CHAPTER XLVII
A FAREWELL MEMORY OF JACK.
Poor little Jack is dead!
It is a real grief to me. A more intelligent, faithful, and affectionate creature never had existence, and to him I have been indebted for very many of the happiest hours of my life.
Poor dear little Jack! he lived with me for many years; and at last, I believe, some miscreant poisoned him, for he was taken very ill with symptoms of strychnine, and died in a few hours in the early morning of May 24, 1894. I was with him when he died.
I never replaced him, and to this hour have never ceased to be sad when I think of the merciless and cruel fate by which the ruffian put an end to his dear little life.
He was buried under some shrubs in Hyde Park, where I hope he sleeps the sleep of good affectionate dogs.
It is ten years ago, and yet there is no abatement of my love for him, hardly any of my sorrow. He always occupied the best seat in the Sheriff's carriage on circuit, and looked as though he felt it was his right. He slept by my side on a little bed of his own. At Norwich, I think, he made his first appearance in state. The moment he entered the house he appropriated to himself the chair of state, which had been provided by the local upholsterer for the express use of Queen Alexandra, then Princess of Wales, on her first visit to Norwich to confer honour and happiness on Queen Victoria's subjects in the eastern counties.
Nobody, however, molested Jack in his seat, and, I believe, had it been one of the seats for the county there would have been no petition to disturb him. He would have been as faithful a member as the immortal Toby, M.P. for Barkshire, of Mr. Punch, to whom ever my best regards. Jack considered himself entitled to precedence wherever he went, and maintained it. He was a famous judge of upholstery, and the softest chair or sofa, hearthrug or divan, was instantly appropriated. This sometimes made the local dignitaries sit up a little. They might be accustomed to the dignity of one of her Majesty's Judges, but the impudence of her Majesty's "Jack"—for so he deemed himself on circuit—was a little beyond their aldermanic natures.
I was much and agreeably surprised to find that the Press everywhere sympathized with my loss of Jack, and many an extract I made containing their very kind remarks. My room might have been one of Romeike's cutting-rooms. Here is one I will give as a sample. I am sorry I cannot positively state the name of the journal, but I am almost sure it is from the Daily Telegraph.
"An item of judicial intelligence, which may not everywhere be duly appreciated, is the death of Mr. Justice Hawkins's fox terrier Jack. Jack has been his lordship's most constant friend for many years. With some masters such a useful dog as he was would have found going on circuit a bore; but with Sir Henry Hawkins, who knows what kind of life suits a dog, and likes to see that he enjoys it, going on circuit was a career of adventure. The Judge was always out betimes to give Jack a long morning walk, and when his duties took him to small county towns he often rose with the farmers for no other purpose."
Here is another paragraph; and I should like to be able to give the writer's name, for it is very pleasant at all times to find expression of true love for animals, whose devotion and faithfulness to man endear them to us:—
"Sir Henry Hawkins has my sincere sympathy in his great bereavement. Jack, the famous fox terrier who accompanied his master everywhere, is dead. Innumerable are the things told of Jack's devotion to Sir Henry, and of Sir Henry's devotion to Jack. I first made their acquaintance at Worcester Railway Station some years ago, when I saw Jack marching solemnly in the procession of officials who had come with wands and staves and javelins to receive Sir Henry Hawkins at the opening of the Assizes. Jack was on one or two special occasions, I believe, accommodated with a seat on the Bench; and at Maidstone, when the lodgings caught fire, Sir Henry rushed back at the risk of his life to save his faithful little dog."
These are small memories, perhaps, but to me more dear than the praises too often unworthily bestowed on actions unworthy to be recorded.
But here I pause. Jack rests in his little grave in Hyde Park, and I sometimes go and look on the spot where he lies. Many and many an affectionate letter was written to me bewailing the loss of our little friend.
Only one of these I shall particularly mention, because it shows how immeasurably superior was Jack to the lady who wrote it, in that true and sincere feeling which we call friendship, and which, to my mind, is the bond of society and the only security for its well-being. She was a lady who belonged to what is called "Society," the characteristic of which is that it exists not only independently of friendship, but in spite of it.
After condoling with me on my loss and showing her sweet womanly sympathy, she concluded her letter by informing me that she had "one of the sweetest pets eyes ever beheld, a darling devoted to her with a faithfulness which would really be a lesson to 'our specie,'" and that, in the circumstances, she would let me have her little darling for five pounds. I was so astonished and angry at the meanness of this "lady of fashion" that I said—Well, perhaps my exact expression had better be buried in oblivion.
BALLAD OF THE UNSURPRISED JUDGE, 1895.[A]
[Footnote A: It was a well-known expression of Sir Henry Hawkins when on the Bench, "I should be surprised at nothing;" and after the long and strange experiences which these reminiscences indicate, the literal truth of the observation is not to be doubted. This clever ballad, which was written in 1895, seems sufficiently appropriate to find a place in these memoirs, and I wish I knew the name of the writer, that my thanks and apologies might be conveyed to him for this appropriation of them.]
("Mr. Justice Hawkins observed, 'I am surprised at nothing,'"—Pitts v. Joseph, "Times" Report, March 27.)
All hail to Sir Henry, whom nothing surprises!
Ye Judges and suitors, regard him with awe,
As he sits up aloft on the Bench and applies his
Swift mind to the shifts and the tricks of the law.
Many years has he lived, and has always seen clear things
That Nox seemed to hide from our average eyes;
But still, though encompassed with all sorts of queer things,
He never, no, never, gives way to surprise.
When a rogue, for example, a company-monger,
Grows fat on the gain of the shares he has sold,
While the public gets lean, winning nothing but hunger
And a few scraps of scrip for its masses of gold;
When the fat man goes further and takes to religion,
A rascal in hymn-books and Bibles disguised,
"It's a case," says Sir Henry, "of rook versus pigeon,
And the pigeon gets left—well, I'm hardly surprised."
There's a Heath at Newmarket, and horses that run there;
There are owners and jockeys, and sharpers and flats;
There are some who do nicely, and some who are done there;
There are loud men with pencils and satchels and hats.
But the stewards see nothing of betting or money,
As they stand in the blinkers for stewards devised;
Their blindness may strike Henry Hawkins as funny,
But he only smiles softly—he isn't surprised.
So here's to Sir Henry, the terror of tricksters,
Of law he's a master, and likewise a limb;
His mind never once, when its purpose is fixed, errs:
For cuteness there's none holds a candle to him.
Let them try to deceive him, why, bless you, he's been there,
And can track his way straight through a tangle of lies;
And though some might grow gray at the things he has seen there,
He never, no, never, gives way to surprise.
By the courtesy of Sir Francis Burnand, who most kindly obtained permission from Messrs. Bradbury and Agnew, I insert the following poem, which appeared in a February number of Punch in the year 1887:—
THE WOMAN AND THE LAW.
(A true story, told before Mr. Justice Hawkins at the recent Liverpool
Assizes—vide Daily Telegraph, February 8.)
In the criminal dock stood a woman alone,
To be judged for her crime, her one fault to repair,
And the man who gave evidence sat like a stone,
With a look of contempt for the woman's despair!
For the man was a husband, who'd ruined a life,
And broken a heart he had found without flaw;
He demanded the punishment due to the wife,
Who was only a Woman, whilst his was the Law!
A terrible silence then reigned in the Court,
And the eyes of humanity turned to the dock;
Her head was bent down, and her sobbing came short,
And the jailer stood ready, with hand on the lock
Of the gate of despair, that would open no more
When this wreckage of beauty was hurried away!
"Let me speak," moaned the woman—"my lord, I implore!"
"Yes, speak," said the Judge. "I will hear what you say!"
"I was only a girl when he stole me away
From the home and the mother who loved me too well;
But the shame and the pain I have borne since that day
Not a pitying soul who now listens can tell!
There was never a promise he made but he broke;
The bruises he gave I have covered with shame;
Not a tear, not a prayer, but he scorned as a joke!
He cursed at my children, and sneered at my fame!
"The money I'd slaved for and hoarded he'd rob;
I have borne his reproaches when maddened with drink.
For a man there is pleasure, for woman a sob;
It is he who may slander, but she who must think!
But at last came the day when the Law gave release,
Just a moment of respite from merciless fate,
For they took him to prison, and purchased me peace,
Till I welcomed him home like a wife—at the gate!
"Was it wrong in repentance of Man to believe?
It is hard to forget, it is right to forgive!
But he struck me again, and he left me to grieve
For the love I had lost, for the life I must live!
So I silently stole from the depths of despair,
And slunk from dark destiny's chastening rod,
And I crept to the light, and the life, and the air,
From the town of the man to the country of God!
"'Twas in solitude, then, that there came to my soul
The halo of comfort that sympathy casts;
He was strong, he was brave, and, though centuries roll,
I shall love that one man whilst eternity lasts!
O my lord, I was weak, I was wrong, I was poor!
I had suffered so much through my journey of life,
Hear! the worst of the crime that is laid at my door:
I said I was widow when, really a wife!
"Here I stand to be judged, in the sight of the man
Who from purity took a frail woman away.
Let him look in my face, if he dare, if he can!
Let him stand up on oath to deny what I say!
'Tis a story that many a wife can repeat,
From the day that the old curse of Eden began;
In the dread name of Justice, look down from your seat!
Come, sentence the Woman, and shelter the Man!"
A silence more terrible reigned than before,
For the lip of the coward was cruelly curled;
But the hand of the jailer slipped down from the door
Made to shut this sad wanderer out from the world!
Said the Judge, "My poor woman, now listen to me:
Not one hour you shall stray from humanity's heart
When thirty swift minutes have sped, you are free
In the name of the Law, which is Mercy, depart!"