ARISING OUT OF THE "ORSINI AFFAIR."
The "Orsini Affair" was one of high treason and murder. It was the
attempt on the part of a band of conspirators to murder Napoleon III.
In order to accomplish this _political_ object, they exploded a bomb
as nearly under his Majesty's carriage as they could manage, but
instead of murdering the Emperor they killed a policeman.
Orsini was captured, tried, and executed in the good old French
fashion. His political career ended with the guillotine--a sharp
remedy, but effective, so far as he was concerned.
One Dr. Simon Bernard was more fortunate than his principal, for he
was in England, the refuge of discontented foreign murderers, who try
to do good by stealth, and sometimes feel very uncomfortable when they
find that it turns out to be assassination.
Bernard was a brother conspirator in this famous Orsini business, and
being apprehended in England, was taken to be tried before Lord Chief
Justice Campbell, Edwin James and myself being retained for the
defence.
There was no defence on the facts, and no case on the law. He was
indicted for conspiracy with Orsini to murder the Emperor in Paris.
I had prepared a very elaborate and exhaustive argument in favour of
the prisoner, on the law, and had little doubt I could secure his
acquittal; but the facts were terribly strong, and we knew well enough
if the jury convicted, Campbell would hang the prisoner, for he never
tolerated murder. With this view of the case, we summoned Dr. Bernard
to a consultation, which was held in one of the most ghastly rooms of
Newgate.
No more miserable place could be found outside the jail, and it could
only be surpassed in horror by one within. It might have been, and
probably was, an anteroom to hell, but of that I say nothing. I leave
my description, for I can do no more justice to it. The only cheerful
thing about it was Dr. Bernard himself. He was totally unconcerned
with the danger of his situation, and regarded himself as a hero of
the first order. Murder, hanging, guillotine--all seemed to be the
everyday chances of life, and to him there was nothing sweeter or more
desirable, if you might judge by his demeanour.
I thought it well to mention the fact that, if the jury found him
guilty, Lord Campbell would certainly sentence him to death. He
exhibited no emotion whatever, but shrugging his shoulders after the
manner of a Frenchman who differed from you in opinion, said,--
"Well, if I am hanged, I must be hanged, that is all."
With a man like him it was impossible to argue or ask for
explanations. He seemed to be possessed with the one idea that to
remedy all the grievances of the State it was merely necessary to blow
up the Emperor with his horses and carriage, and coolly informed us,
without the least reserve, that the bombs manufactured with this
political object had been sent over to Paris from England concealed
in firkins of butter. I can find no words in which to express my
feelings.
So ended our first consultation. The "merits" of the case were gone;
there was no defence. But whatever might be our opinion on Dr.
Bernard's state of mind, we could not abandon him to his fate. We
were retained to defend him, and defend him we must, even in spite of
himself, if we could do so consistently with our professional honour
and duty.
Accordingly we had another consultation, and as I have said there was
one other room in England more ghastly than that where we held our
first interview, so now I reluctantly introduce you to it.
If a man about to be tried for his life could look on this apartment
and its horrors unmoved, he would certainly be a fit subject for the
attentions of the hangman, and deserving of no human sympathy. It was
enough to shake the nerves of the hangman himself.
We were in an apartment on the north-east side of the quadrangular
building, where the sunshine never entered. Even daylight never came,
but only a feeble, sickening twilight, precursor of the grave itself.
It was not merely the gloom that intensified the horrors of the
situation, or the ghastly traditions of the place, or the impending
fate of our callous client; but there was a tier of shelves occupying
the side of the apartment, on which were placed in dismal prominence
the plaster-of-Paris busts of all the malefactors who had been hanged
in Newgate for some hundred years.
No man can look attractive after having been hanged, and the
indentation of the hangman's rope on every one of their necks, with
the mark of the knot under the ear, gave such an impression of
all that can be conceived of devilish horror as would baffle the
conceptions of the most morbid genius.
Whether these things were preserved for phrenological purposes or for
the gratification of the most sanguinary taste, I never knew, but they
impressed me with a disgust of the brutal tendency of the age.
Dr. Bernard, however, seemed to take a different view. Probably he was
scientific. He went up to them, and examined, as it seemed, every
one of these ghastly memorials with an interest which could only be
scientific. It did not seem to have occurred to his brain that _his_
head would probably be the next to adorn that repository of criminal
effigies.
He was in charge of a warder, and looked round with the utmost
composure, as though examining the Caesars in the British Museum, and
was as interested as any fanatical fool of a phrenologist. He shrugged
his shoulders, raised his eyebrows, and repeated his old formula,
"Well, if I am to be hanged, I must be hanged."
_He was acquitted_. My elaborate arguments on the law were not
necessary, for the jury actually refused to believe the evidence as to
the facts!
Such are the chances of trial by jury!
As a relief to this gloomy chapter I must tell you of a distinguished
Judge who had to sentence a dishonest butler for robbing his master of
some silver spoons. He considered it his duty to say a few words to
the prisoner in passing sentence, in order to show the enormity of the
crime of a servant in his position robbing his master, and by way of
warning to others who might be tempted to follow his example.
"You, prisoner," said his lordship, "have been found guilty, by a jury
of your country, of stealing these articles from your employer--mark
that--_your employer_! Now, it aggravates your offence that he is your
employer, because he employs you to look after his property. You _did_
look after it, but not in the way that a butler should--mark that!"
The judge here hemmed and coughed, as if somewhat exhausted with his
exemplary speech; and then resumed his address, which was ethical and
judicial: "You, prisoner, have _no_ excuse for your conduct. You had a
most excellent situation, and a kind master to whom you owed a debt
of the deepest gratitude and your allegiance as a faithful servant,
instead of which you paid him by _feathering your nest with his silver
spoons_; therefore you must be transported for the term of seven
years!"
The metaphor was equal to that employed by an Attorney-General, who at
a certain time in the history of the Home Rule agitation, addressing
his constituents, told them that _Mr. Gladstone had sent up a balloon
to see which way the cat jumped with regard to Ireland_! He was soon
appointed a Judge of the High Court.
Judges, however, are not always masters of their feelings, any more
than they are of their language; they are sometimes carried away by
prejudice, or even controlled by sentiment. I knew one, a very worthy
and amiable man, who, having to sentence a prisoner to death, was so
overcome by the terrible nature of the crime that he informed the
unhappy convict that he could expect _no mercy either in this world or
the next_!
Littledale, again, was an uncommonly kind and virtuous man, a good
husband and a learned Judge; but he was afflicted with a wife whom he
could not control. She, on the contrary, controlled him, and left him
no peace unless she had her will. At times, however, she overdid her
business. Littledale had a butler who had been in the family many
years, and with whom he would not have parted on any account. He would
sooner have parted with her ladyship. One morning, however, this
excellent butler came to Sir Joseph and said, with tears in his
eyes,--
"I beg your pardon, my lord--"
"What's the matter, James?"
"I'm very sorry, my lord," said the butler, "but I wish to leave."
"Wish to leave, James? Why, what do you wish to leave for? Haven't you
got a good situation?"
"Capital sitiwation, Sir Joseph, and you have always been a good kind
master to me, Sir Joseph; but, O Sir Joseph, Sir Joseph!"
"What then, James, what then? Why do you wish to leave? Not going to
get married, eh--not surely going to get married? O James, don't do
it!"
"Heaven forbid, Sir Joseph!"
"Eh, eh? Well, then, what is it? Speak out, James, and tell me all
about it. Tell me--tell me as a friend! If there is any trouble--"
"Well, Sir Joseph, I could put up with anything from _you_, Sir
Joseph, but I _can't get on with my lady_!"
"My lady be--. O James, what a sinner you make of me! Is that all,
James? Then go down on your knees at once and _thank God my lady is
not your wife_!"
It was a happy thought, and James stayed.
I don't think I have mentioned a curious reason that a jury once gave
for _not_ finding a prisoner guilty, although he had been tried on a
charge of a most terrible murder. The evidence was irresistible to
anybody but a jury, and the case was one of inexcusable brutality. The
man had been tried for the murder of his father and mother, and, as I
said, the evidence was too clear to leave a doubt as to his guilt.
The jury retired to consider their verdict, and were away so long that
the Judge sent for them and asked if there was any point upon which he
could enlighten them. They answered no, and thought they understood
the case perfectly well.
After a great deal of further consideration they brought in a verdict
of "_Not Guilty_."
The Judge was angry at so outrageous a violation of their plain duty,
and did what he ought not to have done--namely, asked the reason they
brought in such a verdict, when they knew the culprit was guilty and
ought to have been hanged.
"That's just it, my lord," said the foreman of this distinguished
body. "I assure you we had no doubt about the prisoner's guilt, but
we _thought there had been deaths enough in the family lately, and so
gave him the benefit of the doubt_!"
There was a young solicitor who had been entrusted with a defence in
a case of murder. It was his first case of importance, and he was,
of course, enthusiastic in his devotion to his client's interests.
Indeed, his enthusiasm rather overstepped his prudence.
By dint of perseverance and persuasion he obtained a promise from a
juror-in-waiting that if he should be on the jury he would consent
to no other verdict than manslaughter, which would be a tremendous
triumph for the young solicitor.
The case was a very strong one for wilful murder. The friendly
juror-in-waiting took his seat in the box. Everything went well except
the evidence, and the solicitor's heart almost failed for fear his man
should give way. The jury for a long time were unable to agree.
Now the young solicitor felt it was his faithful juror who was
standing out.
"All agreed but one, my lord."
"Go back to your room," said the Judge; which they did, and after
another long absence returned with a verdict of "Manslaughter."
Jubilant with his success, the young solicitor met his juryman,
congratulated him on his firmness, and thanked him for his exertions.
"How did you manage it, my good friend--how did you manage? It was a
wonderful verdict--wonderful!"
"Oh," said he, "I was determined not to budge. I never budge.
Conscience is ever my guide."
"I suppose there were eleven to one against you?"
"Eleven to one! A tough job, sir--a tough job."
"Eleven for wilful murder, eh?" said the jubilant young man. "Dear me,
what a narrow squeak!"
"Eleven for _murder_! No, sir!" exclaimed the juror.
"What, then?"
"_Eleven for an acquittal_! You may depend upon it, sir, the other
jurors had been 'got at.'"
Lord Watson, dining with me one Grand Day at Gray's Inn, said he
recollected a very stupid and a very rude Scottish Judge (which seems
very remarkable) who scarcely ever listened to an advocate, and
pooh-poohed everything that was said.
One day a celebrated advocate was arguing before him, when, to express
his contempt of what he was saying, the cantankerous old curmudgeon of
a Judge pointed with one forefinger to one of his ears, and with the
other to the opposite one.
"You see this, Mr. ----?"
"I do, my lord," said the advocate.
"Well, it just goes in here and comes out there!" and his lordship
smiled with the hilarity of a Judge who thinks he has actually said a
good thing.
The advocate looked and smiled not _likewise_, but a good deal more
wise. Then the expression of his face changed to one of contempt.
"I do not doubt it, my lord," said he. "What is there to prevent it?"
The learned judge sat immovable, and looked--like a judicial--_wit_.
I was now getting on so well in my profession that in the minds
of many of the unsuccessful there was a natural feeling of
disappointment. Why one man should succeed and a dozen fail has ever
been an unsolved problem at the Bar, and ever will be. But the curious
part of this natural law is that it manifests itself in the most
unexpected manner.
Coming one day from a County Court, where I had had a successful day,
and humming a little tune, whom should I meet but my friend Morgan
----. He was a very pleasant man, what is called a _nice man_, of a
quiet, religious turn of mind, and nobody was ever more painstaking
to push himself along. He was a great stickler for a man's doing his
duty, and was possessed with the idea that, getting on as I was, it
was my duty to refuse to take a brief in the County Court.
Coming up to me on the occasion I refer to, Morgan said, "What, _you_
here, Hawkins! I believe you'd take a brief before the devil in
h----."
I was quite taken aback for the moment by the use of such language. If
he had not been so religious a man, perhaps I should not have felt it
so much; as it was, I could hardly fetch my breath.
When I recovered my equanimity I answered, "Yes, Morgan, I would, and
should get one of my devils to hold it."
He seemed appeased by my frank avowal, for he loved honesty almost as
much as fees.