Lex Talionis
A selection from "Leaves of a Life" by Montagu Williams, originally published in 1893 (most of the book details William's experiences as a London magistrate, in which capacity he participated in some of the more sensational murder trials of the day):
I have always been very fond of dogs, and believing as I do that no home is entirely comfortable without, at any rate, one of them, I presume that my fondness for the species will never be diminished. Some years ago I could boast the possession of one of the handsomest collies I have ever seen. What a splendid fellow he was! He was magnificently marked—black-and-tan; he had great, staring eyes, and his coat was as black as jet. As faithful a creature as ever came to heel, he was my particular companion and my particular friend. Fond enough of the rest of the household, and not averse to the caresses of the children, he was perfectly conscious that I was the boss.
My collie’s name was Rob. He was made a present to me by a very intimate lady friend of mine. She purchased him from one of the keepers of Fleur’s Castle, and handed him over to me with his name, age, and parentage written on a piece of paper attached to his collar.
One day, in the winter of 1877, while walking home from the Temple to my house in Upper Brook Street, I observed, in the shop windows, a number of handbills offering rewards for the restoration of “lost, stolen, or strayed” collies. The dog-stealers were having a good time of it. The “Forty Thieves,” as I afterwards learnt they styled themselves, were levying black-mail on the dog-owners living in the fashionable quarters of the metropolis. As I walked along, my favourite following an inch or two from my heel, and wearing the appearance of one who scented danger, the thought occurred to me: What if Rob were to be stolen—what if one of the dog-stealers, with a device which even he could not withstand, were to seduce my trusty vassal from his allegiance? The mere thought made me uneasy, and, on my return home, I gave special orders to the servants to keep a sharp eye on my favourite, warning them that I should hold every member of the household responsible for his safety.
Our joint anticipations—mine and Rob’s—were shortly afterwards realised. On the following Sunday morning the calamity occurred. Before I got up, Rob, who always slept in my room, crept noiselessly downstairs, no doubt thinking that, as it was the Sabbath, I was entitled to a little extra sleep, and ought not to be disturbed. Finding the front-door open, he strolled out into the street.
Soon afterwards I got up and whistled for my friend. There was no answer, and presently I discovered, to my horror, that he was gone. In a moment the whole household was in a state of consternation. The neighborhood was scoured. The police stations were visited, and inquiries were made in all quarters. We could not, however, find a trace of the dog. What on earth was to be done? What were the best steps to take to recover him? We held a family council, and came unanimously to the conclusion (a perfectly wrong one, by the way) that the wisest course was to employ a detective, and authourise him to issue handbills offering a reward for the restoration of the absentee. This was done, the reward offered being £10.
Day after day passed; new bills were issued, advertisements were inserted in the daily papers, the reward was doubled—but all in vain.
About three weeks after the date of my dog’s departure, I was sitting in my chambers reading briefs. My clerk entered, and announced that a man had called who stated that he wished to see me on urgent private business, but that he must decline to give his name. The man was shown in, and the moment the entered I had a correct presentiment as to the nature of his business.
“Lost a dawg, sir, I believe?” said he, “collie dawg, valuable dawg, sir. I’ve heard of one which answers to the description from nose to tail. If it’s all square and right, guv’nor, I knows a pal of mine as might be able to work the hanimal back.”
So anxious was I to recover Rob that I was willing to agree to any terms, and gave in without further parlance. It was arranged that I was to bring the money (£20) in gold to Shoreditch Church at half-past seven o’clock that night.
At the right time I sallied forth to keep my appointment. I don’t think I was ever out on a worse evening. The wind was blowing a hurricane, and a mixture of snow and hail was falling. It was certainly not a fit night to turn a dog out—but I was going to try and bring one home. Passing from King’s Bench Walk across the Temple Square, and through Serjeant’s Inn into Fleet Street, I hailed a hansom, jumped in, and, in about five-and-twenty minutes, was standing on the pavement outside the railings of Shoreditch Church.
For some time I stared anxiously through the snow and mist without seeing a soul. Presently, however, a man with a particularly halting gait, emerged into sight, and came shambling up to me.
“Dawg, sir?” said he, touching his hat, “come about a dawg lost in Upper Brook Street, £20 reward? Are you the gentleman?”
It was not a night to stand arguing, so I quickly gave the stranger to understand that I was the gentleman, that I wanted my dog, and that I was quite prepared to hand him over the money.
“Wait a minute, sir,” he said. “Business can’t be done in that sort of way. You are not on the cross, sir, by yourself? No coppers about, eh?”
I hastened to assure him that he had nothing to fear from me, that I had given the necessary promise to his agent in the morning, and that my word was my bond. To my astonishment and disgust, he then informed me that the dog was not in his possession, but that, if I followed him to the second-class refreshment-room at Bishopgate Station, the transaction should be completed. It was, I confess, with great difficulty that I kept my temper. Muttering something not very complimentary to my guide, I told him to lead the way, and that I would follow.
When we were close to the station, my companion was joined by another man. We all three then proceeded down the platform, to a dark corner near the second-class refreshment-room.
“Now, sir,” said the man whom I had encountered outside the church, “give us the quids, and in five minutes you shall have the dawg.”
I thought this a rather cool request, and explained that the proposal would not suit me at all. I was not such a fool, I said, as to hand him the money before he handed me the dog. A good deal of haggling then took place between us, and it was finally arranged that he should go and fetch the dog, while his friend remained by my side with the twenty sovereigns in his hand.
In a few minutes the man returned with Rob. The sagacious creature, on catching sight of me, nearly broke away from the rope by which he was led. The transaction was now duly completed; I took the dog, and the man who had restored the animal took the money.
It was bitterly cold, and wishing (for reasons I will presently explain) to know something more about my companions, I invited them to come into the refreshment-room and have something to drink. Needless to say, the offer was promptly accepted. Standing beside the bar, we had a tolerably long chat. My Shoreditch friend, after partaking somewhat liberally of hot whisky and water, described, in answer to my questions, the manner in which the dog had been abducted. He explained that he and his companions waited for days before they could capture Rob, and that, on being enticed from the street-door on the Sunday morning, he was bundled into a covered baker’s barrow in waiting round the corner.
I ventured to remark to my two acquaintances that they must be doing a thriving business, £20 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 somewhat modestly remarked that, knowing who I was, I thought it rather too bad of them to steal my dog.
“Ah! That’s the 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,’ says I, ‘to take the counsellor’s dawg?’ ‘Not 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?’”
The two scoundrels went into a fit of laughter, and I am very much afraid that I joined in the merriment. As I said before, however, I had my own reasons for prolonging the interview. The truth is, a friend and neighbor of mine, living in Norfolk Street, Park Lane, had lately lost her collie for the fourth time. For weeks she had been endeavouring in vain to recover the animal. I now introduced the subject of my neighbour’s loss, and was not long in discovering that the collie was in the hands of these Philistines. After ordering some more whisky and water for the party, I offered half the sum I had paid for the recovery of my own dog, for the recovery of my friend’s. This they seemed to regard as an excellent joke, and on my venturing to remind the Shoreditch gentleman that the collie in question was an old one and not so valuable as mine, the scoundrel replied:
“Quite true, sir; he’s and old ‘un, and not so much value in the market as the other. He wouldn’t do for exportation like yours” (here was a fate my poor friend had been saved from!); “but he belongs to a lady. She’s so fond of him; and the gents, too, they dotes on him. He’s a reg’lar old family relic. You must spring a good deal more on him before you can expect to get him back.”
This was rather more than I could stand, and feeling that there was no chance of the negotiations coming to a successful issue, I proceeded, in rather forcible terms, to give the speaker a piece of my mind.
“Not going to round on us, guv’nor?” he replied; “not going to round? We knew that we could take the counsellor’s word, and he ain’t a-going to break it?”
I at once put his mind at rest on that score. I added that though, according to the treaty, he was safe for that night, it was not likely I should forget the features and appearance of the man who had helped to deprive the “counsellor” of his favourite dog.
The interview was over. Muttering something, the two men hurried off. Rob and I jumped into a hansom, and within an hour, both of us were at home, asleep before the fire.
Two years passed away, and once more it was clear the “Forty Thieves” were at work. They levied contributions from the public with more daring than ever. Things came to such a pass, indeed, that the authorities had to take the matter up.
In my official capacity as Counsel the Treasury for the County of Middlesex, I was instructed to prosecute various dog-stealers who had been arrested by the police. The very first case of this description was that of a man who had frequently been convicted for the offence. By statute, the maximum punishment for dog-stealing, even after previous convictions, is only eighteen months’ hard labour; a dog, for some reason or other which I could never understand, being, by the law of England, regarded not as chattel. On reading the depositions before drawing the indictment, I found that the dog, when stolen, had a collar on. I resolved, therefore, to draw two indictments: one for felony (stealing the collar); the other for the statuable misdemeanour of stealing a dog, after previous convictions for the same offence. I determined to try the man for the misdemeanour first, and then, if he were convicted, to proceed with the charge of felony. The truth is, I had not forgotten the £20.
The indictments were preferred and found, and the prisoner came up to plead. Judge my astonishment and delight when I found myself face to face with my old Shoreditch friend. He recognized me at a glance, and the expression on the rascal’s face was most ludicrous. From start to finish of the trial, he never took his eyes off me once. During my opening of the case his face grew longer and longer. He seemed not to pay the slightest attention to his own counsel, Mr. Thorne Cole.
The jury returned a verdict of “Guilty”; and when I expressed my intention of trying the prisoner again, for the theft of the collar, he seemed to give a long, low kind of whistle.
The second trial took place, and the man was again convicted. He was sentenced to eighteen months’ imprisonment for the misdemeanour, and twelve months’ for the felony, the terms of confinement to run consecutively. It is a known fact that habitual criminals prefer penal servitude to two years of hard labour; and it was clear that the prospect of thirty months on the latter condition somewhat staggered the prisoner. He put his hand up to his head, and, looking very hard at me, muttered, as he was hurried off to the cells: “Thought he’d have me some day. He’s made me pay damned dear at last for those pieces.”
I have always been very fond of dogs, and believing as I do that no home is entirely comfortable without, at any rate, one of them, I presume that my fondness for the species will never be diminished. Some years ago I could boast the possession of one of the handsomest collies I have ever seen. What a splendid fellow he was! He was magnificently marked—black-and-tan; he had great, staring eyes, and his coat was as black as jet. As faithful a creature as ever came to heel, he was my particular companion and my particular friend. Fond enough of the rest of the household, and not averse to the caresses of the children, he was perfectly conscious that I was the boss.
My collie’s name was Rob. He was made a present to me by a very intimate lady friend of mine. She purchased him from one of the keepers of Fleur’s Castle, and handed him over to me with his name, age, and parentage written on a piece of paper attached to his collar.
One day, in the winter of 1877, while walking home from the Temple to my house in Upper Brook Street, I observed, in the shop windows, a number of handbills offering rewards for the restoration of “lost, stolen, or strayed” collies. The dog-stealers were having a good time of it. The “Forty Thieves,” as I afterwards learnt they styled themselves, were levying black-mail on the dog-owners living in the fashionable quarters of the metropolis. As I walked along, my favourite following an inch or two from my heel, and wearing the appearance of one who scented danger, the thought occurred to me: What if Rob were to be stolen—what if one of the dog-stealers, with a device which even he could not withstand, were to seduce my trusty vassal from his allegiance? The mere thought made me uneasy, and, on my return home, I gave special orders to the servants to keep a sharp eye on my favourite, warning them that I should hold every member of the household responsible for his safety.
Our joint anticipations—mine and Rob’s—were shortly afterwards realised. On the following Sunday morning the calamity occurred. Before I got up, Rob, who always slept in my room, crept noiselessly downstairs, no doubt thinking that, as it was the Sabbath, I was entitled to a little extra sleep, and ought not to be disturbed. Finding the front-door open, he strolled out into the street.
Soon afterwards I got up and whistled for my friend. There was no answer, and presently I discovered, to my horror, that he was gone. In a moment the whole household was in a state of consternation. The neighborhood was scoured. The police stations were visited, and inquiries were made in all quarters. We could not, however, find a trace of the dog. What on earth was to be done? What were the best steps to take to recover him? We held a family council, and came unanimously to the conclusion (a perfectly wrong one, by the way) that the wisest course was to employ a detective, and authourise him to issue handbills offering a reward for the restoration of the absentee. This was done, the reward offered being £10.
Day after day passed; new bills were issued, advertisements were inserted in the daily papers, the reward was doubled—but all in vain.
About three weeks after the date of my dog’s departure, I was sitting in my chambers reading briefs. My clerk entered, and announced that a man had called who stated that he wished to see me on urgent private business, but that he must decline to give his name. The man was shown in, and the moment the entered I had a correct presentiment as to the nature of his business.
“Lost a dawg, sir, I believe?” said he, “collie dawg, valuable dawg, sir. I’ve heard of one which answers to the description from nose to tail. If it’s all square and right, guv’nor, I knows a pal of mine as might be able to work the hanimal back.”
So anxious was I to recover Rob that I was willing to agree to any terms, and gave in without further parlance. It was arranged that I was to bring the money (£20) in gold to Shoreditch Church at half-past seven o’clock that night.
At the right time I sallied forth to keep my appointment. I don’t think I was ever out on a worse evening. The wind was blowing a hurricane, and a mixture of snow and hail was falling. It was certainly not a fit night to turn a dog out—but I was going to try and bring one home. Passing from King’s Bench Walk across the Temple Square, and through Serjeant’s Inn into Fleet Street, I hailed a hansom, jumped in, and, in about five-and-twenty minutes, was standing on the pavement outside the railings of Shoreditch Church.
For some time I stared anxiously through the snow and mist without seeing a soul. Presently, however, a man with a particularly halting gait, emerged into sight, and came shambling up to me.
“Dawg, sir?” said he, touching his hat, “come about a dawg lost in Upper Brook Street, £20 reward? Are you the gentleman?”
It was not a night to stand arguing, so I quickly gave the stranger to understand that I was the gentleman, that I wanted my dog, and that I was quite prepared to hand him over the money.
“Wait a minute, sir,” he said. “Business can’t be done in that sort of way. You are not on the cross, sir, by yourself? No coppers about, eh?”
I hastened to assure him that he had nothing to fear from me, that I had given the necessary promise to his agent in the morning, and that my word was my bond. To my astonishment and disgust, he then informed me that the dog was not in his possession, but that, if I followed him to the second-class refreshment-room at Bishopgate Station, the transaction should be completed. It was, I confess, with great difficulty that I kept my temper. Muttering something not very complimentary to my guide, I told him to lead the way, and that I would follow.
When we were close to the station, my companion was joined by another man. We all three then proceeded down the platform, to a dark corner near the second-class refreshment-room.
“Now, sir,” said the man whom I had encountered outside the church, “give us the quids, and in five minutes you shall have the dawg.”
I thought this a rather cool request, and explained that the proposal would not suit me at all. I was not such a fool, I said, as to hand him the money before he handed me the dog. A good deal of haggling then took place between us, and it was finally arranged that he should go and fetch the dog, while his friend remained by my side with the twenty sovereigns in his hand.
In a few minutes the man returned with Rob. The sagacious creature, on catching sight of me, nearly broke away from the rope by which he was led. The transaction was now duly completed; I took the dog, and the man who had restored the animal took the money.
It was bitterly cold, and wishing (for reasons I will presently explain) to know something more about my companions, I invited them to come into the refreshment-room and have something to drink. Needless to say, the offer was promptly accepted. Standing beside the bar, we had a tolerably long chat. My Shoreditch friend, after partaking somewhat liberally of hot whisky and water, described, in answer to my questions, the manner in which the dog had been abducted. He explained that he and his companions waited for days before they could capture Rob, and that, on being enticed from the street-door on the Sunday morning, he was bundled into a covered baker’s barrow in waiting round the corner.
I ventured to remark to my two acquaintances that they must be doing a thriving business, £20 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 somewhat modestly remarked that, knowing who I was, I thought it rather too bad of them to steal my dog.
“Ah! That’s the 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,’ says I, ‘to take the counsellor’s dawg?’ ‘Not 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?’”
The two scoundrels went into a fit of laughter, and I am very much afraid that I joined in the merriment. As I said before, however, I had my own reasons for prolonging the interview. The truth is, a friend and neighbor of mine, living in Norfolk Street, Park Lane, had lately lost her collie for the fourth time. For weeks she had been endeavouring in vain to recover the animal. I now introduced the subject of my neighbour’s loss, and was not long in discovering that the collie was in the hands of these Philistines. After ordering some more whisky and water for the party, I offered half the sum I had paid for the recovery of my own dog, for the recovery of my friend’s. This they seemed to regard as an excellent joke, and on my venturing to remind the Shoreditch gentleman that the collie in question was an old one and not so valuable as mine, the scoundrel replied:
“Quite true, sir; he’s and old ‘un, and not so much value in the market as the other. He wouldn’t do for exportation like yours” (here was a fate my poor friend had been saved from!); “but he belongs to a lady. She’s so fond of him; and the gents, too, they dotes on him. He’s a reg’lar old family relic. You must spring a good deal more on him before you can expect to get him back.”
This was rather more than I could stand, and feeling that there was no chance of the negotiations coming to a successful issue, I proceeded, in rather forcible terms, to give the speaker a piece of my mind.
“Not going to round on us, guv’nor?” he replied; “not going to round? We knew that we could take the counsellor’s word, and he ain’t a-going to break it?”
I at once put his mind at rest on that score. I added that though, according to the treaty, he was safe for that night, it was not likely I should forget the features and appearance of the man who had helped to deprive the “counsellor” of his favourite dog.
The interview was over. Muttering something, the two men hurried off. Rob and I jumped into a hansom, and within an hour, both of us were at home, asleep before the fire.
Two years passed away, and once more it was clear the “Forty Thieves” were at work. They levied contributions from the public with more daring than ever. Things came to such a pass, indeed, that the authorities had to take the matter up.
In my official capacity as Counsel the Treasury for the County of Middlesex, I was instructed to prosecute various dog-stealers who had been arrested by the police. The very first case of this description was that of a man who had frequently been convicted for the offence. By statute, the maximum punishment for dog-stealing, even after previous convictions, is only eighteen months’ hard labour; a dog, for some reason or other which I could never understand, being, by the law of England, regarded not as chattel. On reading the depositions before drawing the indictment, I found that the dog, when stolen, had a collar on. I resolved, therefore, to draw two indictments: one for felony (stealing the collar); the other for the statuable misdemeanour of stealing a dog, after previous convictions for the same offence. I determined to try the man for the misdemeanour first, and then, if he were convicted, to proceed with the charge of felony. The truth is, I had not forgotten the £20.
The indictments were preferred and found, and the prisoner came up to plead. Judge my astonishment and delight when I found myself face to face with my old Shoreditch friend. He recognized me at a glance, and the expression on the rascal’s face was most ludicrous. From start to finish of the trial, he never took his eyes off me once. During my opening of the case his face grew longer and longer. He seemed not to pay the slightest attention to his own counsel, Mr. Thorne Cole.
The jury returned a verdict of “Guilty”; and when I expressed my intention of trying the prisoner again, for the theft of the collar, he seemed to give a long, low kind of whistle.
The second trial took place, and the man was again convicted. He was sentenced to eighteen months’ imprisonment for the misdemeanour, and twelve months’ for the felony, the terms of confinement to run consecutively. It is a known fact that habitual criminals prefer penal servitude to two years of hard labour; and it was clear that the prospect of thirty months on the latter condition somewhat staggered the prisoner. He put his hand up to his head, and, looking very hard at me, muttered, as he was hurried off to the cells: “Thought he’d have me some day. He’s made me pay damned dear at last for those pieces.”
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