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

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

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

"Why, Mr. Hawkins," said he, "you seem to be in almost everything.

What a fortune you must be piling up!"

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

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

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

He never had.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They were all in the name of Lord ----.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE PRIZE-FIGHT ON FRIMLEY COMMON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again I advised, as was my duty, that he should scrupulously regard the dignity of the Bench, and show the greatest respect to the learned Judge who presided; that he ought not to come in a disgraceful costume if he could help it, but appear as becomingly attired as possible.

That was all I said. Let me also observe, what perhaps there is no occasion to say, that I impressed upon the attorney that his client should abstain from any appearance of attempting to deceive the Judge, and informed him, as the fact was, that his lordship was scrupulously particular in all points of etiquette and decorum. Moreover, I added as a last word, "The Judge is too shrewd to be taken in."

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

This was, as nearly as I can remember, all that took place between us.

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

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

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

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