have no intention of entertaining the reader on the subject of the judicial organisation in the United States. I refer him for that to the Tocquevilles of every country, to our own Tocqueville especially. I do not concern myself, in this volume, with American institutions, but simply with the ways and manners of the Americans.
I had just returned from America, and was sitting in the smoking-room of the North-Western Hotel, Liverpool. I was chatting with an American, fellow-passenger on the Atlantic voyage, while admiring St. George's Hall, which stands opposite. This magnificent building, which serves as a Court of Justice, is the finest modern edifice of the English provinces.
All at once we heard a blast of trumpets. A crowd rushed towards the Hall, and lined the flight of steps leading to the grand entrance. Heralds and lacqueys, all bedizened with scarlet and gold, presently descended the steps, followed by police officers. Several carriages then drew up.
From one of these, there alighted a man arrayed in a scarlet robe and ermine tippet, and wearing a powdered wig. The scarlet robe, followed by the cortège which had formed, solemnly mounted the steps between the crowd, which stood gazing with open-mouthed and wide-eyed admiration.
"What show is there going on opposite?" asked the American, in the easy-going tone that so distinguishes the Yankee.
He was an "Innocent abroad."
"My dear sir," I said to him, "it is simply a judge going to try a thief or two. England honours her criminals with a great deal of parade, as you see."
My American was silent for a few minutes. He was probably adding up the salaries of the judge, the police officers, heralds and ushers, the lawyers' fees, the cost of the building, carriages, and show generally; and no doubt comparing the total with the pound or two stolen from his employer by a dishonest clerk, for whom all this grand representation was taking place.