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 to Ipswich Grammar School, remaining there two years. Then he went into the South Lincoln Militia. At the opening of the Crimean War he got his hundred men to the line and so got a commission free in the 96th Regiment. From there he passed into the 41st Welsh Regiment, and, upon his corps being ordered to the West Indies, he resigned. "Starring" about the country as an actor was his next move, playing at Manchester, Brighton, Glasgow, Edinburgh, and other towns. It was whilst playing at Edinburgh that he met his wife—Louise Keeley, a very gifted woman. She was "starring" at Edinburgh when he arrived, and after the company had finished their week's playing she returned again. Mr. Williams had to remain behind. About ten days after seeing her he proposed, and in six weeks they were married.

"It was on the advice of Serjeant Parry that I went to the bar," he continued. "I paid my 100 guineas, and went into the chambers of Mr. Holl, a well-known barrister, and now a County Court Judge. You know how, after having been called to the bar, I turned my attention to criminal practice. I think I was successful, for in my first year I made 600 guineas. I was always considered famous at the Bar for my quickness in dealing with cases. As a magistrate to-day I have often disposed of some 70 charges at the Thames Police-court in the morning and 40 summonses in the afternoon.

"I remember once I was conducting a long firm prosecution before the Recorder. There were over a hundred witnesses to examine. I was in the midst of "polishing off" a witness, when I overheard a barrister's clerk say, 'There he goes. He's determined to finish the case to-night. He's due at Birmingham in the morning. All right! Go it! Archer up!'

"About this time I was a member of a club called 'The Kaffirs.' We used to meet every Saturday afternoon at the Café de l'Europe. Amongst the 'Kaffirs' were such men as Douglas Jerrold, Albert Smith, Keeley, Buckstone, Ben Webster, John Povey, Dion Boucicault and John Brougham—one of the most genial men who ever lived, and, I firmly believe, the author of 'London Assurance.' This was thirty years ago. Rejlander, a well-known photographer in those days, was a member, and it was a set rule of the club that all 'Kaffirs' should be photographed by him.

"I went to him one afternoon. He took me in several positions, when suddenly he turned to me and said, 'You've got the head of a Roman. Here, take off your collar.' I did so. Then he seized the cloth off the table and threw it round me in the form of a toga. I stood for my picture. When it was printed he handed it to me and said, 'You'll never beat that as a modern Cato! Mr. Williams handed me the original photograph with his permission to reproduce it in these pages.

Mr. Williams tells in his "Leaves of a Life" the sad reason why he had to retire from his labours at the bar; how that whilst in the midst of his speech on behalf of a prisoner he felt his voice going, never actually to return; how that a small piece of flesh was taken from his throat, and after analysis the decision was that he could live only two or three months. An operation alone might save him—an operation rarely successfully performed. But it was successful in his case, his life was saved, but it was questionable if ever he would regain his voice. When asked, one morning,