CHAPTER XXXVI.
A NIGHT AT NOTTINGHAM.
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:—
"GREAT PRIZE COMPETITION FOR PATIENCE.
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.]