THE BAR
While this journalistic work was in its earliest stages, I was still
seriously engaged in trying to fit myself for work at the Bar. My
earlier knowledge of the Law had been gained under the tutorship of
Professor Stewart Brice, who had successfully prepared me for my
examination at the London University. And now, during the last six
months of my studentship, I read in chambers with Charles Crompton, who
was a prosperous Junior of the Northern Circuit. Charles Crompton had
taken high honours at Cambridge, and was an accomplished lawyer; but his
gift of speech was small, and would always have left him unfit for the
higher honours of leadership. It was through his influence that I was
elected as Junior to the Northern Circuit, which then covered a larger
area than is assigned to it now. When I was Junior the towns visited
included Appleby, Durham, Newcastle, Carlisle, Lancaster, Manchester,
and Liverpool, and until I began to feel the pinch of the great expense
which these Circuit tours involved, I keenly enjoyed every hour of the
time in which, by my patient presence in the Courts, I was endeavouring
to master the principles of the Law.
But before I joined the Circuit, I had already received my first brief
from a cousin who was desirous of encouraging me in my new career. I was
to appear in the Divorce Court in an undefended case, and my cousin
endeavoured to stiffen my nerves for the ordeal by assuring me that the
proceedings would be merely formal and the verdict would follow as a
matter of course.
It was before Lord Penzance that the trial took place, and when the
pleadings had been opened and I had made the statement that the case was
undefended, a voice from the well of the Court retorted in acrid tones,
“I beg your pardon!” and then a little man rose whom I gathered, in my
confusion, to be the respondent. My amazement and dismay are beyond
words to describe, and if it had not been for the Judge, who realised
the situation and came to my rescue, I think my first brief would have
been my last.
As Junior of the Circuit I was brought into close contact with some of
the greatest advocates of the time--Holker, Russell, Herschell, Sam
Pope, among the leaders; Gully, Henn Collins, Bigham, and a host of
others of the Junior Bar who have since risen to distinction. The
present Lord Justice Kennedy joined the Circuit at the same time as
myself and we shared our lodgings in several of the northern towns.
The post of Junior rather attracted me. According to tradition, that
officer is supposed to represent the interests of the Junior Bar, and it
is recognised as part of his duty on every occasion that offers that he
should keep in check the superior pretensions of the Queen’s Counsel.
As Junior also I was one of the recognised spokesmen for the Circuit on
the occasion of all public banquets and entertainments; and I remember
that it was at a dinner given by the late Lord Armstrong in his capacity
as High Sheriff of the County, a dinner served in the great
banqueting-hall at Jesmond Dene, the walls of which were richly
decorated with many important examples of modern art, that I made my
first essay as a public speaker.
But what interested me most keenly at the time was the opportunity which
the daily working of the Courts afforded of appreciating and
distinguishing the great talents of the men who then graced the Circuit.
The first who won my admiration, and it was not wonderful, was Charles
Russell, and I remember, in the constant discussions which occupied the
Junior end of our table at the evening mess, I always stoutly maintained
that he would prove the greatest advocate in England.
He already possessed that dominating personality which was felt by Judge
and Counsel alike, and an instance of his imperious temper came to me
very early in our acquaintance. Though I had seen and admired him
constantly in Court, I had not been introduced to him till I met him one
evening in the rooms of Mr. M‘Connell in the Adelphi Hotel, Liverpool.
Russell was always a keen cardplayer, though I am assured by those who
are better able to judge, a player not distinguished by any exceptional
skill. There were four of us present that evening, and Russell at once
insisted that the table should be brought out for a rubber of whist. I
nervously explained to him that I knew scarcely anything of the game,
but my objection was curtly overborne in a manner that left me no
alternative. By an unhappy fate Russell cut me as a partner, and the
blunders which I had clearly foreseen must occur, endured at first with
some semblance of equanimity, at last ended in an explosion of rebuke
that only made the more inevitable a series of even worse blunders in
the game to follow.
By this time Russell had lost all patience, and, to say the truth, so
had I, and with a courage and audacity, which I certainly could not have
exhibited had I then known him better, I pointed out to him that the
fault was his own, that I had warned him of my incompetence, and yet in
the face of that confession he had forced me to join in the game.
To my utter amazement he became suddenly gentle and self-controlled, and
said, “Yes, yes, you’re right. I had forgotten that. I had no business
to speak to you like that.”
Other instances of Russell’s commanding personality, though they belong
to a later time, come back to me now.
During the progress of the famous Belt trial, through the kindness of
Sir George Lewis I one day found my way into Court; but I had scarcely
taken my seat when Russell, with an imperious gesture, beckoned me to
his side. “Carr,” he said, “you know about Art?” and before I knew
whither his statement tended I found myself in the witnessbox
confronted with the two test busts on which the issue in the case mainly
depended.
The last time we met in public was on the occasion of a dinner to be
given to Sir Henry Irving on his return from America, when Sir Charles
Russell was in the chair. As I entered the anteroom where the guests
were assembled Russell took me by the lapel of my coat and drew me
aside. “You ought to be doing this,” he said. “You _can_ do this sort of
thing; I can’t.”
That portion of the statement which concerns himself was, at any rate,
partly true. Russell was never quite at home in these lighter ways of
oratory. It needed the pressure of a great issue to exhibit his powers
of eloquence at their best, and even in the House of Commons I fancy he
never quite justified his unrivalled position at the Bar.
But in that special gift of eloquence that makes for power in advocacy
there was surely no man of his time who could claim to be his equal.
Within the arena of the Court his personality imposed itself; in the
stress of conflict it could even be menacing. It exercised its influence
upon the jury; it was not unfelt upon the Bench. Like all great
advocates, he was at his best when the gravity of the issue summoned all
his resources. He was only fully inspired when his individuality was
fully and deeply engaged, and for that he needed the spur of something
definite, concrete, and individual. His gifts of oratory were
conspicuous. In those northern Circuit days I used constantly to notice
a greater freedom and picturesqueness of gesture, a more complete
surrender to a mood of passionate utterance than any of his fellows
could command. These things were his in virtue of his birthright as an
Irishman. But they were not at his service upon an issue that was coldly
intellectual or remotely abstract. There was in his nature that purely
combative element that could only find its full expression in the battle
of litigation; the clash of ideas left him comparatively cold: he was so
far an artist that he needed to be moved and stirred by facts that were
moulded into a definite story of individual fortunes--then, and only
then, the full force of his personality came into play. At such moments
his strength far outmeasured the weight of gifts that were merely
intellectual; such gifts, however considerable, were then enforced by
qualities of character and even of temper very difficult to define but
still more difficult to resist.
In after years he once told me that his habit had always been to prepare
his cases chronologically. He wanted to know what was missing in the
story he had to tell, to be prepared in anticipation for any surprise
coming from the other side that might suddenly be brought to fill the
vacant gaps in his own narrative. And this simple process of preparation
showed itself in his methods as an advocate. His power of presenting his
case had something of the charm a story-teller can command. It was
always lucid, direct, and consecutive, never halting or confused. Sir
William Gilbert once told me that on a certain occasion he was in Court
listening to his own counsel opening to the jury the story of his own
case. He said he was charmed, by the interest of the narrative as it
was gradually developed, and that the only criticism that occurred to
him was that the substance of the speech bore no relation to the
contention he had come into Court to establish. Such a reproach, I
think, could never at any period in his career have been made against
the late Lord Russell.
I did not at first recognise that Russell had in his constant opponent,
John Holker, a man of intellectual power, as great, or perhaps even
greater, than his own. Holker had little of the grace that Russell could
boast; his personality was outwardly heavy and uncouth; his language,
rarely eloquent, was sometimes even rough and halting. But in his grasp
of every case presented to him, and in his power of imposing the view he
sought to uphold upon a northern jury, even Russell was not his equal. A
man of great physique, in person cumbrous and heavy, and in facial
expression unalert and uninspiring, he sometimes gave to his hearers
rather the impression of a giant talking in his sleep.
But as I watched him from day to day, it very soon became convincingly
clear to me that the giant was there. He seemed to notice nothing, and
yet nothing escaped him. His method of appeal to the jury had something
almost of cunning in its apparent helplessness.
Even when he was nearing success, and the verdict was within his grasp,
he still retained the air of a man whose cause was in danger owing to
his inferior grace of style and his halting powers of eloquence. He had
that persuasive art of convincing the jury that he was a plain man like
themselves, and that the cause of justice was likely to suffer by
reason of the superior intellectual attainments of his opponents, unless
he and they laid their heads together as plain men, and stood shoulder
to shoulder in earnest endeavour to vindicate the right.
It was only afterwards that I got to know that beneath this heavy and
impenetrable exterior there lurked a keen and supple sense of humour. On
the occasion of the annual Grand Night the leader who presided did not
always take the personal trouble to invent or devise the sort of
burlesque address interspersed with lyrical effusions which was deemed
appropriate and indispensable. I remember my friends, the late Mr.
M‘Connell and Hugh Shield, who was known as the laureate of the Circuit,
very often came to the assistance of the leader who felt himself
unequipped for this lighter task imposed upon him.
But when it came to Holker’s turn, despite the fact that he was engaged
on nearly every case sent up for trial, he chose to do the whole
himself, and very admirably it was done.
Herschell’s intellect differed widely from both. In power of logical
statement, in clear and coherent reasoning, and in the ability to
conduct an argument without a flaw from start to finish, he was
certainly not the inferior of either. But his nature on the emotional
side, as far at least as advocacy was concerned, was poorly furnished.
He lacked the warmth to sway a jury. He was unable to realise any
disability in others that he did not possess in himself, and the
consequence was that he had often concluded his address to the jury
before these unfortunate gentlemen had apprehended the essential
features of the case he was trying to enforce. And for this reason his
appeal as an advocate was far less potent than that of either of his two
great rivals. The cold steel of his intellect never reached white heat.
His eloquence lacked the picturesque adornments which in their different
ways they could both command, and in this respect he stood in even more
striking contrast with Sam Pope, who, in a brief flight of advocacy,
once or twice impressed me more than them all.
The duties of the Junior of the Circuit sometimes placed me in somewhat
ludicrous conflict with authority, and it happened that on my first
Circuit I was forced, as the spokesman of the Bar, into a somewhat
heated controversy with the Attorney-General, the late Lord Coleridge.
Charles Russell had been sent by the Crown with a special retainer to
prosecute Mrs. Cotton, the notorious murderess who had poisoned a number
of her nieces and nephews for the sake of small village insurances she
had effected on their lives. This aroused the indignation of the Bar at
Durham, who thought that Mr. Aspinall, who held the position of
Attorney-General for the County, was entitled to the brief. And it was
Herschell who prompted me in the letters of protest which I was
instructed to send to Lord Coleridge, and which were afterwards
published in the _Times_.
That same trial of Mrs. Cotton stands out vividly in my remembrance from
among the many criminal cases which I have witnessed in the Courts. I
remember Russell telling me afterwards that the several cases actually
proved against her, amounting, I think, to five or six, were only a few
from among many others in which her guilt was equally assured; and yet,
during her trial, this elderly woman, who in appearance resembled rather
a comfortable monthly nurse, never evinced the smallest trace of emotion
or concern.
It was proved that she had sat up night after night assiduously nursing
her victims, as, one after another, they succumbed to the poison she had
administered. And yet it was only when her advocate, whose case from the
first was hopeless, endeavoured to appeal to the jury by a purely
fanciful picture of her constant affection for these helpless children,
that Mrs. Cotton--moved rather, as it would seem, by the artistic skill
of his eloquence than by any deeper feeling--shed a few tears such as
might have been wrung from a spectator at a play.
My own experiences as a barrister are too slight to deserve any record.
Mainly through the kindly influence of Charles Crompton I appeared in
one or two civil causes, but these were before an arbitrator and not in
open court. Once, and once only, I was entrusted with a brief to defend
a person who was accused of having stolen a moth-eaten pillow from a
passing barrow containing the household effects of a neighbour who was
shifting her quarters.
I was assured by my friends on Circuit that had I chosen to pursue my
career I should have made an effective advocate. But the expenses
incident to this side of my calling were already beginning to press
heavily upon me; and as I was then almost entirely dependent on what I
could earn for myself, I rather grudged the constant drain upon my
income as a journalist which my life at the Bar involved; and when in
the month of July 1873 I became engaged to be married, I quickly
perceived that the only speedy prospect of making a home for my wife was
to devote the whole of my energies to literature and journalism, in
which I had already made a successful start.
But the profession of the Law, so eagerly adopted and so speedily
abandoned, has always had for me a strong fascination, and among its
professors, both past and present, I have counted many of my closest
friends.
[Illustration:
_Emery Walker_
DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI
From the portrait by himself in the National Portrait Gallery.
_To face page 59._
]