Curiosities of Impecuniosity

by H. G. Somerville

Sir John Holt, famous for his integrity, firmness, and great legal knowledge, who filled the office of Recorder of London for a year and a half, losing it in consequence of his uncompromising opposition to the abolition of the “Test” Act, and whose upright discharge of the important duties of Lord Chief Justice gained him the highest honour and esteem, was as a youth wilful and dissipated. In some respects his deeds at that period bore likeness to those of the madcap Prince Hal, when that personage was the associate of Falstaff. He was a roysterer, gambler and, according to some, highwayman. To use Lord Campbell’s words, “They even relate, many years after that, when he was going the circuit as Chief Justice, he recognised a man convicted capitally before him as one of his own accomplices in a robbery, and that having visited him in gaol, and inquired after the rest of the gang, he received this answer: ‘Ah! my lord, they are all hanged but myself and your lordship.’”

On one occasion, Holt, with a band of dissolute and reckless companions, found himself participator in the perplexing results of a common bankruptcy. They were without the prospect of obtaining a supper. It was then agreed that they should make their way singly, each individual to do the best he could for himself. The band of roysterers separated, Holt finding himself on a lonely and cheerless road. He was intrepid, nimble witted, and full of self-possession. Spurring his horse, he set off at a gallop. Arriving in front of a little hostelry, he alighted from his steed, handed it over to the care of an ostler, and without more ado went into the house and ordered the best entertainment that it could afford.

Whatever hardships he had undergone, Holt had now the pleasing expectation of a savoury supper and comfortable lodgment. Waiting for a smoking dish, the odour from which pleasantly saluted his nostrils, he carelessly strolled from the chamber where he had been sitting into the kitchen. There the hostess was busy in her culinary labours, while near the blazing fire sat a girl about thirteen years old, pale, haggard, and shivering in an ague fit. John Holt, though a “ne’er do weel,” and a wild impetuous fellow was not without the instinct of a compassionate heart. He asked many questions concerning the malady of the young girl as she moaned and rocked herself in the warmth of the ruddy embers. The mother replied that for a year her daughter had been stricken by the ague, that the labour of the doctors trying to cure her had been in vain, and that their charges had nearly brought the fortunes of the house to ruin.

The young student having listened to the story of the mother’s misfortune, then spoke in contemptuous terms of doctors all round, bade her take courage and be of good cheer, for he was acquainted with a specific that would speedily take away her daughter’s ague. “Indeed,” said Holt, “you need be under no further concern, for you may assure yourself the girl shall never have another fit.” Taking a piece of parchment from his breast pocket, he with much gravity and deliberation proceeded to inscribe some Greek characters on the scrap, and having concluded his work, charged the mother to bind the parchment upon her daughter’s wrist, allowing it to remain there until the ague departed. By some strange coincidence, or by the effects wrought upon the sympathies of the girl at the appearance and touch of the supposed charm, her ague did depart, and returned no more, at least not during the week John Holt remained the guest of mine hostess.

When he deemed it prudent or convenient to depart, he asked for his bill with that confidence so often masking the demeanour of the bold adventurer reduced to impecuniosity. But the hostess, smiling and embarrassed, said she could make no demand for payment, and further added that she rather felt in the position of one owing something, than as one having something to receive. Indeed, she expressed sorrowfully that she could in no way compensate her guest for the miraculous cure which he had wrought, and that had she but known him sooner the expense of forty pounds would not have been swallowed up by the posse of useless doctors. Overcome by the profuse thanks and grateful acknowledgments of his hostess John Holt condescended to waive paying his week’s bill, and departed with much hilarity on his journey.

As months and years rolled away, the incidents of a busy life and the assiduous practice of his profession crowded out of John Holt’s memory the recollection of his strange and facetious adventure at the hostelry on the Oxford road. Holt’s habits changed. He became the wise and impartial judge, so admirable and so competent, that even his stern Tory father (spite of the son’s Liberal politics) grew proud of the man who in his youthful career at Oxford had been the wildest of the wild, and the most erring of the erring. The years have gone on, and when we turn again to John Holt, he is approaching his sixtieth year. The scene is still in the county of Oxford, but this time in one of the principal towns. The Summer Assizes are being held, and the judges are sitting in all wonted solemnity and state. In the Criminal Court a cause of unusual interest is being heard.

At the bar there stands a poor, miserable and decrepit old woman. As she looks at the grave and dignified judge she shakes with terror. The causes of her fear are solemn and significant, for she is about to be tried for her life, on the charge of being a witch. In those days of which I am writing, there existed a terrible superstition in the popular mind concerning witchcraft, believed as it was to be the crime of all others the most destructive to man and the most impious in the sight of God. The comely, dignified and shrewd-eyed judge excites the keenest interest in the crowded court, for he is one of the “men of mark” of his age, the profound lawyer, the incorruptible dispenser of justice, and the champion of truth and freedom.

Witnesses are called. They give their evidence in a plain unpretentious manner, and it is certain that they possess a firm faith in what they allege against the miserable prisoner. The principal accusation against her is that she holds in her possession a potent and mysterious charm. It enables her to spread disease, or to cure it, and it is further stated that she has lately been detected using it. “Has anybody seen it?” inquires the judge. “Yes, please you, my lord, and it is now here ready to be produced.” His lordship directs that it shall be handed to him, and his order is obeyed. Behold! nothing but a dirty ball wrapped round with rag and pack-thread. Removing these, he discovers a scrap of stained and time-worn parchment inscribed with characters in his own handwriting. Chief Justice Holt, after the lapse of forty years, recognises the Greek letters which he had scrawled in the inn kitchen situate on the Oxford road.

Deep silence reigns in the crowded court-house, and every eye is turned on the judge. Lifting his head from his hands, in which it had been buried for a few moments, he says to the jury,—

“Gentlemen, I must now relate an incident of my life which ill-suits my position. To conceal that incident would be to increase the awful folly which I must atone. Did I conceal that folly of which I was guilty, I should endanger innocence and countenance superstition. This so-called charm which these poor ignorant people suppose to have the power of life and death is a senseless piece of parchment, on which with my own hand I wrote and gave the poor woman. This poor woman for no other reason stands before me accused of witchcraft.” Chief Justice Holt then narrated the whole story of his adventure in his early years at the woman’s hostelry on the Oxford road, and the recital produced such an effect upon the minds of the jury that his old hostess was not only acquitted, but was one of the last persons tried for the crime of witchcraft in this country.