Читать книгу Charles Peace, or The Adventures of a Notorious Burglar - Anonymous - Страница 40

Peace, as may readily be imagined, deplored having made an attempt to enter the “Gothic Cottage” in the occupation of Mrs. Pocklington. He came to the conclusion that that was one of the most stupid things he had ever been guilty of.

His first night in the county gaol was by no means an agreeable one.

The first night in any prison is generally one of bitterness and gall to the unhappy prisoners; but our hero felt humiliated at the contemptible part he had been playing to be knocked about by an old woman until he was rendered nearly senseless, and in that state to be captured without even making an attempt to escape, was most aggravating.

The more he reflected upon the matter the more humiliated did he feel.

His sleep was broken and disturbed during the greater portion of the night.

At six o’clock in the morning he was aroused by the resonant sound of a large bell. He arose and hurried on his clothes.

The door of his cell was thrown open by a stalwart warder, who passed on to make room for the deputy governor and another warder. This last-named personage carried in his hand a large book.

“Do you wish to see the doctor?” inquired the governor.

“Thank you, sir,” returned Peace. “I do not think there is any necessity for that. I am better than I was; the bruises on my head are less painful.”

“And your cell. Do you intend to clean it yourself, or procure a substitute?”

“I’ll do my best to clean it.”

The name he had given at the police-court was now entered on the list in the warder’s book.

Two brushes were then given him, with which he was directed to polish the floor of his cell; and the warder instructed him as to the regulation mode of stowing his hammock and mattress on the shelf, and folding up his blankets and rug.

All these details are easy enough to those who have been accustomed to manual labour, but they are of course very hard to one who has been gently nurtured, or moved in a respectable sphere of life.

This is why prison discipline falls with such unequal force upon different classes of culprits. To a navigator, excavator, or labourer of any description, the treadwheel is a mere trifle in comparison to the effect upon those who have never been used to manual labour.

Every morning Peace had to go on his hands and knees and polish his cell floor, as well as wash and scrub the table, stool, basin, and every article in the room.

This was not a particularly hard task to him, while to others it would have been one of infinite labour.

When the brief interview with his gaolers was over, his breakfast was served through the little trap in the door. It consisted of a pint of gruel and a slice of bread.

A starving man will eat anything, it is said; but I expect many of my readers would have turned aside in disgust at the breakfast.

Peace devoured it with something like a relish.

There can be no possible reason for denying unconvicted prisoners the luxury of a cup of tea or coffee for their morning’s meal.

We never could “abear,” as Mrs. Gamp says, gruel under any circumstances.

But, of course, all men are not constituted alike.

After breakfast he was told to prepare for chapel.

On stepping outside his cell he was directed to turn round with his face to the cell door, to take his Bible, prayer, and hymn-book in his hands, and to hold them behind his back.

This, again, is an unnecessary piece of assumption on the part of the prison authorities when dealing with an unconvicted person—​one, indeed, for aught they know, may be as innocent of the crime laid to his charge as they are themselves.

He had ample opportunity of contemplating the outside of the door, and seeing how the various mysterious appliances connected with it were worked.

Being of a mechanical and, in many respects, ingenious turn of mind, he was naturally interested.

He regarded with great curiosity the spy-hole over the trap-door, and was at no loss to comprehend how it was constructed.

It was evident enough that the inmate of the cell could not see any person on the outside, but it was equally clear that a watcher outside could command the entire range of the prisoner’s apartment.

A number of prisoners were assembled in the passage; Peace was told to join them.

Then the whole of the culprits were marched along the stone passage until they came to a large low-roofed hall.

From this they ascended a dark winding staircase, which led into the chapel.

Peace observed among the motley group the gipsy, Mr. Green, the cadaverous-looking gentleman who was about to give the history of his life in the lock-up, together with many others whose faces he recognised.

The last-named looked even more ghastly than ever.

Nods were exchanged, but not a word was spoken by any of the prisoners.

The chapel was a good-sized lofty room. In it were two large cages—​large spaces parted off with iron bars.

Over these was a gallery, with a thick curtain in front, which had been constructed for the exclusive use of the female prisoners.

In one of the cages were about sixteen, who had been tried and sentenced, and were waiting to be drafted off to the several prisons or convict establishments.

All were cropped and shaven close, every vestige of beard being removed, and their hair cut down to about an inch in length.

They were clad in rough grey jackets, trousers, and vests, with coarse blue-striped shirts.

While the male prisoners were assembling the female portion were coming into the chapel by another door, and sat in their own gallery, quite out of the sight of the male prisoners. Two female warders sat behind the female prisoners, and two male warders took their station on each side of the males.

The congregation was of a very motley character: the generality of the boys were poor and ragged; some of them were very keen-eyed and restless in their manner—​others were apparently the children of respectable parents.

Presently the chaplain entered in his white gown, followed by an elderly warder, who officiated as clerk.

During the devotional exercises most of the prisoners leaned forward on the seat in front of them.

On one side of the pulpit and reader’s desk was the governor’s pew, in which was seated that awful functionary. He was a tall, elderly man, with a partially bald head.

When the service was over and the chaplain had retired, the governor was the first to lead the way out. The door was unlocked by his deputy and down stairs the prisoners were marched in military order.

“You look very ill, sir,” whispered Peace to the cadaverous-looking man who was now next to him.

“Going home,” returned the other. “It matters not whether they convict or acquit me, my race is nearly run.”

“Silence,” exclaimed a warder.

Not another word was spoken. The prisoners went along with their hands behind them like so many schoolboys. The ceremony was humiliating to the last degree.

Peace was directed to cross over to a little office where the governor was standing.

He was then told to take off his boots and stand under a post with numbers on it, with a sliding piece of brass in its centre.

It was a machine for measuring his height.

This was recorded in a book by a clerk.

He was then asked his name, his age, where born, the date of his birth, trade or profession, married or single, together with a variety of other questions, which in most cases were seldom answered truthfully; nevertheless it was a ceremony which had to be gone through.

After it was over he was introduced to the chaplain, whose room was in close proximity to the chapel.

The manner of the rev. gentleman was kind and conciliatory. He asked Peace if he could read and write; the answer was in the affirmative.

“Have you got good legal advice?” inquired the chaplain.

Peace informed him that he had written to his mother to retain the services of an able advocate, and he felt quite sure that he should be acquitted, as he had no felonious intent.

“I hope and trust you may. I feel assured that you will have a fair trial,” said the clergyman, who then informed our hero that he could have any books he liked from the library in the prison to beguile the hours during his imprisonment.

“You are very kind, sir, and I have to offer you my heartfelt thanks,” said Peace, who was touched by the first words of consolation he had heard since his incarceration.

“In writing to your friends,” said the divine, “I must give you a warning. All letters are opened by the governor before they leave the prison.”

“Then I think it most unfair,” cried Peace.

“We will not discuss that question; it is a rule which is invariably carried out, and therefore I deem it my duty to inform you of it. I advise you also to destroy all letters that come to you as soon as read.”

“I will most certainly do so, sir,” returned Peace, who again thanked the chaplain most sincerely for his information and advice.

He returned to his cell in a much more composed state; he looked hopefully to the future. After all, things were not so bad as he had at first supposed.

Soon after he had returned to his cell he received a visit from the governor, who, like any other commander-in-chief, was attended by his aide-de-camp.

“They’re very attentive to me,” all of a sudden muttered our hero, as he caught sight of the governor, who inquired if he wanted anything, looking up and down the cell with a searching glance.

“I’m told I may have a few books to read,” said Peace.

“Certainly—​by all means you can.”

“Then I should like to have one or two.”

The prison official nodded, and before Peace had time to make any other requests he had vanished.

Half an hour after this a number of books were brought to the prisoner to choose from.

He selected two, which he was allowed to retain, with the understanding that there were more at his service when he had perused the two volumes.

The records of prison life are necessarily monotonous. The poor prisoners find to their cost their state of existence especially so; but it is impossible that it should be otherwise.

No. 10.

PEACE AS AN ETHIOPIAN MINSTREL.

We have endeavoured to give as faithful a picture as possible of the treatment of prisoners while in gaol awaiting their trial.

Many an innocent man has to put up with all the indignities we have described, and has been forced to suffer in silence, for no one seems to have much sympathy for persons who have the misfortune to be wrongfully accused.

They must get out of the scrape as best they can.

The public, however, every now and then awakens to the fact that a great wrong has been done, and then an outcry is raised, and it goes to sleep again.

We have an instance of this in the case of a clergyman who had the misfortune to be suspected of having committed what is known as the Coram-street murder.

This case is of a remarkable and exceptional character, and incontestably points to what might be termed spasmodic sympathy or charity, evinced on many occasions towards foreigners by a certain section of the people of this country, who deem it expedient to close their eyes to far more deserving cases of suffering endured by their own countrymen, while they are lavish in their subscriptions to recompense a foreigner.

Many of our readers will doubless remember the particulars connected with the tragedy in Coram-street.

On Wednesday, Dec. 25th, 1873, a dreadful murder was discovered to have been committed at 12, Great Coram-street, Brunswick-square, the victim being a woman named Harriet Buswell.

She had been seen on the previous night at the “Count Cavour” hotel, in Leicester-square, with a foreign gentleman.

The woman and her male companion left the hotel together.

It appeared that two persons, one of whom was the deceased, called at a greengrocer’s shop near to Coram-street.

On the Christmas morning she was found by the landlady of the house in which she resided dead on her bed, with her throat cut under the ear, severing the jugular vein, and there was another deep gash lower down.

Life was quite extinct.

The door of the room in which she was found was locked on the outside, and the key taken away; but, strange to say, there were no marks of blood on the door, nor on the walls or bed, as if the blood had spurted from the wounds.

The face of the victim was perfectly calm, but on the forehead there was the distinct print of a thumb, and a little lower down the mark of the palm of the hand in blood, as if, after the first wound had been inflicted, the poor creature had been held down by the left hand while the second wound was inflicted.

The appearance of the man who went home with the unfortunate woman was described by the inmates of the house, but he left without any one observing him.

Suspicion fell on a German clergyman named Hessel. The waiter at the “Count Cavour” hotel and the greengrocer at whose shop Harriet Buswell called with the gentleman who accompanied her home, swore most positively Hessel was the man who was in company with the murdered woman on the night of the 24th (Christmas Eve), and that he and Harriet Buswell called at his shop and purchased some apples.

Dr. Hessel was examined at Bow-street, and his legal adviser said that he was in a position to prove an alibi, the prisoner being at an American hotel in the east end of the town during the whole of the evening in question (Christmas Eve).

He asked for a remand of eight days for the production of witnesses.

This was granted, and on the next examination Dr. Hessel was released, the alibi being deemed a sufficient proof of his innocence.

This is a brief epitome of the case. There were, however, one or two other suspicious circumstances of minor importance, which it is now not necessary to dwell upon.

The evidence of the waiter and greengrocer, both of whom had ample time and opportunity of observing the features of the accused, was so direct and positive as to justify his detention.

Many suspected persons have been remanded upon much lighter testimony—​have endured all the hardships of imprisonment without any expression of regret on the part of the executive or the public, but a loud outcry was raised at the injury sustained by Dr. Hessel.

There was a general desire on the part of the public to send the ill-used gentleman from these shores—​not only compensated in pocket, but compensated in mind and feelings.

In the cruel penitentiary called the “House of Detention,” says a daily paper, at the time of his imprisonment, he was treated as a felon; and every untried man, however innocent, obtains there a sharp foretaste of the punishment that follows conviction.

Dr. Hessel gave a vivid description of a few of his experiences in the Clerkenwell torture-house.

The pens of indignant journalists were actively at work to chronicle the sufferings of the accused gentleman.

The writers for the Press suddenly discovered that the treatment of prisoners and suspected persons generally was a scandal to this country.

Our present system has been in operation a good many years, and it was therefore the more surprising that it was not assailed before, and still more so that it has not been so since.

A general feeling of regret was expressed by all classes—​from the Queen to the artisan—​that the doctor should have been subjected to so much annoyance, inconvenience, and indignity.

What can be more “gushing” than the following document, which was handsomely engrossed and written both in English and German, and presented to the German doctor:—

“On behalf of the committee of English and German gentlemen acting for the Rev. Godfrey Hessel, pastor designate of a German Lutheran congregation of Moniz, in the Brazils, we beg to state that he was arrested in London upon a false accusation, and after a most searching investigation—​overwhelming evidence having been given establishing beyond a doubt his entire innocence of the false and cruel charge—​was, on January 30, 1873, acquitted by the presiding magistrate, amidst cheers from the court, as free from suspicion. The acute and unmerited sufferings which Dr. Hessel had to undergo by a grievous and palpable error having called forth a national subscription, the amount, consisting of £1,250, is hereby offered him as the testimony of the universal sympathy felt for him by all classes, and with the assurance that the sincere wishes and prayers of many thousands of German and English friends for his health and happiness, and a long and prosperous career, will follow him to his destination.”

Knowing as much as we do of the merits of the case we cannot do otherwise than designate the above effusion as being what our transatlantic cousins would call “bunkum.”

Upon the first examination at Bow-street Dr. Hessel’s legal adviser declared that there were ten or a dozen persons staying at the same hotel as the accused, and that they were all engaged in distributing the various articles attached to a Christmas tree.

It was not a little remarkable that some of them did not come forward to give evidence on the first hearing.

Eight days were allowed to pass over, and on the second and final hearing of the case only two witnesses were produced to prove the alibi.

One of these was the night porter of the hotel, the other being a young German, who professed to be a personal and intimate friend of the prisoner.

The murderer of Harriet Buswell has never been discovered—​indeed, upon the discharge of Dr. Hessel the matter seemed to drop; no attempt was made to arrest any other person.

As far as the unfortunate woman, Harriet Buswell, was concerned, her fate did not seem to affect people in the slightest degree, the only regret being that the reverend gentleman should have been wrongfully accused.

Taken altogether, the Coram-street tragedy and the circumstances surrounding it must be deemed of an exceptional character.

The sum of money subscribed on this occasion is without precedent in any case of a similar nature.

Some years before this a clergyman of the Church of England was convicted of indecent assault upon the testimony of two little girls.

He was sentenced to a long term of penal servitude for several years, was imprisoned in one of our convict establishments, and was forced to endure all the hardships, labour, and misery to which convicts are subjected.

It transpired afterwards that he was perfectly innocent. This was proved beyond the shadow of a doubt. The girls confessed that they had been tutored by their aunt to give false evidence, and that there was not a shadow of truth in any of their statements.

The clergyman, the Rev. Mr. Hatch, was released, the girls convicted of perjury, and there was an end of the matter.

The injury sustained by Mr. Hatch cannot be estimated with anything like accuracy—​it is incalculable; yet we never heard of a single shilling being subscribed for this cruelly used gentleman, who was as guiltless as any one of the readers of this work.

But we should bear in mind that he was an Englishman; had he been a German probably the case would have assumed quite a different aspect.

In referring to the Coram-street case, the Cologne Gazette said at the time that the English sympathy with Dr. Hessel had taken too material a shape to be altogether appropriate.

Sympathy in itself was merited, but, beyond that of repayment of costs and free fare to Brazil, no pecuniary recompense was due to the clergyman.

We expect most of our readers will endorse the opinion expressed by the German journalist.

Peace was never much of a reader at any period of his life, but during his incarceration he relieved the tedium of the hours by perusing the volumes he had selected from those brought him from the prison library.

After the Governor’s diurnal visit all the prisoners were called out, and marched off into a stone yard enclosed in iron bars on two sides—​on the other by stone walls.

In this place Peace had an opportunity of having a look at his fellow-prisoners.

All grades of society were represented by the motley group, from the City merchant to the wretched street Arab.

For nearly an hour did the prisoners go round the yard in regular order, much after the fashion of soldiers. Two warders were there to keep order, and interdict any talking between the prisoners.

On certain days in the week the detectives and warders from other gaols came to take stock, and see if they could recognise any of the newcomers.

Sometimes one would be called into the corner of the yard to undergo a closer scrutiny, and it was amusing to see how coy and bashful the hardened offenders looked while this ceremony was taking place; acquaintances were claimed that were by no means cordially reciprocated.

In some cases a photograph was produced by a detective and compared to its living prototype.

The moment the detectives came into the yard those whom they sought would either slink past in hopes of not being recognised, or else assume such a look of injured innocence that they thereby betrayed themselves at once. Many an “old bird” was detected by thus overdoing it.

It is customary for the detectives, before entering the yard, to have a good survey of the prisoners exercising from some unseen corner. They then mark the bearing and look of the prisoners, before they are aware that the detectives are near; on entering they note any change in their demeanour.

The new man—​the greenhorn—​is not aware that officers are present, for they are invariably dressed in plain clothes, but the old hand knows full well the purport of their visit, and finds it difficult to maintain his composure under such trying circumstances.

Mr. Green unfortunately attracted the attention of a tall, military-looking man, who claimed acquaintance with him, but the young gentleman’s memory was at fault; he could not and would not own to a little affair which had taken place some eighteen months back.

“I assure you, upon my honour,” said Green, “you are quite mistaken—​you are, indeed. I never was at Warwick in my life.”

The detective smiled, shook his head, and passed on.

The gipsy did not appear to be recognised by anyone; neither was Peace.

Certain days in the week were visiting days. Peace was looking forward to a visit from his mother, to whom he had written. She presented herself at the prison on the next visiting day, and was conducted by a turnkey to that part of the prison where the inmates are permitted to see their relatives, who have to converse with them through wire gratings, with a space of some three or four feet between them, in which sits a warder.

The visiting goes on for an hour or more. Those prisoners who have friends come to see them stand in a row against these railings, and their friends opposite. As a matter of course, everyone is talking at once with his own friends, and the consequence is there is a constant clatter kept up during the whole of the time.

All are too interested in their own affairs to take any notice of what is going on between his neighbour and friend.

Peace exhorted his mother to procure the services of a counsel whom he named, and in whom he had great confidence.

“Be of good cheer, my dear boy,” said his parent, “I have already seen the gentleman you name, and he has promised to do his best for you.”

“That old catamaran will swear anything, I feel assured of that,” cried Peace. “But he’ll be able to bowl her out if you tell him what sort of customer he has to deal with—​a she dragon, a very devil, that’s what she is.”

“Don’t lose your temper, Charlie. It’s no use doing that now you’re behind the bars.”

“I should like to—”

“Hush! don’t go on so—​be patient,” interrupted his mother. “There, keep up your spirits; all will be well, I dare say.”

“They treat everybody in this place as if they were convicted felons.”

“It’s a burning shame, that’s what it is, but it’s no use making any complaint. If a fellow does that he gets worse served. I’ve done nothing against the laws, but it makes no difference. The biggest rogue gets the best of it in places of this sort.”

“Well, it is only for a short time; the sessions will soon be on, and there you’ll have justice done you, let us hope.”

“Umph! Hope told a flattering tale, mother. But, hark ye! I want to see the lawyer to give him the necessary instructions for preparing my defence. Do you hear? I must see him.”

“I’ve arranged all that. He will be here in a day or two’s time. Don’t fret or worry yourself; we are doing all we can for you.”

“I have no doubt of that; but it’s hard to be cooped up here.”

While this conversation had been taking place there was a hubbub of voices from the other prisoners and their friends.

Interviews of this nature are in many cases painful in the extreme, especially when the friends or relatives of a prisoner are introduced into the interior of a gaol for the first time.

At the expiration of the time appointed for these visits, Peace and his companions returned to their respective cells.

Soon after this he had an interview with his solicitor, to whom he explained the whole of the circumstances connected with the alleged attempted burglary at the “Gothic Cottage.”

His legal adviser took notes for the preparation of his brief, and told his client that the line of defence he purposed adopting would in all probability be deemed an answer to the charge, and that he looked forward with confidence to an acquittal, unless some further incriminating evidence was presented in the course of the trial.

“You have all the facts, sir,” returned Peace, “but of course there is no telling what that infamous old woman will swear.”

“Oh! we don’t intend letting her have it all her own way,” observed the lawyer. “She’ll be subject to a searching cross-examination.”

Peace was in much better spirits after the interview with his lawyer, who had said, in the course of conversation, that it was as trumpery a case as he had ever had to do with.

The day of trial at length arrived. The prosecutrix and her witnesses were in court when Peace was placed in the dock.

After a few preparatory remarks from the counsel for the prosecution, Mrs. Pocklington was sworn.

She deposed to the facts already known to the reader, her evidence being in substance much the same as that given before the bench of magistrates.

Mr. Serjeant Jawkins rose and proceeded to cross-examine the prosecutrix.

“When did you become aware of the fact that a burglar—​as you are pleased to call the prisoner—​was endeavouring to effect an entrance into your house?”

“When I opened the drawing-room window.”

“And pray, madam, what was your reason for opening your window?”

“I heard a scraping noise at the front door, and suspected there was something amiss.”

“And you saw the prisoner at the door of the house?”

“Yes.”

“Which he was endeavouring to open?”

“Certainly—​so I imagined.”

“We don’t want to know what you imagined. Will you swear that he was endeavouring to open it? Now be careful in your answers.”

“It appeared to me that he was doing so. The door was partly open.”

“It was a dark night, was it not?”

“Rather dark.”

“And pray how long did you look at the prisoner before you struck him with the broom?”

“Oh! not long.”

“I should suppose not; but can you give us an idea how long it was—​five minutes or five seconds, or more?”

“It was not five minutes.”

“Nearer five seconds—​eh?”

“I can’t say exactly. It was not long.”

“And so, Mrs. Pocklington, you deemed it expedient to act promptly. You commenced a most vigorous assault upon the prisoner without stopping to inquire whether he was a thief or a visitor?”

“I was sure he was not a visitor.”

“How could you be sure? Did you see his face when you first struck him?”

“No, his back was towards me.”

“Is it your practice to assault persons with a house-broom?”

“I object to that question,” said the counsel for the prosecution, rising and interrupting his learned brother.

They are all brothers in a court of law.

“Upon what grounds, brother Matchley?” inquired Serjeant Jawkins.

“As irrelevant.”

“I hope his lordship will rule that my questions are relevant.”

The judge signified that question might be put.

It was again repeated.

The witness said sharply—

“No, it is not my practice to do so.”

“Then it is fair to assume that this is an exceptional case,” said Serjeant Jawkins.

“You have not told us, Mrs. Pocklington, if you heard any one calling out or shouting before you opened the window and commenced hostilities?”

“I did not hear any one call out.”

“You are quite sure you did not hear a man’s voice before you discovered the prisoner at the door of your house?”

“I did not hear any voice.”

“Is the prisoner a stranger to you?”

“I never saw him before to my knowledge.”

“Is he also a stranger to your maid-servant?”

“I believe so.”

“Really, brother Jawkins, I think you are out of order. How is the witness to know whether he is a stranger or not to the servant? Ask the young woman herself when she is in the box.”

“I thank you for your suggestion, brother Matchley. It would be the best course. I have no further questions to put to the present witness.”

Mrs. Pocklington retired, and the servant-girl was placed in the box. After she had deposed to facts connected with the case, she underwent a severe cross-examination, which took a humorous turn, eliciting laughter in the body of the court, which was, of course, immediately suppressed.

When the examination of the police was concluded, Mr. Serjeant Jawkins rose for the defence. He said—

“My Lord and Gentlemen of the Jury, I must confess that this case appears to me singularly weak, as far as the evidence for the prosecution is concerned—​in point of fact, there is no proof whatever that the prisoner contemplated committing a burglary. The pugnacious prosecutrix came to that conclusion at the outset, and she has done her best to substantiate the charge, which, however, I submit, is in no way proved. It is my duty to inform you that the prisoner declares that he had no felonious intention whatever. According to his statement, he had, on the night in question, an appointment with a young woman to whom he is paying some attention. They walked about together for an hour or so, and he was led to believe that she was a domestic in service in one of the houses in the village. After he had parted with her he went to the “Running Horse,” a well-known public-house in the neighbourhood, where he had some ale and a game of skittles. He remained at this place about an hour and a half, or it might be nearly two hours. He then left, and bent his steps homewards. As he was proceeding along he, according to his statement, observed the door of the prosecutrix’s residence partially open. He entered the garden, went up to the door, and found it fastened with a chain, which he endeavoured to slip back, being under the impression at the time that his “young woman” was inside. He called her by name several times, but received no answer. While thus occupied he all of a sudden received a blow on the back. He turned round, and was struck again on the head. It is not at all surprising to any of us that he should lose his temper. After the infliction of a third blow from his female assailant he naturally enough became furious. He wrested the broom from her hand, and strove to get at her by springing on the balcony. Would he have done this if his intentions had been felonious? Not at all likely, I should say. He was then placed hors de combat by another blow from the housemaid’s mop. A very little more and the prisoner would have been killed outright, and you would have been spared the trouble of trying him on the present charge. Gentlemen, I submit to your consideration all these circumstances, which require your consideration. I do not believe for one moment, when you have weighed over the matter in your minds, you will ruin the prospects of this young man—​blast his reputation, it may be, for life—​by returning a verdict of guilty upon such a groundless and trumpery charge. There is no proof of felonious attempt—​no proof whatever that he was actuated by any other instinct than curiosity in being at the door of the prosecutrix’s house. I admit that he acted in a most imprudent and indiscreet manner—​so have many other young men under similar circumstances—​but I emphatically deny that he had burglarious intentions.”

“Burglars’ implements were found upon him, you should remember, Brother Jawkins,” observed the judge.

“So the police aver, my lord,” returned the advocate. “Indeed, they are so prone to put the worst construction in cases of this sort, that it would not surprise me if they called a toothpick or a pencil case burglars’ tools. The prisoner denies this. He asserts that the Implements found on him are nothing more or less than tools which he uses in his business.”

“What is his trade, then?” inquired a juryman.

“From what I have been informed I am led to the conclusion that he is a sort of handy man at two or three trades—​he has worked as a smith, he has turned his attention to mechanical appliances, and is the inventor of a crane of a novel description. This is his rough draught of its form.”

Mr. Serjeant Jawkins held forth a large mechanical drawing, which the judge and jury understood as much about as they did of the Sanscrit language.

Nevertheless the diagram had its desired effect.

“It is quite clear,” said Serjeant Jawkins in continuation, “that no robbery has been committed. Nothing has been stolen from the house of the prosecutrix, and I maintain that it is equally clear that no robbery was contemplated. The prisoner has been roughly and, I may say, unmercifully used by the pugnacious Mrs. Pocklington and her valiant servant-maid. But, hardly as he has been dealt with by the relentless prosecutrix, he will, I feel assured, be recompensed by an acquittal from the hands of a jury of his countrymen.”

Mr. Serjeant Jawkins sat down. He had done his best for Peace, whom he had defended with wonderful skill.

The Judge summed up in a few words. He said, after a review of the evidence, if the jury had a doubt as to the prisoner’s intentions, they were bound to give him the benefit of it.

They returned a verdict of not guilty without leaving the box.

“I knew Jawkins would pull you through,” whispered Peace’s attorney, as his client entered the prisoners’ waiting-room. “You may think yourself lucky, young man.”

“I do; and am very thankful to you for suggesting the line of defence,” returned our hero. “Believe me, I shall be for ever grateful.”

Many of the other prisoners who were tried in the same court were not so fortunate.

Mr. Green was not successful in imposing upon the judge and jury. Unfortunately for this young gentleman, he was “well known to the police.” More than one constable came into court to claim his acquaintance.

Mr. Green’s recollection failed him. He did not remember to have met the constables before. He put on a look of injured innocence, and again burst into tears. But all this display of grief and contrition had but little weight with the court.

Mr. Green was found guilty.

He was sentenced to one month’s imprisonment with hard labour.

He cried as if his heart was about to break.

The gipsy was tried on the same day as Peace and Mr. Green.

It was not clearly established that he had stolen the horse, but it was proved that he had taken it away from its owner’s stable, and rode off with it.

His defence was that he intended to return the animal, but he utterly failed to establish this satisfactorily.

He was found guilty. But as it was his first offence, or, more properly speaking, the first time he had been convicted, he was sentenced to six months only.

“It’s a lottery, quite a lottery,” observed the gipsy to Mr. Green.

“I never thought you would get more than me.”

“I’ve been very unfortunate,” returned his youthful companion. “It’s those bobbies as did it. It warn’t of no manner of use my coming the good boy business while they were in court. But I say, old man, do you know your friend is dead?”

“What friend do yer mean?” inquired the gipsy. “I didn’t know as I had any.”

“Why him as interrupted you in the lock-up.”

“Dead—​is he? Poor chap.”

It was true enough. Two days before the assizes commenced the ill-fated man breathed his last. He was born and bred a gentleman, was of an ancient and honourable family, but in early life was afflicted with a fatal propensity for gambling and betting.

All the years of his life were wasted, his moral principles were undermined. He was, of course, a prey to sharpers.

He became reckless, lost his status in society, and ultimately, in the dire straits in which he found himself, had recourse to forgery.

His family, to save his reputation, paid the forged bills. Nevertheless, the man could not turn aside from his evil course. He had got into a vortex, a sort of maelstrôm, from which he could not release himself. His end we have already chronicled.

It is not easy to estimate the pernicious effects of betting in this country.

It affects all classes, impoverishes the wealthy, makes criminals of the middle and lower classes of the community, fills our gaols, and is, in point of fact, the ruin of scores of thousands of persons, who, but for this fatal propensity, would, in all probability, have continued to be respectable and honourable members of society.

Nothing tends to demoralise the youth of this country compared to the practice of betting.

It is quite time the Legislature should take active measures to suppress, as far as lies in their power, this widespread evil.