What the Judge Saw: Being Twenty-Five Years in Manchester by One Who Has Done It

by Sir Edward Abbott Parry

His readiness and resource were extraordinary and he said and did the most startling things without offending the most straight-laced judicial persons. Hopwood was presiding in a third court at the assizes, trying some of the minor prisoners. An old woman indicted for larceny had given McKeand a dock defence, and he rushed in at the last moment to make a speech on her behalf. It was clear he had not had time to study the depositions, but a few words from Ernest Jordan, who was devilling the case, put him on the right line, and he was soon in the middle of an eloquent harangue. Coming to the end of it he exclaimed, “And what, gentlemen, did the poor woman say when the magistrate’s clerk asked her for her defence. I will read you her very words, and I think you will agree with me that they bear the stamp of conscious innocence.” Ernest Jordan tried to stem the torrent of his eloquence here, feeling sure he was remembering another set of depositions, but it was no use. McKeand seized the papers and turned them rapidly over. “Let me read you her exact words. Ha! Here we are. Oh! H’m!” He faltered a little when he saw them. “Well, gentlemen, this uneducated woman does not put it as you or I would put it, but I said I would read her words, and I will. What she says is: ‘How the hell could I have the —— boots when he was wearing them?’ And, gentlemen,” continued McKeand in a concluding burst of eloquence,

“I ask you, with some confidence, how the hell could she?”

Charley McKeand must have been seriously thinking of taking silk when the end came, and a terrible end it was both to himself and his friends. After the summer vacation I went round to his house to see him, and found him on the eve of a visit to London to see Sir Frederick Treves.

The Manchester doctors had told him that he was suffering from cancer, and that they feared it was hopeless to operate. He was very calm about it, and did not expect any better verdict, but he thought it satisfactory to take another opinion. The opinion went against him, but he returned to his work, and for three months, though in great pain and under sentence of lingering death, continued his work with cheerfulness and energy. It was a noble example to those of us who fret over small troubles, and I do not think it was lost on any who witnessed it. In December he became too ill to continue work, and gave up his chambers. I last saw him at Brighton. We dined together, and I sat telling him old circuit stories and recalling cases we had fought together until late into the night. He came to the door to see me off, and I said I would look him up at home when he returned. He shook his head, and said with his delightful smile, “Not a bit of it, Parry. We have had an excellent evening, and this is the time to say good-bye.”

He died a few weeks afterwards, having been spared long enough to see his only child. Until the

tragedy happened I do not think any of us had fully understood what a force of quiet bravery there was in Charley McKeand.

I suppose I ought to remember Gully as Lord Selby, but for the life of me I cannot. As Gully we loved and admired him, and as Gully he will always remain to those of us who are proud to have been his juniors. Undoubtedly he was one of the best and most inspiring leaders that a band of advocates could honour.

There were those who said that Gully had had all the life hammered out of him by Charles Russell, but there was no truth in this at all. For years he had stood up against Russell in case after case, and it must be agreed that anyone who came in contact with that forceful genius had to stand a fair share of hammering. But Gully was chosen for the part because he was the fittest to enact it, and when Russell “went special” Gully naturally took his place as leader of the circuit, a position he held until he retired to a more honourable office. I was both with and against Gully in many cases. A barrister, like an actor or a sailor, is dependent for his happiness on his companions, and especially his superiors. Gully was peculiarly courteous and considerate to his juniors, Russell was often the reverse. The latter would turn round to a junior and, not getting the immediate answer he wanted, say, “What on earth are you doing?”

“Taking a note,” one junior replied with conscious rectitude.

“Don’t,” said Russell with an explosive interjection; “attend to the case.”