The Marquis of Salisbury, in the early days that I speak of, was a kind-hearted chairman, and would never allow the quibble of the lawyer to stand in the way of justice to the prisoner.  In those days at sessions they were not so nice in the observances of mere forms as they are now, and you could sometimes get in something that was not exactly evidence, strictly speaking, in favour of a prisoner by a side-wind, as it were, although it was not the correct thing to do.

It happened that I was instructed to defend a man who had been committed to Hertford Quarter Sessions on a charge of felony.  The committing magistrates having refused to let the man out on bail, an application was made at Judges’ Chambers before Mr. Baron Martin to reverse that decision, which he did.

“Not a rag of evidence,” said the attorney’s clerk when he delivered the little brief—­“not a shadder of evidence, Mr.  ’Awkins.  It’s a walk-over, sir.”

I knew that meant a nominal fee, but wondered how many more similes he was going to deliver instead of the money.  But to the honour of the solicitor, I am bound to say that point was soon cleared up, and the practice of magistrates, supposed to be in their right minds, committing people for trial with no “shadder” of evidence against them, it now became my duty to inquire into.  I asked how he knew there was no evidence, and whether the man bore a respectable character.

“Oh, I was up before the Baron,” he answered. ("Yes,” I thought, “but you must wake very early if you are up too soon for Baron Martin.”) “And the Baron said, as to grantin’ bail, ’Certainly he should; the magistrates had no business to commit him for trial, for there was not a rag of a case against the man.’  So you see, sir, it’s a easy case, Mr.  ’Awkins; and as the man’s a poor man, we can’t mark much of a fee.”

The usual complaint with quarter sessions solicitors.

Such were my instructions.  I was young in practice at that time, and took a great deal more in—­I mean in the way of credulity—­than I did in after life.  Nor was I very learned in the ways of solicitors’ clerks.  I knew that hearsay evidence, even in the case of a Judge’s observation, was inadmissible, and therefore what the Baron said could not strictly be given; but I did not know how far you might go in the country, nor what the Marquis’s opinion might be of the Baron.  I therefore mentioned it to Rodwell, who, of course, was instructed for the prosecution; he was in everything on one side or the other—­never, I believe, on both.

This stickler for etiquette was absolutely shocked; he held up his hands, began a declamation on the rules of evidence, and uttered so many Pharisaical platitudes that I only escaped annihilation by a hair’s-breadth.  He was always furious on etiquette.

Much annoyed at his bumptious manner, I was resolved now, come what would, to pay him off.  I wanted to show him he was not everybody, even at Hertford Sessions.  So when the case came on and the policeman was in the box, I rose to cross-examine him, which I did very quietly.