I was utterly astounded at the change from the rude, rough bricklayer, scarred all over the face, to the clergyman-like appearance of this gentlemanly prisoner. I dared not laugh, but it was difficult to maintain my countenance. Deceive Baron Parke! I thought; he would deceive the devil himself, who knew a great deal more about parsons than Parke did. The learned Judge looked at him for a considerable time, as though he had never seen a prize-fighter before, and was determined to make the most of him. If the ghost of Hamlet had stood in the dock instead of the prisoner, he would not have surprised dear old Parke more than the prisoner did. It was a masterpiece of deception, notwithstanding my serious warning. On the jury, it so happened, was an elderly Quaker, in his full array of drab coat, vest, and breeches, with the regulation blue stockings. He had long whitish hair, and a Quaker hat in front of him on the ledge of the jury-box. He was what might be called a "factor" in the situation, which it was no easy matter to know in a moment how to deal with. He would be against prize-fighting to a certainty, but how far he might be inclined to convict a prize-fighter was another matter. At last I made up my mind in what way to deal with him, and it was this--not on the merits of the noble art itself, but on those of the case. If I could convince this conscientious juror that there _might be_ (that would be good enough) a doubt as to identity, it would be sufficient for my purpose; so I mainly addressed myself to _him_, after disposing of the young policeman pretty satisfactorily, leaving only his bare belief to be dealt with in argument. The young policeman's belief that _that there_ was the man showed what a strong young policeman he was. I asked the Quaker to allow me to suggest, for the sake of argument only, that _he_, the Quaker, should imagine himself putting off his Quaker dress, and assuming the costume of a prize-fighter, his hair cut so short that it would present the appearance of an aged rat; "then," said I, "divest yourself of your shirt and flannel--strip yourself, in fact, quite to the skin above your belt--and with only a pair of cotton drawers of a sky blue, or any other colour you might prefer, and, say, a bird's-eye _fogle_ round your waist, your lower limbs terminating in cotton socks and high-lows--with the additional ornamentation to all this elegant drapery of a couple of your front teeth knocked out--and I will venture to ask you, sir, and any one of the gentlemen whom I am addressing, whether you think your own good and respectable wife herself would recognize the partner of her joys?" The burst of laughter which this little transformation of the respectable, stout old Quaker occasioned I was in no way responsible for; but even Old Parke fell back in his seat, and said,-- "Mr. Hawkins! Mr. Hawkins!" I knew what that meant, and when the usher, by dint of much clamour, secured me another hearing, I continued,--