The Experiences of a Barrister, and Confessions of an Attorney by Samuel Warren

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"Quiet, Martha, I tell ye! Yes, my lord, I'se tell ye all about it. I was
gone away, wife and I, for more nor a week, to receive money for Mr.
Wilson, on account of smuggled goods--that money, my lord, as was found
in the chest. When we came home on that dreadful Sunday night, my lord,
we went in the back way; and hearing a noise, I went up stairs, and found
poor Wilson stone-dead on the floor. I were dreadful skeared, and let
drop the candle. I called to wife, and told her of it. She screamed out,
and amaist fainted away. And then, my lord, all at once the devil shot
into my head to keep the money I had brought; and knowing as the keys of
the desk where the mortgage writing was kept was in the bedroom, I crept
back, as that false-hearted woman said, got the keys, and took the deed;
and then I persuaded wife, who had been trembling in the kitchen all the
while, that we had better go out quiet again, as there was nobody in the
house but us: I had tried that woman's door--and we might perhaps be
taken for the murderers. And so we did; and that's the downright, honest
truth, my lord. I'm rightly served; but God bless you, doant hurt the
woman--my wife, my lord, these thirty years. Five-and-twenty years ago
come May, which I shall never see, we buried our two children. Had they
lived, I might have been a better man; but the place they left empty was
soon filled up by love of cursed lucre, and that has brought me here. I
deserve it; but oh, mercy, my lord! mercy, good gentlemen!"--turning from
the stony features of the judge to the jury, as if they could help
him--"not for me, but the wife. She be as innocent of this as a new-born
babe. It's I! I! scoundrel that I be, that has brought thee, Martha, to
this shameful pass!" The rugged man snatched his life-companion to his
breast with passionate emotion, and tears of remorse and agony streamed
down his rough cheeks.

I was deeply affected, and felt that the man had uttered the whole truth.
It was evidently one of those cases in which a person liable to suspicion
damages his own cause by resorting to a trick. No doubt, by his act of
theft, Armstrong had been driven to an expedient which would not have
been adopted by a person perfectly innocent. And thus, from one thing to
another, the charge of murder had been fixed upon him and his hapless
wife. When his confession had been uttered, I felt a species of
self-accusation in having contributed to his destruction, and gladly
would I have undone the whole day's proceedings. The judge, on the
contrary, was quite undisturbed. Viewing the harangue of Armstrong as a
mere tissue of falsehood, he cooly pronounced sentence of death on the
prisoners. They were to be hanged on Monday. This was Friday.

"A bad job!" whispered the counsel for the defence as he passed me. "That
witness of yours, the woman Strugnell, is the real culprit."

I tasted no dinner that day: I was sick at heart; for I felt as if the
blood of two fellow-creatures was on my hands. In the evening I sallied
forth to the judge's lodgings. He listened to all I had to say; but was
quite imperturbable. The obstinate old man was satisfied that the
sentence was as it should be. I returned to my inn in a fever of despair.
Without the approval of the judge, I knew that an application to the
Secretary of State was futile. There was not even time to send to London,
unless the judge had granted a respite.

All Saturday and Sunday I was in misery. I denounced capital punishment
as a gross iniquity--a national sin and disgrace; my feelings of course
being influenced somewhat by a recollection of that unhappy affair of
Harvey, noticed in my previous paper. I half resolved to give up the bar,
and rather go and sweep the streets for a livelihood, than run the risk
of getting poor people hanged who did not deserve it.

On the Monday morning I was pacing up and down my break fast-room in the
next assize town, in a state of great excitement, when a chaise-and-four
drove rapidly up to the hotel, and out tumbled Johnson the constable. His
tale was soon told. On the previous evening, the landlady of the Black
Swan, a roadside public-house about four miles distant from the scene of
the murder, reading the name of Pearce in the report of the trial in the
Sunday county paper, sent for Johnston to state that that person had on
the fatal evening called and left a portmanteau in her charge, promising
to call for it in an hour, but had never been there since. On opening the
portmanteau, Wilson's watch, chains, and seals, and other property, were
discovered in it; and Johnson had, as soon as it was possible, set off in
search of me. Instantly, for there was not a moment to spare, I, in
company with Armstrong's counsel, sought the judge, and with some
difficulty obtained from him a formal order to the sheriff to suspend the
execution till further orders. Off I and the constable started, and
happily arrived in time to stay the execution, and deprive the
already-assembled mob of the brutal exhibition they so anxiously awaited.
On inquiring for Mary Strugnell, we found that she had absconded on the
evening of the trial. All search for her proved vain.

Five months had passed away; the fate of Armstrong and his wife was still
undecided, when a message was brought to my chambers in the Temple from a
woman said to be dying in St. Bartholomew's Hospital. It was Mary
Strugnell; who, when in a state of intoxication, had fallen down in front
of a carriage, as she was crossing near Holborn Hill, and had both her
legs broken. She was dying miserably, and had sent for me to make a full
confession relative to Wilson's murder. Armstrong's account was perfectly
correct. The deed was committed by Pearce, and they were packing up their
plunder when they were startled by the unexpected return of the
Armstrongs. Pearce, snatching up a bundle and a portmanteau, escaped by
the window; she had not nerve enough to attempt it, and crawled back to
her bedroom, where she, watching the doings of the farmer through the
chinks of the partition which separated her room from the passage,
concocted the story which convicted the prisoners. Pearce thinking
himself pursued, too heavily encumbered for rapid flight, left the
portmanteau as described, intending to call for it in the morning, if his
fears proved groundless. He, however, had not courage to risk calling
again, and made the best of his way to London. He was now in Newgate
under sentence of death for a burglary, accompanied by personal violence
to the inmates of the dwelling he and his gang had entered and robbed. I
took care to have the deposition of the dying wretch put into proper
form; and the result was, after a great deal of petitioning and worrying
of authorities, a full pardon for both Armstrong and his wife. They sold
Craig Farm, and removed to some other part of the country, where, I never
troubled myself to inquire. Deeply grateful was I to be able at last to
wash my hands of an affair, which had cost me so much anxiety and
vexation; albeit the lesson it afforded me of not coming hastily to
conclusions, even when the truth seems, as it were, upon the surface of
the matter, has not been, I trust, without its uses.

THE CONTESTED MARRIAGE.

I had just escaped to my chambers one winter afternoon from a heavy trial
"at bar" in the King's Bench, Westminster, and was poring over a case
upon which an "opinion" was urgently solicited, when my clerk entered
with a letter which he had been requested to deliver by a lady, who had
called twice before during the day for the purpose of seeing me. Vexed at
the interruption, I almost snatched the letter from the man's hand,
hastily broke the seal, and to my great surprise found it was from my
excellent old friend Sir Jasper Thornely of Thornely Hall, Lancashire. It
ran as follows:--

"My Dear ----, The bearer of this note is a lady whom I am desirous of
serving to the utmost extent of my ability. That she is really the widow
she represents herself to be, and her son consequently heir to the
magnificent estates now in possession of the Emsdales--you remember how
they tripped up my heels at the last election for the borough of ------ I
have no moral doubt whatever; but whether her claim can be legally
established is another affair. She will tell you the story herself. It
was a heartless business; but Sir Harry, who, you have no doubt heard,
broke his neck in a steeple-chase about ten months ago, was a sad wild
dog. My advice is, to look out for a sharp, clever, persevering attorney,
and set him upon a hunt for evidence. If he succeed, I undertake to pay
him a thousand pounds over and above his legal costs. He'll nose it out
for that, I should think!--Yours, truly,

"Jasper Thornely.

"P.S.--Emsdale's son, I have just heard--confound their
impudence!--intends, upon the strength of this accession of property, to
stand for the county against my old friend ----, at the dissolution,
which cannot now be far off. If you don't think one thousand pounds
enough, I'll double it. A cruelly, ill-used lady! and as to her son, he's
the very image of the late Sir Harry Compton. In haste--J.T. I re-open
the letter to enclose a cheque for a hundred pounds, which you will pay
the attorney on account. They'll die hard, you may be sure. If it could
come off next assizes, we should spoil them for the county--J.T."

"Assizes"--"county"--"Sir Harry Compton," I involuntarily murmured, as I
finished the perusal of my old friend's incoherent epistle. "What on
earth can the eccentric old fox-hunter mean?" "Show the lady in," I added
in a louder tone to the clerk. She presently appeared, accompanied by a
remarkably handsome boy about six years of age, both attired in deep
mourning. The lady approached with a timid, furtive step and glance, as
if she were entering the den of some grim ogre, rather than the quiet
study of a civilized lawyer of mature age. I was at once struck by her
singular and touching loveliness. I have never seen a woman that so
completely realized the highest _Madonna_ type of youthful, matronly
beauty--its starlight radiance and mild serenity of sorrow. Her voice,
too, gentle and low, had a tone of patient sadness in it strangely
affecting. She was evidently a person, if not of high birth, of refined
manners and cultivated mind; and I soon ceased to wonder at warm-hearted
old Sir Jasper's enthusiasm in her cause. Habitually, however, on my
guard against first impressions, I courteously, but coldly, invited her
first to a seat, and next to a more intelligible relation of her business
with me than could be gathered from the letter of which she was the
bearer. She complied, and I was soon in possession of the following facts
and fancies:--

Violet Dalston and her sister Emily had lived for several years in close
and somewhat straitened retirement with their father, Captain Dalston, at
Rock Cottage, on the outskirts of a village about six miles distant from
Leeds, when Captain Dalston, who was an enthusiastic angler, introduced
to his home a gentleman about twenty-five years of age, of handsome
exterior and gentlemanly manners, with whom congeniality of tastes and
pursuits had made him acquainted. This stranger was introduced to Violet
(my interesting client) and her sister, as a Mr. Henry Grainger, the son
of a London merchant. The object of his wanderings through the English
counties was, he said, to recruit his health, which had become affected
by too close application to business, and to gratify his taste for
angling, sketching, and so on. He became a frequent visitor; and the
result, after the lapse of about three months, was a proposal for the
hand of Violet. His father allowed him, he stated, five hundred pounds
per annum; but in order not to mortally offend the old gentleman, who was
determined, if his son married at all, it should be either to rank or
riches, it would be necessary to conceal the marriage till after his
death. This commonplace story had been, it appeared, implicitly credited
by Captain Dalston; and Violet Dalston and Henry Grainger were united in
holy wedlock--not at the village church near where Captain Dalston
resided, but in one of the Leeds churches. The witnesses were the
bride's father and sister, and a Mr. Bilston, a neighbor. This marriage
had taken place rather more than seven years since, and its sole fruit
was the fine-looking boy who accompanied his mother to my office. Mr.
Grainger, soon after the marriage, persuaded the Dalstons to leave Rock
Cottage, and take up their abode in a picturesque village in Cumberland,
where he had purchased a small house, with some garden and ornamental
grounds attached.

Five years rolled away--not, as I could discern, _too_ happily when the
very frequent absences of Violet's husband in London, as he alleged (all
her letters to him were directed to the post-office, St. Martin's le
Grand--till called for), were suddenly greatly prolonged; and on his
return home, after an absence of more than three months, he abruptly
informed the family that the affairs of his father, who was dying, had
been found to be greatly embarrassed, and that nothing was left for him
and them but emigration to America, with such means as might be saved
from the wreck of the elder Grainger's property. After much lamentation
and opposition on the part of Emily Dalston and her father, it was
finally conceded as Violet's husband wished; and the emigration was to
have taken place in the following spring, Henry Grainger to follow them
the instant he could wind up his father's affairs. About three months
before their intended departure--this very time twelvemonth, as nearly as
may be--Captain Dalston was suddenly called to London, to close the eyes
of an only sister. This sad duty fulfilled, he was about to return, when,
passing towards dusk down St. James Street, he saw Henry Grainger,
habited in a remarkable sporting-dress, standing with several other
gentlemen at the door of one of the club-houses. Hastening across the
street to accost him, he was arrested for a minute or so by a line of
carriages which turned sharply out of Piccadilly; and when he did reach
the other side, young Mr. Grainger and his companions had vanished. He
inquired of the porter, and was assured that no Mr. Grainger, senior or
junior, was known there. Persisting that he had seen him standing within
the doorway, and describing his dress, the man with an insolent laugh
exclaimed that the gentleman who wore that dress was the famous sporting
baronet, Sir Harry Compton!

Bewildered, and suspecting he hardly knew what, Captain Dalston, in
defiance of young Grainger's oft-iterated injunctions, determined to call
at his father's residence, which he had always understood to be in
Leadenhall Street. No such name was, however, known there; and an
examination, to which he was advised, of the "Commercial Directory"
failed to discover the whereabout of the pretended London merchant.
Heart-sick and spirit-wearied, Captain Dalston returned home only to die.
A violent cold, caught by imprudently riding in such bitter weather as it
then was, on the outside of the coach, aggravated by distress of mind,
brought his already enfeebled frame to the grave in less than two months
after his arrival in Cumberland. He left his daughters utterly unprovided
for, except by the legal claim which the eldest possessed on a man who,
he feared, would turn out to be a worthless impostor. The penalty he paid
for consenting to so imprudent a marriage was indeed a heavy and bitter
one. Months passed away, and still no tidings of Violet's husband reached
the sisters' sad and solitary home. At length, stimulated by
apprehensions of approaching destitution--whose foot was already on the
threshold--and desirous of gratifying a whim of Emily's, Violet consented
to visit the neighborhood of Compton Castle (the seat, her sister had
ascertained, of the "celebrated sporting baronet," as the porter called
him) on their way to London, where they had relatives who, though not
rich, might possibly be able to assist them in obtaining some decent
means of maintenance. They alighted at the "Compton Arms," and the first
object which met the astonished gaze of the sisters as they entered the
principal sitting-room of the inn, was a full-length portrait of Violet's
husband, in the exact sporting-dress described to them by their father.
An ivory tablet attached to the lower part of the frame informed the
gazer that the picture was a copy, by permission, of the celebrated
portrait by Sir Thomas Lawrence, of Sir Harry Compton, Baronet. They were
confounded, overwhelmed, bewildered. Sir Harry, they found, had been
killed about eight months previously in a steeple-chase; and the castle
and estates had passed, in default of direct issue, to a distant
relative, Lord Emsdale. Their story was soon bruited about; and, in the
opinion of many persons, was confirmed beyond reasonable question by the
extraordinary likeness they saw or fancied between Violet's son and the
deceased baronet. Amongst others, Sir Jasper Thornely was a firm believer
in the identity of Henry Grainger and Sir Harry Compton; but
unfortunately, beyond the assertion of the sisters that the portrait of
Sir Harry was young Grainger's portrait, the real or imaginary likeness
of the child to his reputed father, and some score of letters addressed
to Violet by her husband, which Sir Jasper persisted were in Sir Harry's
handwriting, though few others did (the hand, I saw at a glance, was a
disguised one), not one tittle of evidence had he been able to procure
for love or money. As a last resource, he had consigned the case to me,
and the vulpine sagacity of a London attorney.

I suppose my countenance must be what is called a "speaking" one, for I
had made no reply in words to this statement of a case upon which I and
a "London attorney" were to ground measures for wresting a magnificent
estate from the clutch of a powerful nobleman, and by "next assizes"
too--when the lady's beautiful eyes filled with tears, and turning to her
child, she murmured in that gentle, agitating voice of hers, "My poor
boy." The words I was about to utter died on my tongue, and I remained
silent for several minutes. After all, thought I, this lady is evidently
sincere in her expressed conviction that Sir Harry Compton was her
husband. If her surmise be correct, evidence of the truth may perhaps be
obtained by a keen search for it; and since Sir Jasper guarantees the
expenses--I rang the bell. "Step over to Cursitor Street," said I to the
clerk as soon as he entered; "and if Mr. Ferret is within, ask him to
step over immediately." Ferret was just the man for such a commission.
Indefatigable, resolute, sharp-witted, and of a ceaseless, remorseless
activity, a secret or a fact had need be very profoundly hidden for him
not to reach and fish it up. I have heard solemn doubts expressed by
attorneys opposed to him as to whether he ever really and truly slept at
all--that is, a genuine Christian sleep, as distinguished from a merely
canine one, with one eye always half open. Mr. Ferret had been for many
years Mr. Simpkins' managing clerk; but ambition, and the increasing
requirements of a considerable number of young Ferrets, determined him on
commencing business on his own account; and about six months previous to
the period of which I am now writing, a brass door-plate in Cursitor
Street, Chancery Lane, informed the public that Samuel Ferret, Esq.,
Attorney-at-Law, might be consulted within.

Mr. Samuel Ferret was fortunately at home; and after a very brief
interval, made his appearance, entering with a short professional bow to
me, and a very profound one to the lady, in whom his quick gray eye
seemed intuitively to espy a client. As soon as he was seated, I handed
him Sir Jasper's letter. He perused it carefully three times, examined
the seal attentively, and handed it back with--"An excellent letter as
far as it goes, and very much to the point. You intend, I suppose, that I
should undertake this little affair?"

"Yes, if, after hearing the lady's case, you feel disposed to
venture upon it."

Mr. Samuel Ferret's note-book was out in an instant; and the lady,
uninterrupted by a syllable from him, re-told her story.

"Good, very good, as far as it goes," remarked undismayed Samuel Ferret
when she concluded; "only it can scarcely be said to go very far. Moral
presumption, which, in our courts unfortunately, isn't worth a groat.
Never mind. _Magna est veritas_, and so on. When, madam, did you say Sir
Harry--Mr. Grainger--first began to urge emigration?"

"Between two and three years ago."

"Have the goodness, if you please, to hand me the baronetage." I did so.
"Good," resumed Ferret, after turning over the leaves for a few seconds,
"very good, as far as it goes. It is now just two years and eight months
since Sir Harry succeeded his uncle in the title and estates. You would
no doubt soon have heard, madam, that your husband was dead. Truly the
heart of man is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked; and
yet such conduct towards such a lady"--Ferret intended no mere
compliment; he was only giving utterance to the thoughts passing through
his brain; but his client's mounting color warned him to change the
topic, which he very adroitly did. "You intend, of course," said he,
addressing me, "to proceed at law? No rumble--tumble through the
spiritual courts?"

"Certainly, if sufficient evidence to justify such a course can be
obtained."

"Exactly: Doe, demise of Compton, _versus_ Emsdale; action in ejectment,
judgment of ouster. Our friend Doe, madam--a very accommodating fellow is
Doe--will, if we succeed, put you in possession as natural guardian of
your son. Well, sir," turning to me, "I may as well give you an
acknowledgment for that cheque. I undertake the business, and shall, if
possible, be off to Leeds by this evening's mail." The acknowledgment was
given, and Mr. Ferret, pocketing the cheque, departed in high glee.

"The best man, madam, in all broad London," said I in answer to Mrs.
Grainger's somewhat puzzled look, "you could have retained. Fond as he
seems, and in fact is, of money--what sensible person is not?--Lord
Emsdale could not bribe him with his earldom, now that he is fairly
engaged in your behalf, I will not say to betray you, but to abate his
indefatigable activity in furtherance of your interests. Attorneys,
madam, be assured, whatever nursery tales may teach, have, the very
sharpest of them, their points of honor." The lady and her son departed,
and I turned again to the almost forgotten "case."

Three weeks had nearly glided by, and still no tidings of Mr. Ferret.
Mrs. Grainger, and her sister Emily Dalston, a very charming person, had
called repeatedly; but as I of course had nothing to communicate, they
were still condemned to languish under the heart-sickness caused by hope
deferred. At last our emissary made his wished-for appearance.

"Well, Mr. Ferret," said I, on entering my library, where I found him
composedly awaiting my arrival, "what success?"

"Why, nothing of much consequence as yet," replied he; "I am, you know,
only, as it were, just commencing the investigation. The Leeds parson
that married them is dead, and the old clerk is paralytic, and has lost
his memory. If, however, they were both alive, and in sound health of
mind and body, they could, I fancy, help us but little, as Bilston tells
me neither the Dalstons nor Grainger had ever entered the church till the
morning of the wedding; and they soon afterwards removed to Cumberland,
so that it is scarcely possible either parson or clerk could prove that
Violet Dalston was married to Sir Harry Compton. A very intelligent
fellow is Bilston: he was present at the marriage, you remember; and a
glorious witness, if he had only something of importance to depose to;
powdered hair and a pigtail, double chin, and six feet in girth at least;
highly respectable--capital witness, very--only, unfortunately, he can
only testify that a person calling himself Grainger married Violet
Dalston; not much in that!"

"So, then, your three weeks' labor has been entirely thrown away!"

"Not so fast--not so fast--you jump too hastily at conclusions. The
Cumberland fellow that sold Grainger the house--only the equity of
redemption of it, by the way--there's a large mortgage on it--can prove
nothing. Nobody about there can, except the surgeon; _he_ can prove Mrs.
Grainger's _accouchement_--that is something. I have been killing myself
every evening this last week with grog and tobacco smoke at the "Compton
Arms," in the company of the castle servants, and if the calves' heads
_had_ known anything essential, I fancy I should have wormed it out of
them. They have, however, kindly furnished me with a scrawl of
introduction to the establishment now in town, some of whom I shall have
the honor to meet, in the character of an out-and-out liberal sporting
gentleman, at the "Albemarle Arms" this evening. I want to get hold of
his confidential valet, if he had one--those go-a-head fellows generally
have--a Swiss, or some other foreign animal."

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