The Reminiscences of Sir Henry Hawkins (Baron Brampton) · Chapter 39Chapter XXXVI
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Ever since the establishment of itinerant justices, now considerably over seven hundred years, going circuit has been an interesting and important ceremony, attended with great pomp and circumstance. I had intended to give a sketch of my own drawing of this great function, but an esteemed friend, who is a lover of the picturesque, has sent me an interesting description of one of my own itineraries, and I insert it with the more pleasure because I could not describe things from his point of view, and even if I could, might lay myself open to the charge of being egotistical.
"When Sir Henry Hawkins stepped into the train with his marshal, he felt all the exuberance which a Judge usually experiences on going circuit.
"Going circuit is a pleasant diversion, and may be a delightful holiday when the weather is fine and cases few. I am not speaking of those northern towns where hard labour is the portion of the judicial personage from the time he opens the Commission to the moment when he turns his back upon his prison-house, but of rural Assize towns like Warwick and Bedford or Oakham, where the Judge takes his white gloves, smiles at the grand jury, congratulates them on the state of the calendar, and goes away to some nobleman's seat until such time as he is due to open the Commission in some other circuit paradise where crime does not enter.
"At Lincoln station on this present occasion there is a goodly crowd outside and in, some well dressed and some slatternly, some bareheaded out of respect to the Judge, and others of necessity, but all with a look of profoundest awe.
"But as they wait the arrival of the train, all hearts are beating to see the Judge. Alas for some of them! they will see him too soon and too closely.
"Most conspicuous is the fat and dignified coachman in a powdered wig and tam-o'-shanter cap, and the footman with the important calves. Clustered along the platform, and pushing their noses between the palisade fencing, seem gathered together all the little boys of Lincoln—that is to say, those who do not live at the top of Steep Hill; for on that sacred eminence, the Mount Zion of Lincolnshire, are the cloisters and the closes, where are situated the residences of Canons, Archdeacons, and other ecclesiastical divinities. The top of this mountain holds no communion with the bottom.
"On the platform—for the signal has been given that the judicial train is entering the station—ranged in due order are the Sheriff of Lincoln, in full robes, his chaplain in full canonicals, and a great many other worthy dignities, which want of space prevents my mentioning in detail. All are bareheaded, all motionless save those bosoms which heave with the excitement of the occasion.
"Although the chaplain and the Sheriff hold their hats in their hands, it is understood in a well-bred town like Lincoln there will be no cheers, only a deep, respectful silence.
"And so, amid a hush of expectation and a wondering as to whether it's Orkins, some saying one thing and some another, the train draws slowly in; a respectful porter, selected for the occasion, opens the door, and out leaps—Jack.
"Then bursts from the crowd a general murmur. 'There 'e is! See 'im, Bill!' cries one. 'There's Orkins! See 'im? There 'e is; that's Orkins behind that there long black devil!'
"He was wrong about the black devil, for it was the Sheriff's Chaplain, who will preach the Assize Sermon next Sunday in the Cathedral."
[A somewhat humorous scene once took place at Nottingham. An indefatigable worker on circuit, Sir Henry seemed to have the constitution of the Wandering Jew and the energy of radium. No doubt he had much more patience than was necessary, for it kept him sitting till the small hours of the morning, and jurors-in-waiting and attendants were asleep in all directions. He was the only one wide awake in court.
Even javelin-men fell asleep with their spears in their hands; the marshal dozed in his chair, ushers leaned against the pillars which supported the gallery, while witnesses rubbed their eyes and yawned as they gave their evidence.
A case of trifling importance was proceeding with as steady a pace as though an empire's fate, instead of a butcher's honour, were involved. One butcher had slandered another butcher.
The art of advocacy was being exercised between an Irishman and a Scotchman, which made the English language quite a hotch-potch of equivocal words and a babel of sounds.
The slander was one that seemed to shake the very foundations of butcherdom throughout the world—namely, an insinuation that the plaintiff had sold Australian mutton for Scotch beef; on the face of it an extraordinary allegation, although it had to find its way for the interpretation of a jury as to its meaning. Amidst this costly international wrangle the Judge kept his temper, occasionally cheering the combatants by saying in an interrogative tone, "Yes?" and in the meanwhile writing the following on a slip of paper which he handed to a friend:—
Hawkins First prize. Job Honourable mention."
Much earlier in the evening an application had been made by way of finding out how far the Judge "would go," as the man tests the wheels of an express. Every wheel had a good ring. He was prepared for a long run. Every case was to be struck out if the parties were not there.
After a while a feeling of compunction seemed to come over him.
"One moment," said he, after the case in hand had proceeded for an hour or so. "This case seems as if it will occupy some time; it is the last but three of the common jury cases, and—I mean to say—if the gentlemen of the special jury like to go till—seven o'clock this evening, they may do so, or they may amuse themselves by sitting in court listening to this case."
There was a shuffling of feet and a murmur like that of bees.
"Gentlemen," he said, "do whatever will be most agreeable to yourselves. I only wish to consider your comfort and convenience."
"A damned pretty convenience," said a special juryman, "to be kept here all night!"
"Return punctually at seven, gentlemen, please; you are released till then."
Any person who knows Nottingham and has to spend in that city two weary hours, between 5 o'clock and 7 p.m., wandering up and down that vast market-place, will understand the state of mind to which those special jurymen were reduced when they indulged in audible curses.
There was, however, an element in this condition of things which his lordship had not taken into consideration, and that was the Bar.
Several members were unnecessarily detained by this order of the court. Their mess was at the George Hotel; at seven they must be in court or within its precincts; at seven they dined. They chose the precincts, and sending for their butler, ordered the mess to be brought to the vacant Judge's room, the second Judge having gone away.
At seven the mess was provided, and those who were not engaged in court sat down with a good appetite and a feeling of delightful exultation.
Meanwhile his lordship proceeded with his work, while the temperature was 84°. Juries wiped their faces, and javelin-men leaned on their spears.
Now and then the sounds of revelry broke upon the ear as a door was opened.
At ten his lordship rose for a few moments, and on proceeding along the corridor towards his room for his cup of tea, several champagne bottles stood boldly in line before his eyes. He also saw two pairs of legs adorned with yellow stockings—legs of the Sheriff's footmen waiting to attend his lordship's carriage some hours hence.
The scene recalled the scenes of other days, and the old times of the Home Circuit came back. Should he adjourn and join the mess? No, no; he must not give way. He had his tea, and went back to court. He was not very well pleased with the cross-examination of the Irish advocate.
"Do you want the witness to contradict what he has said in your favour, Mr.——?"
"No, my lord."
"Why do you cross-examine, then?"
Now the catch of an old circuit song was heard.
"Call your next witness, Mr. Jones. Why was not this case tried in the County Court?"
(Sounds of revelry from the Bar mess-room.)
"Keep that door shut!"
"May the witnesses go in the third case after this, my lord?"
"I don't know how long this case will last. I am here to do the work of—"
("Jolly good fellow!" from the mess-room.)
"Keep that door shut!"
"What is your case, Mr.——?"
"It's slander, my lord—one butcher calling another a rogue; similar to the present case."
"Does he justify?"
"Oh no, my lord." It was now on the stroke of twelve.
"I don't know at what time your lordship proposes to rise."
"Renew your application by-and-by."
("We won't go home till morning!" from the mess-room.)
"Keep that door shut! How many more witnesses have you got, Mr. Williams?"
Mr. Williams, counting: "About—ten—eleven—"
"And you, Mr. Jones?"
"About the same number, my lord."
It was twenty minutes to one.
"I shall not sit any longer to oblige any one," said Sir Henry, closing his book with a bang.
The noise woke the usher, and soon after the blare of trumpets announced that the court had risen, as some wag said, until the day after yesterday.]
As the Midland Circuit was perhaps my favourite, although I liked them all, there would necessarily be more to interest me there than on any other, and at our little quiet dinners, for which there was no special hour (it might be any time between eight o'clock in the evening or half-past one the next day), there were always pleasant conversations and amusing stories. With a large circle of acquaintances, I had learnt many things, sometimes to interest and sometimes to instruct. Although I never sat down to open a school of instruction, a man should not despise the humblest teaching, or he may be deficient in many things he should have a knowledge of.
There was once an old fox-hunting squire whose ambition was to be known as a punster. There never was a more good-natured man or a more genial host, and he would tell you of as many tremendous runs he had had as Herne the hunter. After-dinner runs are always fine.
The Squire loved to hunt foxes and make puns.
We were sitting on a five-barred gate one evening in his paddocks, and while I was admiring the yearlings, which were of great beauty, I suddenly saw looking over his left shoulder the most beautiful head of a thoroughbred I ever beheld, with her nose quite close to his ear.
"Halloa, my beauty!" said he. "What, Saltfish, let me see if I've a bit of sugar, eh, Saltfish?—sugar—is it?"
His hand dived into the capacious pocket of his shooting-coat and brought out a piece of sugar, which he gave to the mare, and then affectionately rubbed her nose.
"There, Saltfish—there you are; and now show us your heels."
I knew by his mentioning the mare's name so often that there was a pun in it, so I waited without putting any question. After a while he said (for he could contain his joke no longer),—
"Judge, do you know why I call her Saltfish?"
"Not the least idea," said I.
"Ha!" he explained, with a prodigious stare that almost shot his blue globular eyes out of his head: "because she is such a capital mare for a fast day! Ha, ha!"
Suddenly he stopped laughing from disappointment at my not seeing the joke. He repeated it—"fast day, fast day"—then glared at me, and his underlip fell. At last the old man tossed his head, and whipped his boot with his crop. I have no doubt I deprived that man of a great deal of happiness; for if anything is disappointing to a punster, it is not seeing his joke. He had not done with me yet, however, and before abandoning me as an incorrigible lunatic, asked if I would like to see Naples.
"Naples! By all means, but not at this time of year."
"Oh, I don't mean the town—no, no; but if you don't mind a little mud, I'll show you Naples. Come along this lane."
"Watercourse, you mean. I don't mind a little mud," said I; "it washes off, whoever throws it"—and I looked to see what he thought of that, knowing he would tell it at dinner.
"Good!" said he; "devilish good! Wash off, no matter who throws it—devilish good!"
Down we came off the gate, and through the mud we went, he leading with a fat chuckle.
"You don't see the joke, Hawkins—you don't see the joke about that fast day;" and he gave me another look with his great blue eyes.
I didn't know it was a joke; I thought it was the mare's name, and I heard him mutter "Damn!"
"This is the way," he said angrily. We seemed to travel through an interminable cesspool, but at last reached the open, and coming to another gate, he extended his arms on it, after the manner of a squire, and said,—
"There, there's Naples. Isn't she lovely?"
"Where?" I asked.
"There; and a prettier mare you never saw. Look at her!"
"She's a beauty—a real beauty!" I exclaimed.
He breathed rather short, and I felt easy. His manner, especially the distending of his cheeks, showed me that he was about to bring forth something—a pun of some sort.
"Do you know," he asked, with another turn of his eyes, "why I call her Naples?"
"No, I haven't the faintest idea. Naples? no."
"Well," he said, "I've puzzled a good many. I may say nobody has ever guessed it. I call that mare Naples because she's such a beautiful bay."
I was glad I was not sitting on the gate, for I might have fallen and broken my neck. As I felt his eyes staring at me I preserved a dignified composure, and had the satisfaction of hearing him mutter again, "Damn!"
"This is our way," said he.
I have no doubt he thought me the dullest fool he ever came near.
Our adventures were not ended. We went on over meadow and stile until we came to "The Park," a tract of land of great beauty and with trees of superb growth. He was sullen and moody, like one whose nerves had failed him when a covey rose.
I saw it coming—his last expiring effort. In the distance was a beautiful black mare, such as might have carried Dick Turpin from London to York. He was watching to see if I observed her, but I did not.
"Look," he said, in his most coaxing manner, "don't you see that mare yonder—down there by the spinny?"
"What," I said, "on the left?"
"Down there! There—no, a little to the right. Look! There she is."
"Oh, to be sure, a pretty animal."
"Pretty! Why, there's no better bred animal in the kingdom. She's by —— out of ——."
"She ought to win the Oaks."
"Come, now, isn't she superb?"
"A glory. A novelist would call her a dream."
"Ah, I thought you would say so. You know what a horse is."
"When I see one," I said. "I thought you said this was a mare."
This is what the Squire thought,—
"Well, of all the dull devils I ever met, you are the most utterly unappreciative!"
He was at his wits' end, although you must be clever if you can perceive the wits' end of a punster.
"That's Morning Star," said he. "Now do you know why I call her Morning Star?"
I answered truthfully I did not.
"Why," he said, with a merry laugh, "because she's a roarer."
"What a pity!" I exclaimed. "But I don't wonder at it if she has to carry you and your jokes very far."
He took it in good part, and we had a pleasant evening at the Hall. He discharged a good many other puns, which I am glad to say I have forgotten. But there was a man present who was a good story-teller. Some I had heard before, but they were none the less welcome, while one or two I related were as good as new to my host and old Squire Fullerton, who had once been High Sheriff, and was supposed to know all about circuit business. He prefaced almost everything he said with, "When I was High Sheriff," so I asked him innocently enough how many times he had been High Sheriff, on which my host, being a quick-witted man, looked at him with a broad grin, while he balanced the nutcrackers on his forefinger.
"Well," said Fullerton, "it was in Parke's time."
"Yes; but which of them?" I asked. "Are you alluding to Sir Alan? They did not both come together, surely."
"Now, lookee, Fullerton," said my old friend, tapping the mahogany with the nutcrackers, as though he was about to say something remarkably clever; "one of 'em, Jemmy, had a kind of a cast in one of his eyes—didn't he, Judge?"
"Yes," said I; "but their names were not spelt alike."
"No, no!" cried the squire; "I'm coming to that. One eye was a little troublesome at times, I believe—at least they said so in my time when I was High Sheriff—and that made him a little ill-tempered at times. Now, that Judge's name was spelt P-a-r-k-e" (tapping every letter with his nutcrackers), "so the Bar used to call him 'Parke with an "e";' and what do you think they used to call the other, whose name was Park?—Come, now, Judge, you can guess that."
I suppose I shook my head, for he said, "Why, you told me the story yourself four years ago—ah! it must be five years ago—at this very table, when old Squire Hawley had laid two thousand on Jannette for the Leger. 'This is it,' said you; 'they call one of them Parke with an "e," and the other Park with an "i."'"
"Very well," I said, after they had done laughing at the way in which my host had caught me; "now I'll tell you what the Duke of Wellington said one morning. You recollect his Grace met with an accident and lost an eye, which was kept in spirits of wine. On asking him how he was, the Duke answered,—
"'Oh, Lord Cairns asked me yesterday the same question; and I said, "I am rather depressed, but I believe my eye is in pretty good spirits."'"