THE BOOK OF THE SEASON.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 463, 16 April 1890, Page 5

THE BOOK OF THE SEASON.

LEAVES FROM THE LIFE OF AN OLD BAILEY BARRISTER. THE REMINISCENCES OF MONTAGU WILLIAMS, Q.C. (from our special correspondent.) London, February 14. The pleasing expectations aroused by the announcement of the publication of MrMontagu Williams’reminiscenceshavebeen more than fulfilled by tho book itself. Since Sergeant Ballantine’s gossipy recollections provided professional diners-out with a new stock of anecdotes, there has been no volume of legal and social yarns equal to this one, and even the sergeant could not tell a good story better than Mr Williams. The ground traversed is in many respects the same as Ballantine went over, but it does nob seem stale, for though the learned sergeant and our author were employed together (and generally on tho same ’side) in every notable criminal trial and cause celebre for some twenty years, they evidently viewed their work through widely different spectacles. Mr Williams tried several professions before he resolved on following his father’s and being called to the bar. He was a schoolmaster for a short time, then a soldier for somewhat longer, and finally an actor for several years. Like Toole, Irving, and other now famous histrions, Montagu Williams served an arduous apprenticeship at the elder Wyndham’s Theatre in Edinburgh. There tho young man seems to have made rapid strides to the front since he was playing (he bells us) Chas. Courtlcy in “ London Assurance,” when the great Irving was merely “walking gentleman.” A runaway marriage with Miss Louise Keeley (daughter of the Mr and Mrs Keeley) materially bettered young Williams’ theatrical prospects, bub he tired of tho stage and in 1861 was called to tho bar. Mr Williams, senr., did noo apparently think over well of his son, and when the latter proposed to go tho same circuit, brusquely declined to permit him to hang on to the skirts of his gown. So young Montagu stayed in London, and, despite making a fiasco of his first brief, soon had streaks of luck and presently found himself in fair criminal practice. How this practice became in a few years the most extensive (bar one or two) at the Old Bailey,, you must read for yourself. “I have defended more criminals, I believe, than any man now living,” boasts Mr Williams.

Afc the zenith ot his career, when he had drifted into a more distinguished line of practice, taken silk, and seemed within easy reach of the highest honours at the bar, Montagu Williams was . struck down with a fell throat disease of somewhat similar character to the late Emperor Frederick’s. After courageously facing and recovering from an operation which seemed likely to be fatal tho popular Q C. found himself safe but almost voiceless. He was then appointed Police Magistrate to one of tho smaller Metropolitan Courts, and has gradually recovered his voice, which, however, will, not, even now, stand any great strain. Montagu Williams, like Ballantine, has always been by way of being a bon vivenr. Ilis select dinner parties (at which that most delightful of mothers -in - law, old Mrs Keeley, is often present) are famed, and so "are the host’s powers as a mimic and raconteur. Many of the stories told in “ Leaves of a Life ” gain, indeed, vastly in point and humour, when related, by Mr Williams himself. His description (for example) of the rouge-raddled prosecutrix (Mrs Borrodale), under examination in the Mdme. Rachel case, loses much of its force on paper. All the world will read “ Leaves of a Life.” Meanwhile, I append a few extracts: Tiie Thin Little Figure Underneath the Dock. Mr Williams regards his defences of Lefroy and Lamson as his master-pieces, and he prints his speeches on behalf of those notorious murderers in full as appendices. Describing the scene in court in the Lamson trial, he writes:—“l was very much impressed during this trial by tho conduct of the prisoner’s wife. She remained entirely staunch and faithful to him until the end. She had sacrificed everything in the way of money to obtain the "means to defend him. Day by day a thin little figure sab half-con-cealed behind the jury-box, and, as the public were leaving the Court every evening, this little figure would steal almost unobserved from its hiding-place, and, standing close underneath the dock, would take the prisoner’s hand and kiss it most affection • ately. This shows how true a woman can be ;"for I have little doubt now that she full well know her husband to be guilty.” Briefs from Thieves. “I am afraid,” says Mr Williams, “it would never do to inquire too curiously as to where, in these cases, the money comes from to instruct counsel. Very often in cases of pocket-picking, watch robberies, assaults on the police, etc., tho money repre-

sents the proceeds of what are termed ‘friendly leads,’ or meetings. The pris- * oner’s friends hold an harmonic meet- j ing at some public - house, where i small subscription is raised on his { behalf. The printed invitations to this meeting that are distributed in the . neighbourhood where the prisoner lives, are not drawn up in terms of absolute . frankness. It is not bluntly stated that i So-and-so is in prison, and in need of funds ( for his defence ; reference is, instead, made , to the unfortunate fact that, having been j incapacitated for work by breaking his leg, ’ ; or some accident of that description, he is ‘ in financial difficulties.” ( Messrs Lewis and Lewis in Years Gone By, Mr Williams gives an interesting picture of the famous house of Lewis and Lewis, , which was less famous in those days. Their office was in Ely Place, where Mr , George is now consulted by all the distinguished people in trouble. “Little James Lewis, the head of the firm, was a very sharp-looking fellow. . . . Georgo

Lewis, who was a very smart young man, and a most successful cross-examiner, did the principal business at the police-court. Old ‘.Uncle George,’ the brother of the senior partner, looked after the insolvency, i bankruptcy, dramatic, and civil business in a room at the top of the house. In those days there was an enormous quantity of insolvency and bankruptcy cases, and I should be sorry to say how many impecunious upper and middle class men were duly whitewashed through the .intervention of ‘ Uncle George.’ The Police. Of course, Mr Williams has a good deal to say about the police which we have no space to deal with here. • After describing the trial of the Clerkenwell exploders, he winds up :—“I cannot.help remarking that it is a curious coincidence that the same fault is being found with the police of today as was found with the police of 1868. Thus it may be inferred by some that since 1868 the force has not deteriorated; but this opinion I, for one, cannot endorse. In my judgment the force has deteriorated

considerably. lam not now speaking about its discipline and its capacity for keeping the streets, bub about its ability to detect crime. At the time of the Clerkenwell explosion we had a regular detective force—that is to say, a separate organisation for unravelling the mysteries and complications of crime—but that force we never hear of now.”

Montagu Williams’ Dog.

Mr Williams tells a good story, showing how a gang of dog thieves stole his dog “ Rob ” and then returned it to him for £2O. “ I ventured to remark to my acquaintances that they must be doing a thriving business, £2O being a large sum to receive for the restoration of one dog. The answer I received was that it was ‘ only two quid apiece, as there are ten of us in it, and it is share and share alike.’ I then remarked modestly that, knowing who I was, I thought it rather too bad of them to steal my dog. ‘Ah ! that’s tho best of it,’ said one of them. ‘ Lord, sir, you should have seen how my pal Bill here did laugh. ‘ Ain’t it rather hard,’ say 31, I to take tho counsellor’s dawg ?’ ‘ Nob a bit, Jim,’ says he ; * he’s had a good lot out of us, and why shouldn’t we get a little out of him ?’ ” Mr Williams Retires from the Bar.

Everyone has heard of the illness which nearly killed Mr Williams, who gives a dramatic account of its discovery, progress, and his ultimate recovery. He had called to consult Dr. Semon, of Welbeck-street, who had informed him of the nature of the fell disease which was prostrating him. Here is Mr Williams’ account: —“I was sitting in a chair opposite to him, and, without moving, I said: ‘That means death?’ He replied, * Yes.’ ‘How long?’I asked. ‘lmpossible to give a correct answer ; but a few months,’ was the reply. ‘Good God!’ I exclaimed, ‘there must be some alternative to this?’ He said: ' Yes, there is —an operation. But statistics are very much against you. I have prepared them for you, and have given tho names of two or three operators who have been successful.’ Never shall I forget what my feelings were as I stood in Oxford-street looking at tho passing cabs and omnibuses. I really thought that if I did not hasten and tell somebody of my trouble I should go mad. Dr. Hahn came over to London and tho operation was successful, as we all know. After a month Sir James Paget said: ‘Now, Montagu Williams, try and see if you can speak.’ And the first words that came from my lips were ‘Gentlemen of the jury.’” Sir Henry James as a W 7 hist Player. Mr Williams tells a good whist story, in which Mr Keeley, the famous old comedian, and Sir Henry James figure. Not many months before his death, Keeley was playing whist at the Garrick, his partner being Henry James, now Sir Henry. When the rubber was over, after a moment’s thought, he turned to James, and asked, “Why didn’t you lead spades?” The answer was: “I didn’t think it the game.” “ Well, then, you’re a fool,” said Keeley, and petulantly shuffled out of the room. Of course they were all rather astonished, but nobody ever took much notice. . . A few days afterwards, James and Keeley met again at the Garrick, Keeley running after James as if he were going to apologise. “I have been thinking,” said Keeley, with the stolid expression his face so often wore, “over that little affair about the spades, and I find that I was right—you are a fool.”