This made the first impression on my mind, and I knew there _must_ be something beneath it which only _he_ could explain. I waited patiently. It was much more than life and death to this man.

The next thing that impressed me was that there was not the least confusion in his evidence or in himself. His tone, his language, could only be the result of conscious innocence.

It was not very long before I gathered that he was the victim of a cruel and cowardly conspiracy. It was absolutely a case of _blackmailing, and nothing else_.

I believed every word the man said, and so did the jury. His evidence _acquitted him_. He was saved from an ignominious doom by the new Act, and from that moment I went heart and soul with it: however much it may be a danger to the guilty, it is of the utmost importance to the innocent.

This case was not finished without a little touch of humour. When half-past seven arrived--an hour on circuit at which I always considered it too early to adjourn--the jury thought it looked very like an "all-night sitting," although I had no such intention, and one of their body or of the Bar, I forget which, raised the question on a motion for the adjournment of the house.

I was asked, I know, by some impatient member of the Bar whether a case in which _he_ was engaged could not go over till the morning.

This gave immense encouragement to an independent juryman, who evidently was determined to beard the lion in his den, and possibly shake off "the dewdrops of his British indignation."

I never believed in British lions, except on his Majesty's quarterings; and although they look very formidable in heraldry, I never found them so in fact. Indeed, if the British lion was ever a native of the British Isles, he must have become extinct, for I have never heard so much as an imitation growl from him except in Hyde Park on a Sunday.

The British lion, however, in this case seemed to a.s.sert himself in the jury-box, and rising on his hind legs, said in a husky voice, which appeared to come from some concealed cupboard in his bosom,--

"My lord!"

"Yes?" I said in my blandest manner.

"My lord, this 'ere ---- is a little bit stiff, my lord, with all respect for your lordship."

"What is that, sir?"

"Why, my lord, I've been cramped up in this 'ere narrer box for fourteen hours, and the seat's that hard and the back so straight up that now I gets out on it I ain't got a leg to stand on."

"I'm sorry for the chair," I said.

He was a very thick-set man, and the whole of the jury burst into a laugh. Then he went on, with tears in his eyes,--

"My lord, when I went home last night arter sittin' here so many hours I couldn't sleep a wink."

I could not help saying,--

"Then it is no use going to bed; we may as well finish the business."

That was all very well for him, but another juryman arose, amidst roars of laughter, and lifted up a hard, wooden-bottomed chair, and beat it with his heavy walking-stick.

The chair was perfectly indifferent to the treatment it was receiving after supporting the juryman for so many hours without the smallest hope of any reward, and I then asked,--

"Is that to keep order, sir?"

The excitement continued for a long time, but at last it subsided, and I suggested a compromise.

I said probably the gentlemen in the next case would not speak for more than one hour each, and if they would agree to this I would undertake to sum up in _five minutes_.

The husky lion sat down, and so did the musician. The jury acquitted and went home.

These are some of the caprices of a jury which a Judge has sometimes to put up with, and it has often been said that Judges are more tried than prisoners. Perhaps that is so, especially when, if they do not get the kind of rough music I have mentioned from the jury-box, they sometimes receive a by no means complimentary address from the prisoner. One occurs to my mind, with which I will close this chapter.

I had occasion to sentence to death a soldier for a cruel murder by taking the life of his sergeant. It was at Winchester, and after I had uttered the fatal words the culprit turned savagely towards me, and in a loud, gruff voice cried, "Curse you!"

I made no remark, and the man was removed to the cells. Very humanely the chaplain went to the prisoner and endeavoured to bring him to a proper state of mind with regard to his impending fate.

On the day appointed for the execution I received by post a long letter from the clergyman, enclosing another written on prison paper.

The letter was to tell me that for ten days he could make no impression on the condemned man; but on the tenth or twelfth day he expressed his sincere sorrow that he had cursed me for pa.s.sing on him the sentence he had so well deserved, and his great desire was to make a humble apology to me in person. He was told that that was impossible, as I could not come to him, nor could he go to me.

Whereupon he begged to be allowed to write this humble apology. This he was permitted to do, and the letter from the culprit, who was hanged that morning, I was reading at the very moment of his execution. It contained, I believe, sincere expressions of contrition for the cruel deed he had done, but was mostly taken up with apologies to me for having cursed me after advising him to prepare for the doom that awaited him. He begged my forgiveness, which, I need not say, I freely gave.

CHAPTER XLVII

A FAREWELL MEMORY OF JACK.

Poor little Jack is dead!

It is a real grief to me. A more intelligent, faithful, and affectionate creature never had existence, and to him I have been indebted for very many of the happiest hours of my life.

Poor dear little Jack! he lived with me for many years; and at last, I believe, some miscreant poisoned him, for he was taken very ill with symptoms of strychnine, and died in a few hours in the early morning of May 24, 1894. I was with him when he died.

I never replaced him, and to this hour have never ceased to be sad when I think of the merciless and cruel fate by which the ruffian put an end to his dear little life.

He was buried under some shrubs in Hyde Park, where I hope he sleeps the sleep of good affectionate dogs.

It is ten years ago, and yet there is no abatement of my love for him, hardly any of my sorrow. He always occupied the best seat in the Sheriff's carriage on circuit, and looked as though he felt it was his right. He slept by my side on a little bed of his own. At Norwich, I think, he made his first appearance in state. The moment he entered the house he appropriated to himself the chair of state, which had been provided by the local upholsterer for the express use of Queen Alexandra, then Princess of Wales, on her first visit to Norwich to confer honour and happiness on Queen Victoria's subjects in the eastern counties.

n.o.body, however, molested Jack in his seat, and, I believe, had it been one of the seats for the county there would have been no pet.i.tion to disturb him. He would have been as faithful a member as the immortal Toby, M.P. for Barkshire, of Mr. Punch, to whom ever my best regards. Jack considered himself ent.i.tled to precedence wherever he went, and maintained it. He was a famous judge of upholstery, and the softest chair or sofa, hearthrug or divan, was instantly appropriated.

This sometimes made the local dignitaries sit up a little. They might be accustomed to the dignity of one of her Majesty's Judges, but the impudence of her Majesty's "Jack"--for so he deemed himself on circuit--was a little beyond their aldermanic natures.

I was much and agreeably surprised to find that the Press everywhere sympathized with my loss of Jack, and many an extract I made containing their very kind remarks. My room might have been one of Romeike's cutting-rooms. Here is one I will give as a sample. I am sorry I cannot positively state the name of the journal, but I am almost sure it is from the _Daily Telegraph_.

"An item of judicial intelligence, which may not everywhere be duly appreciated, is the death of Mr. Justice Hawkins's fox terrier Jack. Jack has been his lordship's most constant friend for many years. With some masters such a useful dog as he was would have found going on circuit a bore; but with Sir Henry Hawkins, who knows what kind of life suits a dog, and likes to see that he enjoys it, going on circuit was a career of adventure. The Judge was always out betimes to give Jack a long morning walk, and when his duties took him to small county towns he often rose with the farmers for no other purpose."

Here is another paragraph; and I should like to be able to give the writer's name, for it is very pleasant at all times to find expression of true love for animals, whose devotion and faithfulness to man endear them to us:--

"Sir Henry Hawkins has my sincere sympathy in his great bereavement. Jack, the famous fox terrier who accompanied his master everywhere, is dead. Innumerable are the things told of Jack's devotion to Sir Henry, and of Sir Henry's devotion to Jack.

I first made their acquaintance at Worcester Railway Station some years ago, when I saw Jack marching solemnly in the procession of officials who had come with wands and staves and javelins to receive Sir Henry Hawkins at the opening of the a.s.sizes. Jack was on one or two special occasions, I believe, accommodated with a seat on the Bench; and at Maidstone, when the lodgings caught fire, Sir Henry rushed back at the risk of his life to save his faithful little dog."

These are small memories, perhaps, but to me more dear than the praises too often unworthily bestowed on actions unworthy to be recorded.

But here I pause. Jack rests in his little grave in Hyde Park, and I sometimes go and look on the spot where he lies. Many and many an affectionate letter was written to me bewailing the loss of our little friend.

Only one of these I shall particularly mention, because it shows how immeasurably superior was Jack to the lady who wrote it, in that true and sincere feeling which we call friendship, and which, to my mind, is the bond of society and the only security for its well-being.

She was a lady who belonged to what is called "Society," the characteristic of which is that it exists not only independently of friendship, but in spite of it.