The Serjeant-at-Law

The Black Patch on the Wig—A King’s Serjeant—The Old English Law Courts—The Common Pleas—Queen’s Counsel—How Serjeants were Created—Their Feasts—Their Posies—Their Colts—Chaucer’s Serjeant-at-Law—The Coif—The Fall of the Order—Some Famous Serjeants.

You have no doubt, at some time or other, walked through the Royal Courts of Justice and admired the Judges in their scarlet or other bravery. One odd little detail may have caught your eye: a black patch on the top differences the wig of the present (1898) Master of the Rolls from those of his brethren. It signifies that the wearer is a Serjeant-at-Law, and when he goes to return no more, with him will probably vanish the Order of the Coif. Verily, it will be the “end o’ an auld sang,” of a record stretching back to the beginning of English jurisprudence, of an order whose passing had, at one time, seemed as the passing of the law itself. Here in bare outline I set forth its ancient and famous history. And, first, as to the name. Under the feudal system land was held from the Crown upon various tenures. Sometimes special services were required from the holders; these were called Serjeants, and a tenure was said to be by Serjeanty. Special services, though usually military, now and again had to do with the administration of justice. A man enjoyed his plot because he was coroner, keeper of the peace, summoner, or what not; and, over and above the land, he had the fees of the office. A few offices, chiefly legal, came to have no land attached—were only paid in fees. Such a business was a Serjeanty in gross, or at large, as one might say. Again, after the Conquest, whilst the records of our law courts were in Latin, the spoken language was Norman-French—a fearful and wondrous tongue that grew to be—“as ill an hearing in the mouth as law-French,” says Milton scornfully—and indeed Babel had scarce matched it. But from the first it must have been a sore vexation to the thick-witted Saxon haled before the tribunal of his conquerors. He needs must employ a counter, or man skilled in the conter, as the pleadings were called. The business was a lucrative one, so the Crown assumed the right of regulation and appointment. It was held for a Serjeanty in gross, and its holders were servientes regis ad legem. The word regis was soon omitted except as regards those specially retained for the royal service. The literal translation of the other words is Serjeants-at-law, still the designation of the surviving fellows of the order. The Serjeant-at-law was appointed, or, in form at least, commanded to take office by writ under the Great Seal. He was courteously addressed as “you,” whilst the sheriff was commonly plain “thou” or “thee.” The King’s or Queen’s Serjeants were appointed by letters patent; and though this official is extinct as the dodo, he is mentioned after the Queen’s Attorney-General as the public prosecutor in the proclamation still mumbled at the opening of courts like the Old Bailey.

Now, in the early Norman period the aula regis, or Supreme Court, was simply the King acting as judge with the assistance of his great officers of state. In time there developed therefrom among much else the three old common law courts; whereof the Common Pleas settled the disputes of subjects, the King’s Bench, suits concerning the King and the realm, the Exchequer, revenue matters. Though the last two by means of quaint fictions afterwards acquired a share of private litigation, yet such was more properly for the Court of Common Pleas. It was peculiarly the Serjeants’ court, and for many centuries, up to fifty years ago, they had the exclusive right of audience. Until the Judicature Acts they were the body of men next to the judges, each being addressed from the bench as “Brother,” and from them the judges must be chosen, also until 1850 the assizes must be held before a judge or a Serjeant of the coif.

A clause in Magna Charta provided that the Common Pleas should not follow the King’s wanderings, but sit in a fixed place; this fixed place came to be near the great door of the Hall at Westminster. With the wind in the north the spot was cold and draughty, so after the Restoration some daring innovator proposed “to let it (the Court) in through the wall into a back room which they called the treasury.” Sir Orlando Bridgeman, the Chief Justice, would on no account hear of this. To move it an inch were flagrant violation of Magna Charta. Might not, he darkly hinted, all its writs be thus rendered null and void? Was legal pedantry ever carried further? In a later age the change was made without comment, and in our own time the Common Pleas itself has gone to the Lumber Room. No doubt this early localising of the court helped to develop a special Bar. Other species of practitioners—barristers, attorneys, solicitors—in time arose, and the appointment of Queen’s Counsel, of whom Lord Bacon was the earliest, struck the first real blow at the Order of the Coif; but the detail of such things is not for this page. In later days every Serjeant was a more fully developed barrister, and then and now, as is well known, every barrister must belong to one of the four Inns of Court—the two Temples, Gray’s Inn, and Lincoln’s Inn to wit, whose history cannot be told here; suffice it to say they were voluntary associations of lawyers, which gradually acquired the right of calling to the Bar those who wished to practise.

Now, the method of appointment of Serjeants was as follows: The judges, headed by the Chief Justice of the Common Pleas, picked out certain eminent barristers as worthy of the dignity, their names were given in to the Lord Chancellor, and in due time each had his writ, whereof he formally gave his Inn notice. His House entertained him at a public breakfast, presented him with a gold or silver net purse with ten guineas or so as a retaining fee, the chapel bell was tolled, and he was solemnly rung out of the bounds. On the day of his call he was harangued (often at preposterous length) by the Chief Justice of the King’s Bench, he knelt down, and the white coif of the order was fitted on his head; he went in procession to Westminster and “counted” in a real action in the Court of Common Pleas. For centuries he did so in law-French. Lord Hardwicke was the first Serjeant who “counted” in English. The new-comer was admitted a member of Serjeants’ Inn, in Chancery Lane, in ancient times called Farringdon Inn, whereof all the members were Serjeants. Here they dined together on the first and last days of term; their clerks also dined in hall, though at a separate table—a survival, no doubt, from the days when the retainer feasted, albeit “below the salt,” with his master. Dinner done and the napery removed, the board of green cloth was constituted, and under the presidency of the Chief Judge the business of the House was transacted. There was a second Serjeants’ Inn in Fleet Street, but in 1758 its members joined the older institution in Chancery Lane. When the Judicature Acts practically abolished the order, the Inn was sold and its property divided among the members, a scandalous proceeding and poor result of “the wisdom of an heep of lernede men”!

The Serjeant’s feast on his appointment was a magnificent affair, instar coronationis, as Fortescue has it. In old times it lasted seven days; one of the largest palaces in the metropolis was selected, and kings and queens graced its quaint ceremonial. Stow chronicles one such celebration at the call of eleven Serjeants, in 1531. There were consumed “twenty-four great beefes, one hundred fat muttons, fifty-one great veales, thirty-four porkes,” not to mention the swans, the larkes, the “capons of Kent,” the “carcase of an ox from the shambles,” and so forth. One fancies these solids were washed down by potations proportionately long and deep. And there were other attractions and other expenses. At the feast in October 1552, “a standing dish of wax representing the Court of Common Pleas” was the admiration of the guests; again, a year or two later, it is noted that each Serjeant was attended by three gentlemen selected by him from among the members of his own Inn to act as his sewer, his carver, and his cup-bearer. These Gargantuan banquets must have proved a sore burden: they were cut down to one day, and, on the union of the Inns in 1758, given up as unsuited to the newer times.

One expense remained. Serjeants on their call must give gold rings to the Sovereign, the Lord Chancellor, the judges, and many others. From about the time of Elizabeth mottoes or “posies” were engraved thereon. Sometimes each Serjeant had his own device, more commonly the whole call adopted the same motto, which was usually a compliment to the reigning monarch or an allusion to some public event. Thus, after the Restoration the words ran: Adeste Corolus Magnus. With a good deal of elision and twisting the Roman numerals for 1660 were extracted from this, to the huge delight of the learned triflers. Imperium et libertas was the word for 1700, and plus quam speravimus that of 1714, which was as neat as any. The rings were presented to the judges by the Serjeant’s “colt,” as the barrister attendant on him through the ceremony was called (probably from colt, an apprentice); he also had a ring. In the ninth of Geo. II. the fourteen new Serjeants gave, as of duty, 1409 rings, valued at £773. That call cost each Serjeant nearly £200. This ring-giving continued to the end; another custom, that of giving liveries to relatives and friends, was discontinued in 1759. In mediæval times the new Serjeants went in procession to St. Paul’s, and worshipped at the shrine of Thomas à Becket; then to each was allotted a pillar, so that his clients might know where to find him. The Reformation put a summary end to the worship of St. Thomas, but the formality of the pillar lingered on till Old St. Paul’s and Old London blazed in the Great Fire of 1666.

The mediæval lawyer lives for us to-day in Chaucer’s famous picture: