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One feature of the administration of British justice is the respect with which our judges are treated and their immunity from danger which enables them to mingle freely with the crowd if they so desire. Their lordships are supposed to lead rather lonely existences, but if they were subjected to assault by defeated litigants and convicts and their friends their danger would become so pronounced as to turn them into practically prisoners of the state. When in the early part of the present century the Italian government decided to prosecute a gang of criminals calling themselves members of the Camorra the judge selected to preside over the trial had to live in a fortress until proceedings began, and as it took a year for the prosecution to prepare its case the judge was in reality a prisoner all that time. The incident is without precedent and one cannot imagine it ever happening in England, though there have been occasions, of course, when judges of the High Court have had to be protected by detectives and their houses guarded. In the eighties when the dynamitards were very active Mr. Justice Hawkins, who was the special object of their venom, was followed by Scotland Yard officers and his residence in Tilney Street likewise shadowed. Despite the operations of the police, however, one dynamitard got into Tilney Street with the intention of blowing up Sir Henry’s house, but he mistook the number, and, happily for the victim of his error, the ensuing explosion caused no damage.

Not long afterwards the dynamitards and their friends were exasperated by the trial and conviction of O’Donnell, the Donegal farmer who shot dead Carey, the informer, who by turning against his confederates enabled the government to arrest and punish the murderers of Lord Frederick Cavendish and Mr. Burke. O’Donnell was regarded by a considerable portion of the Irish population as a hero and they considered it an outrage that he should be put on trial at all. That he was no common felon everybody admitted, but the law of the land could not permit the introduction of lynch law, and O’Donnell was convicted, sentenced to death and executed.

Thanks to the enthusiasm of his admirers O’Donnell was able to command the best man at the Bar to defend him at the Old Bailey. This was Charles Russell, famous advocate and great Lord Chief Justice, who fought a forlorn hope in brilliant fashion. Certainly, no one else could have done more for the young farmer who believed it was his mission in life to destroy the informer, and he expressed his gratitude to his counsel before he was hurried away to the condemned cell. I emphasize this because of what followed.

When a brief report of the trial was cabled to America the editor of a paper in New York which catered chiefly for Irish emigrants came to the conclusion that O’Donnell’s conviction was due to the unfairness of the presiding judge, Mr. Justice Denman. Seizing his pen he composed a vitriolic article calling upon some Irishman to arise and avenge what he termed the murder of O’Donnell. “Let some patriot deal with Denman as O’Donnell dealt with Carey,” he wrote, “and if there is no one in London willing to do it we hope that America will send over a champion of liberty. In order that he may be able to recognize the tyrant Denman we publish a photograph of the hanging judge.”

HON. GEORGE DENMAN

From a caricature in 1891

A large photograph, labelled “Judge Denman,” adorned the centre of the page of the paper in which this inflammatory article appeared, but in reality it was a photograph of Charles Russell, the defender of O’Donnell. Copies of the paper reached England in due course and a friend took one to the chambers of the great Irishman and warned him to beware of assassins.

“If Denman is honest he will admit that he’s been paid the biggest compliment of his life,” said Russell jokingly, “but I don’t think he’s in any danger, for even if they get some one to risk sea-sickness he won’t risk penal servitude or the hangman.”

Recently a disappointed litigant was sent to prison for eight months for writing scurrilous letters to Mr. Justice Roche, an offence which is very rare in these days. It was different, however, when the average case in the courts dragged its weary way from term to term, enriching the lawyers, and impoverishing the principals. It was not the fault of judges who were merely carrying out a system established by act of Parliament, but now and then they were blamed for it in an unpleasant manner. The Master of the Rolls was presiding in his court when a party to a cause fired a revolver. It was never proved that he intended to aim it at his lordship, and the only damage done was to a gas-bracket, but an example had to be made of him and he was punished severely. Twenty years previously in the same court an old man, irritated by the judge’s refusal to allow him to make a speech, hurled an egg at his lordship. It missed him narrowly and broke into fragments on the panel behind him.

“That egg must have been intended for my brother Bacon,” he said calmly, referring to a fellow judge who was in another court.

George Joseph Smith, the loathsome ex-reformatory boy who got rid of his superfluous wives by drowning them in baths, behaved like a maniac during the closing scenes of his trial, threatening everybody from the judge, Scrutton, down to the warder who tried to calm him as he stood quivering with rage in the dock. But the threats of a dying man, as Smith undoubtedly was in view of the certainty of his conviction, are of no avail and they were ignored.

“We will meet again,” shouted a wife-beater at Mr. Justice Day when that judge passed sentence of penal servitude plus twelve strokes of the cat. “I’ll do the sentence standing on my head,” he added defiantly, “but I’ll pay you back for the flogging when we meet again.”

The judge did not retort, and probably contented himself with the reflection that they were not likely to renew acquaintance. He was wrong, however, for four years later they came face to face, but with this important difference, they were divided by the well of a court in an assize town in the north.

“What is it this time?” asked Mr. Justice Day blandly. “Not wife-beating or robbery with violence, I hope?”

“No, my lord,” said counsel for the prosecution, “it is only stealing from a till.”

The cowering wretch in the dock raised his eyes for a moment and met those of the judge’s and then his lordship knew that at least one believer in violence had been converted to a contrary opinion by a dose of that medicine known as “the cat.”

But as I have indicated judges have little to fear except their own mistakes, and these can be reduced to a minimum if loquacity is avoided, for it is your loquacious judge who is most often in trouble. There used to be an occupant of the bench who although not distinguished for his learning when at the Bar insisted on giving many opinions and an elaborate judgment before he finished with a case. The consequence was that his decisions were reversed so frequently by a higher court that his judgments became a byword in legal circles, a very famous judge capping all the witticisms of the Temple on the subject with the remark, “Going to the Court of Appeal with a judgment of Mr. Justice Blank’s in your favour is like going to sea on a Friday—not necessarily fatal but one would rather it didn’t happen.”

The wise judge seldom interrupts, knowing that he will have the last word, but there have been many who have shown a decided partiality for turning the average case into a series of undignified arguments unpleasantly akin to squabbles. It was after a perfect tornado of snappish interjections by a well-meaning but inadequately-brained judge whose imperfections could not be covered by the ermine that a counsel, who eventually attained the bench, for once forgot the respect due to his lordship.

“You’re wrong this time,” exclaimed the judge, who had three times previously interfered on a point of law and had been proved to be wrong by references to the text books. “I know what I’m talking about, for I took part in the case which decided the point of law you have just raised.”

Counsel had the volume fetched from the library and discovered to his surprise that the judge was correct. With a slight bow in the direction of his lordship he said, “Your lordship is right and I am wrong as your lordship generally is.”

A judge should be very sure of himself before he indulges in humour, especially that type of humour which invites retort. It is all very well when his lordship has the better of the encounter, but when the reverse happens it is not good for the dignity of the court, neither does it enhance the prestige of justice. Mr. Justice Darling’s humour was all the more effective and enjoyable because it was generally impersonal and scholarly. He did not stoop to flippant and wordy duels with counsel and consequently his position was never impaired. One of his predecessors, Mr. Justice Taunton, had no pretensions to be a humorist and was too honest to pose as one, but under the influence of an irritability developed by ill-health he now and then lost his temper with counsel.

“It’s no use your pursuing that line of argument,” he barked out at a “rising junior,” “for what you say goes in at one ear and out at the other.”

“What is there to prevent it, my lord?” was the answer which set the court in a roar.

Irritable men know no discretion and Mr. Justice Taunton’s infirmity prevented him distinguishing between the dull and the quick-witted. After his elevation one counsel who appeared very frequently before him was his old colleague on circuit, Maule, that mordant wit who became a brilliant and original figure on the bench. In their days together at the Bar Maule and Taunton had been as friendly as any partnership could be when one of the partners was Taunton, and the latter owed his nickname of “the bear” to the good-humoured derision of the younger man. Taunton, well aware of the abilities of Maule, might have been expected to give him no opening for a thrust, but the irascible judge frequently allowed his temper to get the better of his discretion.

In the course of a lengthy and difficult trial he interrupted Maule’s speech, an effort which certainly erred on the side of prolixity, but he did so in the wrong way.

“You’re talking like a child, Mr. Maule,” he exclaimed irritably, “just like a child.”

Counsel slowly deposited his brief on the desk before him and looking straight at the judge said with the utmost gravity:

“I don’t resent being likened to a child, for a child, if spared, becomes in process of time a man, but once a bear, my lord, always a brute.”

It reminds one of the well-known encounter between two barristers.

“You’re a fool, sir,” said one.

“And you’re drunk,” retorted the other.

“That may be,” said number one, “but I will be sober in the morning, whereas you’ll be a fool all your life.”

Charles Russell, barrister, had quite a different conception of the respect due to the bench from that entertained by Lord Russell of Killowen, Lord Chief Justice of England. Woe betide the barrister whose courtesy to the bench was scant when Russell was “Chief,” although the latter had often enough from the well of the court treated their lordships with disdain.

“What is your authority for that statement, Mr. Russell?” said a judge who knew the Irishman’s weakness for endeavouring to make his own law as he went along.

Russell, annoyed by the interruption, turned to the usher.

“Bring his lordship a book on elementary law,” he said, and resumed his speech.

The late Sir Charles Gill sprang into large practice at the Bar as the result of a brilliant victory over his fellow countryman, Charles Russell. It is a well-known fact that no Irishman ever takes another Irishman seriously, and Gill was quite unimpressed by Russell’s position at the Bar and cultivated brusqueness.

I do not suppose Russell grudged Gill his victory, and it is certain that he bore him no ill-will. The younger man’s defence of Butterfield was a masterpiece of advocacy, and Gill’s success an astonishing triumph against tremendous odds even if Russell had in Harry Marks a client not likely to touch the hearts of an Old Bailey jury. During a career at the Bar which covered almost half a century the late Sir Charles Gill, K.C.—he died in 1923—figured in dozens of notable causes, civil and criminal, but his outstanding achievement was his appearance for the defence when Marks prosecuted Butterfield for criminal libel in 1890.