Brief for plaintiff. It was an action of ejectment, and there was, of course, the usual fictitious personage, John Doe; but the substantial plaintiff was a certain Reverend John Miller, and he sued to obtain possession of certain estates in C—shire, now in the occupation of Lady Woodlands, widow of Sir Harry Woodlands, of Woodlands, &c., baronet. The whole question turns upon the will made by the late Sir Harry Woodlands, in favour of the Reverend John Miller, leaving him sole devisee of all his estates, to the entire exclusion of his widow, Lady Woodlands, and her two daughters. The defendants dispute the will, but do not, we believe, intend to call witnesses. Of the three attesting witnesses, two are dead (curiously soon!), but the third, Sarah Varley, will prove testator’s signature, and that it was executed the day before the testator died. Such was the substance of my instructions. Turning to the “Landed Gentry,” I found “Woodlands, Sir Harry, of the Woodlands and Fairlawns, C—shire, baronet, high-sheriff, 17—.” Folding up my brief, I found on the back “Consultation at Serjeant Wasp’s chambers on Thursday next, at one.” On that day and hour, punctual to a minute, I knocked at the chambers of Serjeant Wasp, was admitted, and on the Serjeant’s looking up, I ventured to remark:
“Miller v. Woodlands, consultation to-day, sir, at one,” pulling out my watch to point the observation.
“Ah,” said the Serjeant, rising and slowly rubbing his hands together. “Good morning, Mr.—Mr.—”
I hastened so supply my name, which he repeated slowly.
“Ah!” he continued in a kindlier tone, as if thawing from a legal frost into every-day life. “Mr. B; any relation to Mr. B of Downshire?”
I intimated I was his son.
“Dear me!” said the Serjeant, shaking me by the hand, a genial smile lighting up his face—the frost seemed entirely gone—“dear me! Your father’s a very old friend of mine—havn’t seen him for these ten years—at college together—lived together on same staircase in Pump Court. Ah! he hadn’t come into his property then. I remember once—”
And then followed a story of other days, which lasted a quarter of an hour at least, during all which time he seemed to exhale warmth and summer. During this time I thought, “Could the great Serjeant have given me a helping hand, and mentioned me as a deserving junior?” No! it was ridiculous.
When the story was over I again suggested “Miller v. Woodlands.”
“Ah! I know,” said he. “Great will case at C assizes. Let me see, to-day’s Thursday; come on about next Wednesday; go down Tuesday—come to my chambers on Tuesday evening at eight—consultation with our side. Good morning, Mr. B; remember me to your father. Dear me, how time flies!” said the Serjeant, once more turning to his papers. The summer phase was past, and he seemed again frozen up into a kind of legal iceberg. So ended my consultation with Serjeant Wasp.
The following is from my diary:—
“C, Tuesday, March 21st, 17—.—Just back from the consultation—great excitement about this will case—the Woodlands family known and much respected about here—great sympathy expressed for Lady Woodlands. I am told the estate has been in the family three hundred years. What was the motive of Sir Harry in cutting them off? No evidence of his having ever had a quarrel with Lady W.—very odd! That’s not my business; ours won’t be the popular side to-morrow. By-the-bye, the Serjeant calculated quite correctly about the case coming on to-morrow. Lady W., has got Vizzard, Q. C, the leader of the circuit, against us, and Slimy for junior. The Rev. John Miller came to the consultation to-night—large stout man with small eyes. I don’t like him, and found a difficulty in being polite to him—says he was at college with the late Sir Harry—pities Lady W.; offered a compromise, which was resolutely declined. N.B. I don’t believe a word of it.
“Wednesday, March 22nd.—Plaintiff’s case over—crowded court—Lady W. sat it out. I am afraid she hasn’t a ghost of a chance. By the way, she looked more like a ghost than a living being—the case was quite straightforward—I opened the pleadings—the Serjeant made a masterly speech—the will was then put in—Sarah Varley, the only one of the three attesting witnesses living (the deaths of the other two witnesses is a curious circumstance, but their deaths were proved in the regular way), was called to prove the will; an ugly old woman and very deaf: she swore positively that Sir Harry, before signing the will, expressed his entire satisfaction at it when it was read over to him. In cross-examination, she was so deaf that Vizzard sat down discomfited. The Serjeant summed up his case, and the court then adjourned.
“Thursday, March 23rd.—The case is over. The defendants called no witnesses. Vizzard’s speech very eloquent—about three hours. The judge summed up briefly, and the result was a verdict for plaintiff. There was a suppressed groan when the verdict was given. Lady W. had fainted.
“Friday, March 24th.—My head swims, my hand shakes as I write, and I am hardly conscious of my own identity. I have just returned from the strangest scene. On leaving the court this afternoon, where I was conducting a small case, my sleeve was pulled by a tall woman, who asked to speak a few words with me. I stepped aside into an archway, and she said, hurriedly, ‘Sarah Varley is dying. She sent me to find Mr. D, the attorney. I can’t find him. She says she would see you—she has something most important to say—some secret. Come quickly, or she’ll be dead.’ Overcome by the woman’s eagerness I followed her, and we passed through several back streets and courts, until she stopped at a door in a dirty court. The woman pointed to an upper window, where a candle flickered and flared, and we passed up a creaking narrow stair. Sarah Varley was lying on a low bed in the corner. She was haggard and ghastly; there was a bottle near