The quarter sessions of the county, holden at Preston and at Salford, were, when I first went to Manchester, very thriving and busy institutions. They were both presided over by William Housman Higgin, Q.C., a Lancashire worthy of an old-fashioned type. He took great pride in the orderly administration of justice at his sessions, and conceived the Lancashire county justices to be ideal managers of county affairs. It was, indeed, generally admitted by the enemies of the system that Lancashire gained very little from the practical point of view by the institution of a county council, so excellently had the magistrates done their work. It grieved Higgin as years went on to see the new borough sessions of Oldham, Salford, Blackburn, and Burnley carved out of his district and diminishing the prestige of his most ancient jurisdiction, and he argued from a public point of view that as the leaders of the junior bar could not attend at these minor sessions, the work would never be done with its old efficiency. Be this as it may, it is certain that there is to-day no school of advocacy comparable to Higgin’s quarter sessions when they were led by
Shee, Falkner Blair, and Charlie McKeand in the criminal cases, and Sutton, Bradbury, and Yates in the rating and licensing appeals.
Higgin wore a beard, and his movements were greatly impeded by gout. There was, perhaps, no great outward appearance of dignity in his presence, but, sitting in court when he was on the bench, I always felt that I could realise the phrase “the majesty of the law.” Everything, however trivial, was conducted in the grand manner, and if Higgin was not without humour outside the court, within its walls he did not allow this to escape even by the twinkle of an eye.
I remember at Preston a little juryman of a fussy nature claiming to affirm instead of taking an oath. The matter was referred to Higgin, who bowed gravely and said, “By all means, let the gentleman affirm.”
This did not satisfy the little juror, who, with impudent insistence, called out in a shrill voice, “But I claim a right to affirm. I claim it as of right.”
“Oh!” said Higgin, suavely, looking down on the unfortunate little man as a dignified cat might look at a mouse. “Oh! you claim it as of right. And on what ground, may I ask?”
The little juror flushed with pleasure. Higgin was giving him the opportunity he had been looking for.
“Because I am an atheist,” he blurted out: “I do not believe in a God.”
Higgin gave him a withering look and waved him out of the box with his gouty hand, and another juror was chosen and sworn. Even then, outraged as Higgin’s feelings were, I think nothing would have happened, but the pertinacious juror jumped up and said, “I suppose I may go.”
This was too much for Higgin’s patience, and with all the solemnity at his command Higgin delivered the following sentence: “No, sir, you may not go. You are summoned here as a citizen to take part in these proceedings as a juror. If I am to believe your word—and, unfortunately, I see no reason to doubt it—the oath that has been offered to you would not be binding on your conscience, and there is no law enabling you to qualify yourself for your duties. At the same time, you have been rightly summoned here, and it is your duty to be present from the sitting of the court at nine-thirty until the court rises for the day. Go into yonder gallery,” continued Higgin, pointing up to a solitary gallery opposite the bench, “and continue there, under pain of fine and imprisonment, until the sessions are concluded, from which place it will be your privilege to watch the proceedings of twelve honest Englishmen who do believe in God.”