Of the law agents, a genus I think peculiar to South Africa, and in those days, at least, admitted without having to give the most infinitesimal proof of their legal knowledge, I shall not say much. Some were very good men and fair lawyers, but as a rule they consisted of “ne’er do wells,” who having failed in every thing turned to the law as a dernier ressort. The worst of them had no education, no brains, and no money, their sole stock in trade being an absolutely unlimited amount of arrogance which enabled them to prey upon the public. A few men of this class were, until recently, still to be found on the Diamond Fields.
The arrangements for juries were needlessly troublesome. Many classes of persons being exempt, the drawing for juries pressed heavily on the poor digger, who, while compelled to wait day after day in the precincts of the court, was beset with fears, not improbably well grounded, that his “boys” (native laborers) were appropriating to their own use any diamond they might discover. Despite the unpleasantness and loss entailed by serving on a jury, few diggers neglected to answer to their names.
For whatever reason the lawyers were not generally long-lived. I saw a list made out by a legal friend of mine, when in a somewhat gloomy frame of mind the other day, according to which some twenty had died since the opening of the Diamond Fields.
I cannot help here mentioning the sudden end of one of the leaders of the Bar at the time, and a man well known in South Africa. I was an eye-witness of the tragic occurrence. Mr. Advocate Walker, many years prior to the opening of the Diamond Fields, had enjoyed an extensive and lucrative practice in Natal, and at the time of which I am now speaking was conducting the defence of a case in which I was interested. Driving home from my consulting-room on the evening of the day before which the case was expected to be called, I pulled up at Mr. Walker’s house to have a final consultation on some points I thought of importance. I found him smoking his cigar by the fire, looking somewhat unwell, but without anything in his appearance to lead me to anticipate the awful catastrophe impending. I put my questions to him, and for an answer, Mr. W. extending his arms remarked, “Don’t bother, certain to win to-morrow.” As he uttered the last word, he gave a sudden start, bounded from his seat, while from his mouth a jet of bright crimson blood spurted against the wall opposite. For him to-morrow came not. He never spoke again. An aneurism of the heart had given way and in a few seconds he was a corpse. Ever since that melancholy event, I have experienced a sense of no little uneasiness when the probable results of “to-morrow” have been discounted “to-day.” As the poet says “to-morrows cheat us all,” and thus it was in the case of poor Walker.
On mentioning this incident to a friend of mine he drew my attention to the following exquisite lines, which I think are worthy of reproduction here:
“We will gather flowers to-morrow,
When the mist of rain is o’er,
When the air is warm and sunny,
And the tempest howls no more.”
But the flowers are parched and faded,