Henry Northcote

by J. C. Snaith

“The terrible miscarriage of justice which occurred a year ago in this court, for which I alone can accept responsibility, for which to this present hour I have not ceased to mourn, would not have taken place had the defence been in a position to present its testimony, and to marshal its facts with a skill equal to that enjoyed by the prosecution. The most material issue in the case was never presented at all. Its existence was not even revealed. Neither the prosecuting counsel nor the presiding judge was aware that the defence had this implement in its possession until long after this miscarriage had been consummated. Do not misunderstand me, gentlemen; I hold no brief for myself; I accept the whole of the responsibility for what took place. It was my duty to unveil that which was hidden, and to present it adequately to the jury. I failed in that duty, because from the beginning of the case the defence was overshadowed. The actual murderer himself was called in evidence by the Crown; it was upon his unshaken testimony that the verdict was rendered; but as was only learned when too late, had one obscure question been pressed home in cross-examination to this murderer who had perjured himself to conceal his guilt, his testimony could not have lived five minutes in any impartial mind, and a lamentable, a grievous miscarriage of justice would not have stained the annals of this English justice of which very rightly and properly we are so proud.”

Again a profound silence had descended upon the court. The painful and close-breathing intensity with which all in that crowded assembly had followed the prisoner’s advocate through the devious courses of his address was now extended to the judge. There was nothing in the words he used to call forth this hush of excited expectation, but the emotion with which they were invested seemed to furnish them with life and magnetism.

“All his life,” whispered the fat barrister to his friend, in a tone of curious tenderness, “he has been a blusterer and a blunderer, overanxious, pedantic, weak-willed, easily led, but—but his end is glorious. This is a note he has never touched before.”

“This state defence of prisoners is so much mischievous nonsense,” said the other almost angrily. “Where does he suppose it will land the country? A judge has no right to advance such an opinion from the bench.”

“Bill,” said the fat barrister, with a solemnity for which none of his friends would have been prepared, “when you have been one of His Majesty’s judges for twenty-five years you may not hold quite such definite opinions. Dear old Bow-wow; all the world knows that underneath his armor he has kept the kindest heart that ever beat, but this is the first time he has made me feel that I wanted to blub.”

“’Pon my word, Jumbo,” said his friend, impatiently, “don’t you begin. We have had enough mawkishness this afternoon to last us for the rest of our lives. I expect Weekes will be falling on the neck of Topott soon, and the clerk will be kissing the sheriff.”

“Dear old Bow-wow, dear old boy, how old he is getting. They say this John Davis affair has cut him up dreadfully. There is not a judge on the bench who would feel it more.”

“Probably the weakest judge who ever took his seat on the bench. What is he maundering about now? Ah, at last he’s got to the summing-up.”

The hour was advancing, and happily the judge’s speech was not of the length which at one time it had threatened to be. The summing-up was short but indecisive. It was plain that the prisoner’s advocate had done his work with the judge as well as with the jury. There was nothing in the judge’s presentment of the evidence, which at one time had looked so damning, to compare with the resolution and conviction of Northcote. The magnetic splendor and brilliancy which had overcome, one by one, the twelve good men and true in the box, had fastened also upon this old man. His confidence was shaken, and the definite line the counsel for the Crown had so confidently expected him to take was far to seek.

“This is doing us no good,” grunted Mr. Weekes to his junior. By now the leader for the Crown was in a very bad temper. His afternoon had been wasted, he was going to be late for his dinner, and he was about to lose a verdict upon which he had counted with certainty. “My dear Bow-wow, you are positively maudlin. Why the deuce don’t you leave the doubt alone and confine yourself to the evidence? There is no doubt. There is not a leg for them to stand on.”