should be better men than we are. Let the boy be sworn."

On one occasion, before Maule, I had to defend a man for murder. It
was a terribly difficult case, because there was no defence except the
usual one of insanity.

The court adjourned for lunch, and Woollet (who was my junior) and I
went to consultation. I was oppressed with the difficulty of my task,
and asked Woollet what he thought I could do.

"Oh," said he in his sanguine way, "make a hell of a speech. You'll
pull him through all right. Let 'em have it."

"I'll give them as much burning eloquence as I can manage," said I,
in my youthful ardour; "but what's the use of words against facts? We
must really stand by the defence of insanity; it is all that's left."

"Call the clergyman," said Woollet; "he'll help us all he can."

With that resolution we returned to court. I made my speech for the
defence, following Woollet's advice as nearly as practicable, and
really blazed away. I think the jury believed there was a good deal in
what I said, for they seemed a very discerning body and a good deal
inclined to logic, especially as there was a mixture of passion in it.

We then called the clergyman of the village where the prisoner lived.
He said he had been Vicar for thirty-four years, and that up to very
recently, a few days before the murder, the prisoner had been a
regular attendant at his church. He was a married man with a wife and
two little children, one seven and the other nine.