He was sometimes hard on those who were the objects of his personal dislike.  Of these Sir Charles Taylor was one.  He was not a welcome member of the Hooks and Eyes, and Jerrold knew it.  There was really no reason why Sir Charles should not have been liked, except perhaps that he was dull and prosaic; rather simple than dull, perhaps, for he was always ready to laugh with the rest of us, whether he understood the joke or not.  And what could the most brilliant do beyond that?

Sir Charles was fond of music.  He mentioned in Jerrold’s company on one occasion “that ‘The Last Rose of Summer’ so affected him that it quite carried him away.”

“Can any one hum it?” asked Jerrold.

CHAPTER XXIII.

ALDERSON, TOMKINS, AND A FREE COUNTRY—­A PROBLEM IN HUMAN NATURE.

Alderson was a very excellent man and a good Judge.  I liked him, and could always deal with him on a level footing.  He was quaint and original, and never led away by a false philanthropy or a sickly sentimentalism.

Appealed to on behalf of a man who had a wife and large family, and had been convicted of robbing his neighbours, “True,” said Alderson—­“very true, it is a free country.  Nothing can be more proper than that a man should have a wife and a large family; it is his due—­as many children as circumstances will permit.  But, Tomkins, you have no right, even in a free country, to steal your neighbour’s property to support them!”

I liked him where there was a weak case on the other side; he was particularly good on those occasions.

In the Assize Court at Chelmsford a barrister who had a great criminal practice was retained to defend a man for stealing sheep, a very serious offence in those days—­one where anything less than transportation would be considered excessive leniency.

The principal evidence against the man was that the bones of the deceased animal were found in his garden, which was urged by the prosecuting counsel as somewhat strong proof of guilt, but not conclusive.

It must have struck everybody who has watched criminal proceedings that the person a prisoner has most to fear when he is tried is too often his own counsel, who may not be qualified by nature’s certificate of capacity to defend.  However, be that as it may, in this case there was no evidence against the prisoner, unless his counsel made it so.

“Counsel for the defence” in those days was a wrong description—­he was called the friend of the prisoner; and I should conclude, from what I have seen of this relationship, that the adage “Save me from my friends” originated in this connection.