but two counsel were in it, one of whom was remarkable for the soul of wit which is called brevity, and the other was not. One was Frank Lockwood, Q.C., a very amusing counsel, whom I always liked, because he often sketched me and my lord in pen and ink.

Mr. Jelf, Q.C., was the other learned counsel. Although I liked most of the barristers, I often wished I could teach them the invaluable lesson when to leave off. It would have saved many a verdict, and given me the opportunity of hearing my own voice.

Lockwood was cross-examining, and appeared to me dealing rather seriously with Jelf's witnesses, who were a pious body of gentlemen, and prided themselves, above all things, on speaking the truth, as though it was a great credit not to commit perjury.

At last Mr. Jelf, tired with being routed in so ruthless a manner, cried in a lamentable voice,—

"Pray, pray, Mr. Lockwood!"

"So I do," said Lockwood—"so I do, Mr. Jelf, at fitting and proper times."



CHAPTER XXXIV.

TWO TRAGEDIES.

[The Daily Telegraph, speaking of the necessity for Justice sometimes "to strip the bandage from her eyes and look into the real merits of a case, mentions the following case as showing Sir Henry's unequalled knowledge of human nature and the sound equity of his decrees:—

"A young, respectable woman had been led away by a villain, who was already married, and under a promise of marriage had betrayed her. He induced her to elope with him, and suggested that she should tear a cheque out of her father's cheque-book and forge his name. So completely was she under his influence that she did so. He sent her to different banks to try and cash it, but it was not till she got to a local bank, where she was known, that this was accomplished. The cheque was for L200. But the seducer never obtained the money; the girl was apprehended before she reached him.

"Sir Henry openly expressed his strong sympathy for the unhappy girl, and ordered her to be bound over in her own recognizance of L20, to come up for judgment when called upon."]

During the early years of my tenure of office as a criminal Judge I became, and still am, firmly impressed with the belief that to enable one filling that office to discharge the twofold duty attached to it—namely, that of trying the issue whether the crime imputed to the prisoner has been established by legal evidence, and if so, what punishment ought to be imposed upon the prisoner, assuming the presiding Judge to be the person to determine it—it is absolutely essential that he should keep the whole of the circumstances in his mind and carefully weigh every fact which either forms an element in the constitution of the offence itself or has a substantial bearing as affecting the aggravation or mitigation of the punishment; for it is not only essential that these matters should be known to and appreciated by the Judge who tried the case, but that they may be also presented for the information of the Home Secretary, who ought to be acquainted with them, so that he may form a satisfactory view of the whole of the circumstances surrounding the case.

A strange story that will ever stand out in my memory as one of the most dramatic of my life was that of a young lady who was a professional nurse at the General Hospital at Liverpool. She was young, clever, and, I believe, beautiful, as well as esteemed and loved by all who knew her.

She had become engaged to an engineer, and it had been arranged that she should pay a visit to her mother in Nottingham on a Friday, so as to acquaint her with their engagement, the intended husband having arranged to come on the following Monday.

The parents were poor, respectable people, and the girl herself was poor, so that she had no change of attire, but went in her professional nurse's dress. It was her intention, however, to buy an ordinary dress at Nottingham.

There was a dressmaker in that city whom her mother knew, and with whose children in their early days her daughter had played. Accordingly in the evening the nurse with a younger sister went to the cottage to make the necessary arrangements.

While she was there the son of the dressmaker came in, and was at once attracted by the beauty and the manner of the girl. As they had known one another in childhood, it was not surprising that they should talk with more familiarity than would have been the case had they been strangers.

When the nurse rose to go, the young man asked permission to accompany her to her mother's. She declined, but he persisted in his request.

This man was a clever mechanic, and had invented a machine for making chenille. Sad to say, this invention he used for the purpose of inveigling the girl into his workshop, which was situated on the second floor of an extensive range of warehouses in a yard at Nottingham. He asked her to come on the Monday morning, and when she informed him that her lover was to come by the 12.30 train at Nottingham Station, he said if she came at eleven she would have plenty of time to see his invention, and then meet him. She at last consented.

I now come to a series of facts of a sensational character. On the Monday morning she went, according to the appointment, and was seen to go with this man up a flight of steps which led from the yard to the first floor. The door opened on to the landing outwardly. In about a quarter of an hour after she was seen staggering down the steps, and crossing the yard in the direction of the street. In the street she fell, and was conveyed to a neighbouring house. She was afterwards taken to a hospital.

In the course of some minutes the man himself came down the steps, and was informed that a girl had been seen coming out of his premises bleeding, and had been taken to a cottage.

"Was there?" said he, and walked away.

In the afternoon he was apprehended. He said he was very sorry, but that he was showing the girl a little toy pistol, and that it had gone off: quite accidentally. He wished to be taken to the hospital where she was.

The magistrate in the meanwhile had been informed of the occurrence, and with his clerk attended at the hospital to take her dying deposition.

There was an amount of skill and ability about the prisoner which was somewhat surprising to me, who am seldom surprised at anything.

"Did you not think it was an accident?" he asked.

The dying girl answered, "Yes."

In re-examination by the magistrate's clerk at the end of the business, the following answer was elicited,—

"I thought it was an accident before the second shot was fired."

The extraordinary part of this story, to my mind, is that the able counsel—and able he indeed was who defended him—treated the matter as the most frivolous prosecution that was ever instituted. I know that he almost laughed at the idea of murder, and, further, that the junior counsel for the prosecution treated the charge in the same manner, and said that, in his opinion, there was no case.

The man was indicted for wilful murder, and I am bound to say, after reading the depositions, I could come to no other conclusion than that he was guilty of the most cruel and deliberate murder, if the depositions were correct.

I went with the counsel on both sides to view the scene of the tragedy, and it was agreed that the counsel for the prosecution should indicate as well as he could the case for the Crown by merely stating undisputed facts in connection with the premises.

The flight of steps, as I have said, led from the courtyard to the first landing.

The door opened outwards, and the first visible piece of evidence was that some violence had been exercised in forcing open the door on the occasion of some one making his or her escape from the building, for the staple into which the bolt of the lock had been thrust showed that the door had been locked on the inside, and that the person coming from the premises must have used considerable force in breaking through.

The key was not in the lock, neither had it fallen out, or it would have been found somewhere near. It had evidently been taken out and secreted, because it was found at the bottom of a dustbin a long way off from the staircase and in the room occupied by the prisoner.

There was one additional fact at this part of the view which I must mention. A bullet was picked up near the door. It had struck the opposite wall, and then glanced off and hit the other wall close to the door.

The bullet had been fired from the landing above; this was indicated by the direction as it glanced along the wall, and, further, by the mark it had left of its line of flight from the landing above, for it had struck against the low ceiling of that spot as though the person firing had fired in a hurry and had not taken sufficient aim to avoid it. It might be taken, therefore, that the person firing was not used to firearms, or he would not have hit what might be called the ceiling.

The bullet was produced by the chief constable.

On reaching the second landing, the mark of the bullet in the lintel showed clearly that it had been fired in the direction of some object below—some one, probably, descending the stairs.

On turning into the factory on this floor, which was quite empty, I saw on the wall near the doorway the mark of another bullet which had rested near and was found by the police. It was a bad aim, and showed, therefore, that the person who fired it was unused to firearms.

We went to the next room, into which we ascended by six steps; it was clear that it was from the head of these stairs that the course of the bullet was directed; its elevated position and the angle of incidence showed this. But as neither of these bullets had struck the deceased, for there was no mark of any kind to prove it, there was another bullet to be accounted for, and as the prisoner said that the pistol went off by accident, two or three matters had to be considered. Where was the spot where the accident occurred? and was aim actually taken?

The bullet had entered the hinder part of the neck, had taken a downward direction, and lodged in the spine. It did not, therefore, go off while he was explaining the pistol to her, otherwise it would have struck her at any other place than where it did.

Moreover, she had run in a state of intense fright the moment she was wounded—had commenced to run before, in fact, having escaped from the clutches of her murderer, for the skirt of her dress was torn from the gathers. It was proved that the prisoner had bought the pistol on the Saturday night, that he was unused to firearms, for he had to ask the man who sold it to explain the mode of using it. He was heard practising with it on Sunday, and when the accident occurred it was proved that the interval between the first and second shots exactly accounted for the space which intervened between the respective spots where the firing must have taken place.

Much was made of the fact that the poor girl had said she thought it was an accident, but I had to call the learned counsel's attention to the statement at the end of her examination, which was this: "I thought at first it was an accident, for I could not believe he could be so cruel, but after the second shot I believed he meant to kill me."

A somewhat novel incident occurred during the examination for the prosecution.

A wire stand had been dressed with the girl's clothes to show where the lower part of the dress had been torn from the gathers. It was placed on the table, and no doubt exactly resembled the girl herself. The prisoner was so much affected that he shuddered, and had to be supported.

He was condemned to death.

In the House of Commons and out of it sympathy was, of course, aroused, not for the unhappy girl who had been sent suddenly to her account, but for the lustful brute who had murdered her. A question was asked of the Secretary of State for the Home Department as to the prisoner being insane, and whether there was not abundant evidence of insanity at the trial.

The counsel for the prosecution wrote to the Home Secretary and requested him to lay his letter before the prisoner's counsel to ascertain whether he agreed with it. The letter was to this effect: "Not only was there no evidence of insanity, but the prisoner's counsel based his defence entirely upon the fact that there was no suggestion that the man was or ever had been insane. He must have been insane, argued the counsel, if he had committed a brutal murder of that kind; there was no insanity, and therefore it was an accident."

The humane questioner of the Home Secretary left the prisoner after that statement to his well-deserved fate.

* * * * *

I recollect at one Gloucester Assize a man was tried before me for the murder of a woman near Bristol.

The prisoner had given his account of the tragedy, and said he had made up his mind to kill the first woman he met alone and unprotected; that is to say, he had made up his mind to kill somebody when there was no witness of the deed. Humanitarians for murderers might call this insanity.

He went forth on his mission, and saw a woman coming towards him with a baby.

He instantly resolved to kill both, and probably would have done so but for the fact that some one was seen coming towards him in the distance.

The woman and child therefore escaped, the person he had seen in the distance also passed by, and then he waited in the lane alone. In a little time a poor woman came along.

The ruffian instantly seized her, cut her throat, and killed her on the spot.

No sooner had he accomplished his purpose than a young farmer drove along in his cart, and seeing the dead body in the road, and the murderer a little way off, jumped out of his cart and arrested him.

A little farther on the road there was a labouring man, who had not been visible up to this moment, breaking stones.

"Look after this man," said the farmer; "he has committed murder. Keep him safe while I go to the village and get a constable."

"All right," said the labourer; "I'll keep un."

As soon as the farmer was gone the labourer and the murderer got into conversation, for they had to while away the time until the farmer had procured the constable.

"Why," asked the stone-breaker, "what have you been a-doin' of?"

"Killin' a woman," answered the murderer.

"Killin' a woman!" said the mason. "Why, what did you want to kill a woman for? She warn't your wife, was she?"

"Nay," answered the murderer, "or I should ha' killed her afore."

The want of motive is always a strong argument with humanitarians, who pity the murderer and not the victim. I heard no particle of sympathy expressed for the poor woman, but there was abundance of commiseration for the fiend who had perpetrated the terrible deed.

There never was any adequate motive for murder, but there was never a deed committed or any act performed without motive.

Insanity on the ground of absence of motive was set up as a matter of course, but insanity should be based on proof apart from the cruelty of the act itself. It was a premeditated crime, a bloodthirsty desire to wreak his malice on some one; but beyond the act, beyond the malignant disposition of the man, there was no evidence whatever of insanity.

I refused to recommend him to the Royal clemency on that ground, or on any ground, for there was not the smallest pretence for saying it was not a deliberate cold-blooded murder. And the man was rightly hanged.

Society should be protected from murderers. This may be hard dealing with the enemies of society, but it is just to society itself. I was never hard on a prisoner. The least circumstance in mitigation found in me a hearty reception, but cruelty in man or woman an unflinching Judge.

Take another case. In Gloucestershire a man was convicted of killing a girl by stabbing her in no less than thirty-eight places.

Again the humanitarians besieged the Home Secretary. "No man in his senses would have been so cruel; and there was his conduct in the dock: he was so wild, so incoherent. There was also his conduct in the field where he had committed the deed: he called the attention of the passers-by to his having killed her." And, last of all, "there was the doctor whom the Home Secretary had consulted after the trial."

I was appealed to, and stated my opinion honestly: that I had closely watched the man at the trial, and was satisfied that he was shamming insanity.

And he shammed it so awkwardly that there was no doubt whatever that he was sane.

Another Judge was asked about the case who saw only the evidence, and he came to the same conclusion; and I was compelled to report that the doctor who certified that he was insane did so without having seen him as the doctors for the prosecution had at the trial and before.

He was hanged.



CHAPTER XXXV.

THE ST. NEOTS CASE.

This is the last trial for murder that I presided over. The object is not to show the horrible details of the deed, but my mode of dealing with the facts, for it is in the elimination of the false from the true that the work of a Judge must consist, otherwise his office is a useless form. I shall give this case, therefore, more in detail than I otherwise should.

The case was that of Horsford, in the year 1898, at Huntingdon Assizes. I say now, long after the event, the murderer was not improperly described by the Daily News as the greatest monster of our criminal annals, and yet even in that case some kind-hearted people said I had gone quite to the limits of a Judge's rights in summing up the case. Let me say a word about circumstantial evidence. Some writers have spoken of it as a kind of "dangerous innovation in our criminal procedure." It is actually almost the only evidence that is obtainable in all great crimes, and it is the best and most reliable.

You may draw wrong impressions from it, I grant, but so you may from the evidence of witnesses where it is doubtful; but you cannot fail to draw the right ones where the facts are not doubtful. If it is capable of a wrong inference, a Judge should be absolutely positive in his direction to the jury not to draw it.

I have witnessed many great trials for murder, but do not remember one where there was an eye-witness to the deed. How is it possible, then, to bring home the charge to the culprit unless you rely on circumstantial evidence? Circumstantial evidence is the evidence of circumstances—facts that speak for themselves and that cannot be contradicted. Circumstances have no motive to deceive, while human testimony is too often the product of every kind of motive.

The history of this case is extremely simple. The accused, Walter Horsford, aged thirty-six, was a farmer of Spaldwick. The person murdered, Annie Holmes, was a widow whose age was thirty-eight years. She had resided for several months at St. Neots, where she died on the night of January 7. She had been married, and lost her husband thirteen years ago. On his death he left two children, Annie and Percy. The latter was sixteen years of age and the girl fourteen. The prisoner was a cousin of the deceased woman. While she lived at Stonely the man had been in the habit of visiting her, and had become an intimate member of the family.

In the month of October the prisoner was married to a young woman named Bessie ——. The widow with her two children, and a third, which it would be idle affectation to suggest was the offspring of her late husband, went to reside at St. Neots in a cottage rented at about L8 a year. The prisoner wrote to Annie Holmes on at least two occasions.

Towards the close of the year Annie Holmes suspected herself to be pregnant. She was anxious not to bring another child into the world, and had some communication with the prisoner on the subject.

On January 5 he wrote to her that he would come and make some arrangement. The woman was deceived as to her condition, but that made no difference with regard to the crime. The letter went on to state: "You must remember I paid you for what I done.... Don't write any more letters, for I don't want Bessie to know."

On December 28 he purchased from a chemist to whom he was a stranger, and who lived at Thrapston, a quantity of poison, alleging that he wanted to poison rats. Prisoner called in a gentleman as a reference to his respectability, as the chemist had refused to sell him the poison without. At last a small parcel was supplied. It was entered in a book with the prisoner's name, and he signed the book, as did also the gentleman who was his introducer. The poison was strychnine, arsenic, prussic acid, and carbolic acid. No less than 90 grains of strychnine were supplied. He had written to say he would come over on the Friday which followed January 5. There is no reason to suppose he did not fulfil his promise. On the Friday the woman was suffering from neuralgia. In the evening, however, she was in her usual health and spirits, and did her ironing up to eight o'clock. She went to bed between half-past nine and ten, and took with her a tumbler of water. In ten minutes the little girl and her brother went upstairs. They went to the mother, who was in bed with her child. The tumbler was nearly empty. The mother asked for a "sweet," which the little girl gave. After this Annie got into bed; the mother began to twitch her arms and legs, and seemed in great pain. Dr. Turner was sent for, as she got worse. His assistant, Dr. Anderson, came, and, watching the patient, noticed that the symptoms were those of strychnine poisoning. She was dying. Before he could get to the surgery and return with an antidote the woman was dead. She who had been well at half-past nine was dead before eleven!

The police were communicated with, and a constable searched the house. Turning up the valances of the bed, he found a piece of paper crumpled up; this was sent to an analyst on the following day. An inquest was held and a post-mortem directed.

Horsford at the inquest swore that he had never written to the deceased or visited her.

On the evening of Saturday the 8th, after the post-mortem, Mrs. Hensman and another woman found between the mattress and the bed a packet of papers. These were also submitted for analysis. One of them contained 35 grains of strychnine; another had crystals of strychnine upon it. There was writing on one of the packets, and it was the handwriting of the prisoner; it said, "Take in a little water; it is quite harmless. Will come over in a day or two." On another packet was written: "One dose; take as told," also in the prisoner's handwriting.

The body had been buried and was exhumed. Three grains of strychnine were found by the county analyst in such parts of the stomach as were submitted to him. Dr. Stevenson took other parts to London, and the conclusion he came to was that at least 10 grains must have been in the body at the time of death, while 1/2 grain has been known to be fatal.

There was a singular circumstance in the defence of this case, one which I have never heard before or since, and that was a complaint that the counsel for the prisoner was "twitted" by the Crown because he had not called evidence for the defence. The jury were solemnly asked to remember that if one jot or tittle of evidence had been put forward, or a single document put in by him, the prisoner's counsel, he would lose the last word on behalf of the prisoner! Of course, counsel's last word may be of more value than some evidence; but the smallest "jot or tittle" of evidence, or any document whatever that even tends to prove the innocence of the accused, is of more value than a thousand last words of the most powerful speaker I have ever listened to. And I would go further and say that evidence in favour of a prisoner should never be kept back for the sake of the last word. It is the bounden duty of counsel to produce it, especially where evidence is so strong that no speech could save the prisoner. Neither side should keep back evidence in a prisoner's favour. I said to the jury,—

"We are assembled in the presence of God to fulfil one of the most solemn obligations it is possible to fulfil, and I will to the best of my ability assist you to arrive at an honest and just conclusion.

"The law is that if a man deliberately or designedly administers, or causes to be administered, a fatal poison to procure abortion, whether the woman be pregnant or not, and she dies of it, the crime is wilful murder.

"You have been asked to form a bad opinion of this deceased woman, but she had brought up her children respectably on her slender means, and there was no evidence that she was a loose woman. It more than pained me when I heard the learned counsel—instructed by the prisoner—cross-examine that poor little girl, left an orphan by the death of the mother, with a view to creating an impression that the poor dead creature was a person of shameless character.

"Again, counsel has commented in unkind terms on the deceased woman, and said the prisoner had no motive in committing this crime on a woman whom he valued at half a crown.

"He might not, it is true, care half a crown for her. It is not a question as to what he valued the woman at; we are not trying that at all; but it showed there was a motive.

"I have not admitted a statement which the woman made while in her dying state, because she may not fully have realized her condition. Probably you will have no doubt that, by whomsoever this fatal dose was administered, there is only known to medical science one poison which will produce the symptoms of this woman's dying agonies. One thing is surprising at this stage—that immediately after death the door of the house was not locked, and while the body was upon the bed a paper of no importance was found, and that afterwards several relatives went in. The object of the cross-examination was to show that some evil-disposed person had entered the house and placed things there without any motive. But whoever may have gone into that house, there was one person who did not go—one who, above all others, owed deceased some respect—and that is the prisoner; and unless you can wipe out the half-crown letter from your mind, you would have expected a man on those intimate terms with the poor woman to have gone and made some inquiries concerning her death. He did not go; he was at the Falcon Hotel at Huntingdon, and a telegram was sent telling him to fail not to be at the inquest.

"At the inquest he told a deliberate lie, for he swore he had never written to the woman, or sent her anything, or been on familiar terms with her. He had written to her, and if his letter did not prove familiar terms, there was no meaning in language.

"With regard to the prisoner's alleged handwriting on the packets and papers found under the woman's bed and elsewhere, I must point out to you that here is one on which is written, 'Take in a little water; it is quite harmless. Will come over in a day or two.'

"This was written on a buff paper, which Dr. Stevenson said must have contained 35 grains of strychnine, sufficient to kill thirty-five persons, and the direction written was, 'One dose; take as told.'

"These inscriptions were sworn to by experts as being in the prisoner's handwriting."

Here I pointed out the alleged resemblances in the characters of the letters, so that the jury might judge if the prisoner wrote them.

"If the prisoner wrote the words 'take as told,' you must ask yourselves the meaning of it.

"Also, you will ask whether it was not a little strange that the death occurred on that very Friday night when he said he would go over and see her. Again, the word 'harmless' is of the gravest character, seeing that within the folds of that paper were 35 grains of a deadly powder, which even for rat-powder would be mixed with something else.

"Again, as to motive, upon which so much stress has been laid by the defendant's counsel. If the prisoner had no motive, who else had? Is there a human being on earth who had ill-will towards her, or anything to gain by her death? The learned counsel carefully avoided suggesting any one; nor could he suggest that any one in the neighbourhood wrote the same handwriting as the prisoner. I will dismiss the theory that some one had imitated the prisoner's writing in order to do him an injury, and ask if you can see any reason for any one else giving the woman the powder.

"There is one fact beyond all dispute: in December the prisoner bought a shilling's worth of strychnine. He said he bought it for rats, but no one on the farm had been called to prove it. What has been done with the rest of the powder?

"Where was he on that Friday? His counsel said he could not prove an alibi. But if he was at Spaldwick after saying he was going to St. Neots to see this poor woman, he could have proved it.

"The prisoner's counsel said that the accused did not speak of the woman's murder after the inquest, and said it was not necessary; he did not understand the 'familiar jargon' of the Law Courts.

"The familiar jargon of the Law Courts, gentlemen, is not quite the phrase to use with reference to our judicial proceedings. The Law Courts are the bulwark of our liberties, our life, and our property. Our welfare would be jeopardized, indeed, if you dismiss what takes place in them as 'familiar jargon.'

"The question is whether the charge has been so reasonably brought home to the prisoner as to lead you in your consciences to believe that he is guilty. If so, it is your duty to God, your duty to society, and your duty to yourselves, to say so."

Such was the summing up that was arraigned by the humanitarian partisans of the prisoner. If a Judge may not deal with the fallacies of a defence by placing before the jury the true trend of the evidence, what other business has he on the Bench? And it was for thus clearly defining the issue that some one suggested a petition for a reprieve, on the ground that the evidence was purely circumstantial, and that my "summing up was against the weight of the evidence." Truly a strange thing that circumstances by themselves shall have no weight.

But there was another strange incident in this remarkable trial: the jury thanked me for the pains I had taken in the case. I told them I looked for no thanks, but was grateful, nevertheless.

I have learnt that the jury, on retiring, deposited every one on a slip of paper the word "Guilty" without any previous consultation—a sufficient indication of their opinion of the weight of the evidence.

This was the last case of any importance which I tried on circuit, and if any trial could show the value of circumstantial evidence, it was this one. It left the identity of the prisoner and the conclusion of fact demonstrable almost to mathematical certainty.

A supposed eye-witness might have said: "I saw him write the paper, and I saw him administer the poison." It would not have added to the weight of the evidence. The witness might have lied.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

A NIGHT AT NOTTINGHAM.

Ever since the establishment of itinerant justices, now considerably over seven hundred years, going circuit has been an interesting and important ceremony, attended with great pomp and circumstance. I had intended to give a sketch of my own drawing of this great function, but an esteemed friend, who is a lover of the picturesque, has sent me an interesting description of one of my own itineraries, and I insert it with the more pleasure because I could not describe things from his point of view, and even if I could, might lay myself open to the charge of being egotistical.

"When Sir Henry Hawkins stepped into the train with his marshal, he felt all the exuberance which a Judge usually experiences on going circuit.

"Going circuit is a pleasant diversion, and may be a delightful holiday when the weather is fine and cases few. I am not speaking of those northern towns where hard labour is the portion of the judicial personage from the time he opens the Commission to the moment when he turns his back upon his prison-house, but of rural Assize towns like Warwick and Bedford or Oakham, where the Judge takes his white gloves, smiles at the grand jury, congratulates them on the state of the calendar, and goes away to some nobleman's seat until such time as he is due to open the Commission in some other circuit paradise where crime does not enter.

"At Lincoln station on this present occasion there is a goodly crowd outside and in, some well dressed and some slatternly, some bareheaded out of respect to the Judge, and others of necessity, but all with a look of profoundest awe.

"But as they wait the arrival of the train, all hearts are beating to see the Judge. Alas for some of them! they will see him too soon and too closely.

"Most conspicuous is the fat and dignified coachman in a powdered wig and tam-o'-shanter cap, and the footman with the important calves. Clustered along the platform, and pushing their noses between the palisade fencing, seem gathered together all the little boys of Lincoln—that is to say, those who do not live at the top of Steep Hill; for on that sacred eminence, the Mount Zion of Lincolnshire, are the cloisters and the closes, where are situated the residences of Canons, Archdeacons, and other ecclesiastical divinities. The top of this mountain holds no communion with the bottom.

"On the platform—for the signal has been given that the judicial train is entering the station—ranged in due order are the Sheriff of Lincoln, in full robes, his chaplain in full canonicals, and a great many other worthy dignities, which want of space prevents my mentioning in detail. All are bareheaded, all motionless save those bosoms which heave with the excitement of the occasion.

"Although the chaplain and the Sheriff hold their hats in their hands, it is understood in a well-bred town like Lincoln there will be no cheers, only a deep, respectful silence.

"And so, amid a hush of expectation and a wondering as to whether it's Orkins, some saying one thing and some another, the train draws slowly in; a respectful porter, selected for the occasion, opens the door, and out leaps—Jack.

"Then bursts from the crowd a general murmur. 'There 'e is! See 'im, Bill!' cries one. 'There's Orkins! See 'im? There 'e is; that's Orkins behind that there long black devil!'

"He was wrong about the black devil, for it was the Sheriff's Chaplain, who will preach the Assize Sermon next Sunday in the Cathedral."

[A somewhat humorous scene once took place at Nottingham. An indefatigable worker on circuit, Sir Henry seemed to have the constitution of the Wandering Jew and the energy of radium. No doubt he had much more patience than was necessary, for it kept him sitting till the small hours of the morning, and jurors-in-waiting and attendants were asleep in all directions. He was the only one wide awake in court.

Even javelin-men fell asleep with their spears in their hands; the marshal dozed in his chair, ushers leaned against the pillars which supported the gallery, while witnesses rubbed their eyes and yawned as they gave their evidence.

A case of trifling importance was proceeding with as steady a pace as though an empire's fate, instead of a butcher's honour, were involved. One butcher had slandered another butcher.

The art of advocacy was being exercised between an Irishman and a Scotchman, which made the English language quite a hotch-potch of equivocal words and a babel of sounds.

The slander was one that seemed to shake the very foundations of butcherdom throughout the world—namely, an insinuation that the plaintiff had sold Australian mutton for Scotch beef; on the face of it an extraordinary allegation, although it had to find its way for the interpretation of a jury as to its meaning. Amidst this costly international wrangle the Judge kept his temper, occasionally cheering the combatants by saying in an interrogative tone, "Yes?" and in the meanwhile writing the following on a slip of paper which he handed to a friend:—

"GREAT PRIZE COMPETITION FOR PATIENCE.

Hawkins First prize. Job Honourable mention."

Much earlier in the evening an application had been made by way of finding out how far the Judge "would go," as the man tests the wheels of an express. Every wheel had a good ring. He was prepared for a long run. Every case was to be struck out if the parties were not there.

After a while a feeling of compunction seemed to come over him.

"One moment," said he, after the case in hand had proceeded for an hour or so. "This case seems as if it will occupy some time; it is the last but three of the common jury cases, and—I mean to say—if the gentlemen of the special jury like to go till—seven o'clock this evening, they may do so, or they may amuse themselves by sitting in court listening to this case."

There was a shuffling of feet and a murmur like that of bees.

"Gentlemen," he said, "do whatever will be most agreeable to yourselves. I only wish to consider your comfort and convenience."

"A damned pretty convenience," said a special juryman, "to be kept here all night!"

"Return punctually at seven, gentlemen, please; you are released till then."

Any person who knows Nottingham and has to spend in that city two weary hours, between 5 o'clock and 7 p.m., wandering up and down that vast market-place, will understand the state of mind to which those special jurymen were reduced when they indulged in audible curses.

There was, however, an element in this condition of things which his lordship had not taken into consideration, and that was the Bar.

Several members were unnecessarily detained by this order of the court. Their mess was at the George Hotel; at seven they must be in court or within its precincts; at seven they dined. They chose the precincts, and sending for their butler, ordered the mess to be brought to the vacant Judge's room, the second Judge having gone away.

At seven the mess was provided, and those who were not engaged in court sat down with a good appetite and a feeling of delightful exultation.

Meanwhile his lordship proceeded with his work, while the temperature was 84 deg.. Juries wiped their faces, and javelin-men leaned on their spears.

Now and then the sounds of revelry broke upon the ear as a door was opened.

At ten his lordship rose for a few moments, and on proceeding along the corridor towards his room for his cup of tea, several champagne bottles stood boldly in line before his eyes. He also saw two pairs of legs adorned with yellow stockings—legs of the Sheriff's footmen waiting to attend his lordship's carriage some hours hence.

The scene recalled the scenes of other days, and the old times of the Home Circuit came back. Should he adjourn and join the mess? No, no; he must not give way. He had his tea, and went back to court. He was not very well pleased with the cross-examination of the Irish advocate.

"Do you want the witness to contradict what he has said in your favour, Mr.——?"

"No, my lord."

"Why do you cross-examine, then?"

Now the catch of an old circuit song was heard.

"Call your next witness, Mr. Jones. Why was not this case tried in the County Court?"

(Sounds of revelry from the Bar mess-room.)

"Keep that door shut!"

"May the witnesses go in the third case after this, my lord?"

"I don't know how long this case will last. I am here to do the work of—"

("Jolly good fellow!" from the mess-room.)

"Keep that door shut!"

"What is your case, Mr.——?"

"It's slander, my lord—one butcher calling another a rogue; similar to the present case."

"Does he justify?"

"Oh no, my lord." It was now on the stroke of twelve.

"I don't know at what time your lordship proposes to rise."

"Renew your application by-and-by."

("We won't go home till morning!" from the mess-room.)

"Keep that door shut! How many more witnesses have you got, Mr. Williams?"

Mr. Williams, counting: "About—ten—eleven—"

"And you, Mr. Jones?"

"About the same number, my lord."

It was twenty minutes to one.

"I shall not sit any longer to oblige any one," said Sir Henry, closing his book with a bang.

The noise woke the usher, and soon after the blare of trumpets announced that the court had risen, as some wag said, until the day after yesterday.]



CHAPTER XXXVII.

HOW I MET AN INCORRIGIBLE PUNSTER.

As the Midland Circuit was perhaps my favourite, although I liked them all, there would necessarily be more to interest me there than on any other, and at our little quiet dinners, for which there was no special hour (it might be any time between eight o'clock in the evening or half-past one the next day), there were always pleasant conversations and amusing stories. With a large circle of acquaintances, I had learnt many things, sometimes to interest and sometimes to instruct. Although I never sat down to open a school of instruction, a man should not despise the humblest teaching, or he may be deficient in many things he should have a knowledge of.

There was once an old fox-hunting squire whose ambition was to be known as a punster. There never was a more good-natured man or a more genial host, and he would tell you of as many tremendous runs he had had as Herne the hunter. After-dinner runs are always fine.

The Squire loved to hunt foxes and make puns.

We were sitting on a five-barred gate one evening in his paddocks, and while I was admiring the yearlings, which were of great beauty, I suddenly saw looking over his left shoulder the most beautiful head of a thoroughbred I ever beheld, with her nose quite close to his ear.

"Halloa, my beauty!" said he. "What, Saltfish, let me see if I've a bit of sugar, eh, Saltfish?—sugar—is it?"

His hand dived into the capacious pocket of his shooting-coat and brought out a piece of sugar, which he gave to the mare, and then affectionately rubbed her nose.

"There, Saltfish—there you are; and now show us your heels."

I knew by his mentioning the mare's name so often that there was a pun in it, so I waited without putting any question. After a while he said (for he could contain his joke no longer),—

"Judge, do you know why I call her Saltfish?"

"Not the least idea," said I.

"Ha!" he explained, with a prodigious stare that almost shot his blue globular eyes out of his head: "because she is such a capital mare for a fast day! Ha, ha!"

Suddenly he stopped laughing from disappointment at my not seeing the joke. He repeated it—"fast day, fast day"—then glared at me, and his underlip fell. At last the old man tossed his head, and whipped his boot with his crop. I have no doubt I deprived that man of a great deal of happiness; for if anything is disappointing to a punster, it is not seeing his joke. He had not done with me yet, however, and before abandoning me as an incorrigible lunatic, asked if I would like to see Naples.

"Naples! By all means, but not at this time of year."

"Oh, I don't mean the town—no, no; but if you don't mind a little mud, I'll show you Naples. Come along this lane."

"Watercourse, you mean. I don't mind a little mud," said I; "it washes off, whoever throws it"—and I looked to see what he thought of that, knowing he would tell it at dinner.

"Good!" said he; "devilish good! Wash off, no matter who throws it—devilish good!"

Down we came off the gate, and through the mud we went, he leading with a fat chuckle.

"You don't see the joke, Hawkins—you don't see the joke about that fast day;" and he gave me another look with his great blue eyes.

I didn't know it was a joke; I thought it was the mare's name, and I heard him mutter "Damn!"

"This is the way," he said angrily. We seemed to travel through an interminable cesspool, but at last reached the open, and coming to another gate, he extended his arms on it, after the manner of a squire, and said,—

"There, there's Naples. Isn't she lovely?"

"Where?" I asked.

"There; and a prettier mare you never saw. Look at her!"

"She's a beauty—a real beauty!" I exclaimed.

He breathed rather short, and I felt easy. His manner, especially the distending of his cheeks, showed me that he was about to bring forth something—a pun of some sort.

"Do you know," he asked, with another turn of his eyes, "why I call her Naples?"

"No, I haven't the faintest idea. Naples? no."

"Well," he said, "I've puzzled a good many. I may say nobody has ever guessed it. I call that mare Naples because she's such a beautiful bay."

I was glad I was not sitting on the gate, for I might have fallen and broken my neck. As I felt his eyes staring at me I preserved a dignified composure, and had the satisfaction of hearing him mutter again, "Damn!"

"This is our way," said he.

I have no doubt he thought me the dullest fool he ever came near.

Our adventures were not ended. We went on over meadow and stile until we came to "The Park," a tract of land of great beauty and with trees of superb growth. He was sullen and moody, like one whose nerves had failed him when a covey rose.

I saw it coming—his last expiring effort. In the distance was a beautiful black mare, such as might have carried Dick Turpin from London to York. He was watching to see if I observed her, but I did not.

"Look," he said, in his most coaxing manner, "don't you see that mare yonder—down there by the spinny?"

"What," I said, "on the left?"

"Down there! There—no, a little to the right. Look! There she is."

"Oh, to be sure, a pretty animal."

"Pretty! Why, there's no better bred animal in the kingdom. She's by —— out of ——."

"She ought to win the Oaks."

"Come, now, isn't she superb?"

"A glory. A novelist would call her a dream."

"Ah, I thought you would say so. You know what a horse is."

"When I see one," I said. "I thought you said this was a mare."

This is what the Squire thought,—

"Well, of all the dull devils I ever met, you are the most utterly unappreciative!"

He was at his wits' end, although you must be clever if you can perceive the wits' end of a punster.

"That's Morning Star," said he. "Now do you know why I call her Morning Star?"

I answered truthfully I did not.

"Why," he said, with a merry laugh, "because she's a roarer."

"What a pity!" I exclaimed. "But I don't wonder at it if she has to carry you and your jokes very far."

He took it in good part, and we had a pleasant evening at the Hall. He discharged a good many other puns, which I am glad to say I have forgotten. But there was a man present who was a good story-teller. Some I had heard before, but they were none the less welcome, while one or two I related were as good as new to my host and old Squire Fullerton, who had once been High Sheriff, and was supposed to know all about circuit business. He prefaced almost everything he said with, "When I was High Sheriff," so I asked him innocently enough how many times he had been High Sheriff, on which my host, being a quick-witted man, looked at him with a broad grin, while he balanced the nutcrackers on his forefinger.

"Well," said Fullerton, "it was in Parke's time."

"Yes; but which of them?" I asked. "Are you alluding to Sir Alan? They did not both come together, surely."

"Now, lookee, Fullerton," said my old friend, tapping the mahogany with the nutcrackers, as though he was about to say something remarkably clever; "one of 'em, Jemmy, had a kind of a cast in one of his eyes—didn't he, Judge?"

"Yes," said I; "but their names were not spelt alike."

"No, no!" cried the squire; "I'm coming to that. One eye was a little troublesome at times, I believe—at least they said so in my time when I was High Sheriff—and that made him a little ill-tempered at times. Now, that Judge's name was spelt P-a-r-k-e" (tapping every letter with his nutcrackers), "so the Bar used to call him 'Parke with an "e";' and what do you think they used to call the other, whose name was Park?—Come, now, Judge, you can guess that."

I suppose I shook my head, for he said, "Why, you told me the story yourself four years ago—ah! it must be five years ago—at this very table, when old Squire Hawley had laid two thousand on Jannette for the Leger. 'This is it,' said you; 'they call one of them Parke with an "e," and the other Park with an "i."'"

"Very well," I said, after they had done laughing at the way in which my host had caught me; "now I'll tell you what the Duke of Wellington said one morning. You recollect his Grace met with an accident and lost an eye, which was kept in spirits of wine. On asking him how he was, the Duke answered,—

"'Oh, Lord Cairns asked me yesterday the same question; and I said, "I am rather depressed, but I believe my eye is in pretty good spirits."'"



CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE TILNEY STREET OUTRAGE—"ARE YOU NOT GOING TO PUT ON THE BLACK CAP, MY LORD?"

One evening, while sitting with some friends in Tilney Street, there was one of the most tremendous explosions ever heard. It seemed as if the world was blown up. But as nothing happened, we did not leave the room, and went on with the conversation.

It was not until the next day it was ascertained that an attempt had been made to blow in Reginald Brett's front door, which was a few houses off, and that it had been perpetrated by some Fenians, whose friends had been awarded penal servitude for life for a similar outrage with dynamite. Why their anger was directed against Mr. Reginald Brett—a most peaceful and excellent man—it was difficult to say, for he was very kind-hearted, and, above all, the son of the Master of the Rolls, who never tried prisoners at all, only counsel.

Having made inquiries the next morning—I don't know of whom, there were such a number of people in Tilney Street—I was astonished to hear some one say, "They meant to pay you that visit, Sir Henry."

"Then they knocked at the wrong door," said I.

The stranger seemed to know me, and I had a little further conversation with him. It turned out he was a Chancery barrister, and a friend of Brett's.

"Why," I asked, "do you think they meant the visit for me?"

"Well," he answered, "it was."

"If it was intended for me," I replied, "I can only say they, were most ungrateful, for I gave their friends all I could."

"Yes—penal servitude for life."

"Very well," I added; "if they think they'll frighten me by blowing in Reginald Brett's front door, they are very much deceived."

Lord Esher, I believe, always considered that he was the object of this attack, and as I had no wish to disturb so comforting an idea, took no further notice, and the Fenians took no further notice of me. Years after, however, my name was mentioned in Parliament in connection with this case; nor was my severity called in question.

There were no more explosions in Tilney Street, but a singular circumstance occurred, which placed me in a position, if I had desired it, to deprive Lord Esher of the satisfaction of believing that he was the object of so much Fenian attention. But if it was a comfort to him or a source of pride, I did not see why I should take it away.

A reverend father of the Roman Church told me that a long while ago a man in confession made a statement which he wished the priest to communicate to me. It was under the seal of confession, and he refused, as he was bound to do, to mention a word. The man persisted in asking him, and he as persistently declined.

Some considerable time, however, having elapsed, the same man went to the priest, not to confess, but to repeat his request in ordinary conversation. This the father could have no objection to, and the culprit told him that he had undertaken to throw the bomb at the front door of Number 5, but that through having in the gas-light misread the figure, he had placed it against that of Number 2. He begged the priest as a great favour to assure me on his word that the bomb was certainly intended for me, and not for Brett.

On this subject the Kent Leader had some interesting remarks on the anarchists as well as their Judge.

"Speaking of dynamite," it said, "we have serious cause for alarm in our free land. The wretches concerned in the abominable outrage of Tuesday last cannot be too severely dealt with. It is evident that their intent was against Justice Hawkins, and the fact that Sir Henry was the presiding Judge at the recent anarchists' trial points the connection between the outrage and other anarchists....

"Justice Hawkins has been spoken of as a harsh Judge. Ever since the 'Penge mystery' trial many have termed him the hanging Judge. We have sat under him on many eventful occasions, and venture the opinion that no one who has had equal opportunity would come to any other conclusion than that he was painstaking and careful to a degree, and particularly in criminal cases formed one of the most conscientious Judges on the Bench. Hanging Judge! Why, we have seen the tears start to his eyes when sentencing a prisoner to death, and, owing to emotion, only by a masterful effort could his voice be heard. Above all, he is a just Judge."

[Many persons were not aware, and thousands are not at the present time, that when a verdict of "Wilful murder" is pronounced a Judge has no alternative but to read the prescribed sentence of death. If this were not so, the situation would be almost intolerable, for who would not avoid, if possible, deciding that the irrevocable doom of the prisoner should be delivered? In many cases the feelings of the Judges would interfere with the course of justice, and murderers would receive more sympathy than their victims, while fiends would escape to the danger of society.

And yet that Judges have sympathy, and that it can be, and is, in these days properly exercised, the following story will testify. I give the story as Lord Brampton told it.]

In a circuit town a poor woman was tried before me for murdering her baby. The facts were so simple that they can be told in a few words. Her baby was a week old, and the poor woman, unable to sustain the load of shame which oppressed her, ran one night into a river, holding the baby in her arms. She had got into the water deep enough to drown the baby, while her own life was saved by a boatman.

The scene was sad enough as she stood under a lamp and looked into the face of the policeman, clutching her dead child to her breast, and refusing to part with it.

At the trial there was no defence to the charge of wilful murder except one, and that I felt it my duty to discountenance. I think the depositions were handed to a young barrister by my order, and that being so, I exercised my discretion as to the mode of defence. In other words, I defended the prisoner myself.

In order to avoid the sentence that would have followed an acquittal on the ground of insanity, which would have entailed perhaps lifelong imprisonment, I took upon myself to depart from the usual course, and ask the jury whether, without being insane in the ordinary sense, the woman might not have been at the time of committing the deed in so excited a state as not to know what she was doing.

I thus avoided the technical form of question sane or insane, and obtained a verdict of guilty, but that the woman at the time was not answerable for her conduct, together with a strong recommendation to mercy. This verdict, if not according to the strictest legal quibbling, was according to justice.

I was about to pronounce sentence in accordance with the law, which it was not possible for me to avoid, however much my mind was inclined to do so, when the pompous old High Sheriff, all importance and dignity, said,—

"My lord, are you not going to put on the black cap?"

"No," I answered, "I am not. I do not intend the poor creature to be hanged, and I am not going to frighten her to death."

Addressing her by name, I said, "Don't pay any attention to what I am going to read. No harm will be done to you. I am sure you did not know in your great trouble and sorrow what you were doing, and I will take care to represent your case so that nothing will harm you in the way of punishment."