Part 17 (1/2)

Good cases are easy--they do not need winning; they will do their own work if you only leave them alone. Bad cases require all your attention; they want much propping, and your only chance is that, if you cannot win, your opponent may _lose_.

But nothing in the chatter about the Bar is more erroneous than the talk of the tremendous incomes of counsel. A man is never estimated at his true worth in this world, certainly not a barrister, actor, physician, or writer; and as for incomes, no one can estimate his neighbour's except the Income-tax Commissioners. They get pretty near sometimes, however, without knowing it.

One morning I was riding in the Park when old Sam Lewis, the great money-lender, a man for whom I had much esteem, and about whom I will relate a little story presently, came alongside. We were on friendly and even familiar terms, although I never borrowed any money of him in my life.

”Why, Mr. Hawkins,” said he, ”you seem to be in almost everything.

What a fortune you must be piling up!”

”Not so big as you might think,” I replied.

”Why, how many,” he rejoined, ”are making as much as you? A good many are doing twenty thousand a year, I dare say, but--”

Here I checked his curiosity by asking if he had ever considered what twenty thousand a year meant.

He never had.

”Then I will tell you, Lewis. _You_ may make it in a day, but to us it means five hundred golden sovereigns every week in the working year!”

It somewhat startled him, I could see, and it effected my object without giving offence. What did it matter to Sam Lewis what my income was?

”There are men who make it,” he answered.

”Some men have made it,” I said; ”and I know some who make more, but will never own to it, ask who may.”

I may say I liked Sam Lewis, and having told the story of the Queen's Counsel who _borrowed_ my money in so dishonest a manner, I will tell one of Sam, the professional money-lender.

He never was known to take advantage of a man in difficulties, and he never did, nor to charge any one exorbitant interest. I have known him lend to men and allow them to fix their own time of payment, their own rate of interest, and their own security. He often lent without any at all. He knew his men, and was not fool enough to trust a rogue at any amount of interest. He was known and respected by all ranks, and never more esteemed than by those who had had pecuniary transactions with him. He was the soul of honour, and his transactions were world-wide; business pa.s.sed through his hands that would have been entrusted nowhere else; so that he was rich, and no one was more deservedly so.

Here is an incident in Lewis's business life that will show one phase of his character.

He held a number of bills, many of which were suspected by him to be forged--that is to say, that the figures had been altered after the signature of the acceptor had been written.

They were all in the name of Lord ----.

One day Lewis met his lords.h.i.+p in the Park, and mentioned his suspicion, at the same time inviting him to call and examine the bills. The n.o.ble lord was a little amazed, and proceeded at once to Lewis's office. Seating himself on one side of the table with his lords.h.i.+p on the other, Lewis handed to him the bills one by one and requested him to set aside those that were forged.

The separation having been made, it appeared that over _twenty thousand-pounds' worth of the bills were forged_! The n.o.ble lord was a little startled at the discovery, but his mind was soon eased by Lewis putting the whole of the forged bills into the fire.

”There's an end of them, my lord,” said he. ”We want no prosecution, and I do not wish to receive payment from you. I ought to have examined them with more care, and you ought not to have left s.p.a.ce enough before the first figure to supplement it by another. The rogue could not resist the temptation.”

So ended this monetary transaction, creditable alike to the honour and generosity of the money-lender.

The most steady of minds will sometimes go on the tramp. This was never better ill.u.s.trated than when the young curate was being married, and the officiating clergyman asked him the formal question, ”Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife?”

The poor bridegroom, losing self-control, and not having yet a better half to keep him straight, answered, ”That is my desire,” antic.i.p.ating by a considerable period a totally different religious ceremony of the Church--namely, the Baptism of Infants. In his antic.i.p.ation the young man had overreached the necessities of the situation.

This momentary digression leads me to the following story. I was staying at the house of an old friend, a wealthy Hebrew, while another of the guests was Arthur A'Becket. As will sometimes happen when you are in good spirits, the conversation took a religious turn. We drifted into it unconsciously, and our worthy host was telling us that he was in the habit of praying night and morning. Being in a communicative mood, I said, ”Well, since you name it, I sometimes say a little prayer myself.” The Hebrew was attentive, and seemed not a little surprised. ”This is especially the case in the morning,” I added. ”But once upon a time my mind wavered a little between business and prayer, and I found myself in the midst of my devotional exercise saying, 'Gentlemen of the jury.'”

”Thank G.o.d!” cried A'Becket, ”our friend Hawkins is not a Unitarian.”