The Old Bailey never witnessed a greater crowd than that which filled the court to witness the trial of Mistress Jenny Wilmot, charged with receiving stolen goods knowing them to be stolen. Her assumed name of Madame Vallance was forgotten: her married name of Halliday was forgotten: on everybody's tongue she was Jenny Wilmot the actress: Jenny Wilmot the Toast of the Town: Jenny Wilmot of Drury Lane. They spoke of her beauty, her grace, her vivacity: these were still remembered in spite of her absence from the stage of nearly two years. Now two years is a long time for an actress, unless she is very good indeed, to be remembered. But the 'Case of Clarinda' was by this time known to every club and coffee-house in London: not a City clerk or shopman but had the story pat, with oaths and sighs and tears. My Lord Brockenhurst had done his share in changing public opinion, and the later story, that of the noble origin of the stolen girl, was also whispered from mouth to mouth.
The court, I say, was crowded. Behind the chairs of the Lord Mayor and Judge, the Aldermen and the Sheriffs, were other chairs filled with great ladies: the public gallery was also filled with ladies who were admitted by tickets issued by sheriffs: the entrances and doorways and the body of the court were filled with gentlemen, actors and actresses mixed with an evil-looking and evil-smelling company from St. Giles's.
The witnesses, among whom I failed to observe the revengeful woman, consisted, I was pleased to see, of no more than the two or three shopkeepers who were waiting to swear to their own property. They stood beside the witness-box, wearing the look of determined and pleased revenge common to those who have been robbed. The Jury were sworn one after the other, and took their seats. I could not fail to observe that the unrelenting faces with which they had received me, the highwayman, were changed into faces of sweet commiseration. If ever Jury betrayed by outward signs a full intention, beforehand, of bringing in a verdict of Not Guilty, with the addition, if the Judge would allow it, that the lady left the dock without a blemish upon her character, it was that jury—yet a jury composed entirely of persons engaged in trade, who would naturally be severe upon the crime of receiving stolen goods.
When the Court were ready to take their places the prisoner was brought in, and all the people murmured with astonishment and admiration and pity, for the prisoner was dressed as for her wedding day. She was all in white without a touch of any other colour. Her lovely fair hair was dressed without powder over a high cushion with white silk ribbons hanging to her shoulders: her white silk frock drawn back in front, showed a white satin petticoat: white silk gloves covered her hands and arms: she carried a nosegay of white jonquils: a necklace of pearls hung round her neck: her belt was of worked silver. She took her place in the dock: she disposed her flowers between the spikes, among the sprigs of rue. Her air was calm and collected: not boastful: sad as was natural: resigned as was becoming: neither bold nor shrinking: there was no affectation of confidence nor any agitation of terror. She was like a Queen: she was full of dignity. She seemed to say, 'Look at me, all of you. Can you believe that I—I—I—such as I—Jenny Wilmot—could actually stoop to receive a lot of stolen rags and old petticoats and bales of stuff worth no more altogether than two or three guineas?'
During the whole time of the trial the eyes of everybody in court, I observed, were turned upon the prisoner. Never before, I am sure, did a more lovely prisoner stand in the Dock: never was there one whose position was more commiserated: they were all, I verily believe, ready to set her free at once: but for the act and deed of the prisoner herself. Her attitude: her face: her dress all proclaimed aloud the words which I have written down above. Everybody had seen her on the stage playing principally the coquette, the woman of fashion and folly, the hoyden, the affected prude—but not a part like this. 'Ye gods!' I heard a young barrister exclaim. 'She looks like an angel: an angel sent down to Newgate!' The strange, new, unexpected look of virginal innocence stamped on the brow of the once daring and headlong actress startled the people: it went to the heart of everyone: it made everybody present feel that they were assisting at a martyrdom: nay, as if they were themselves, unwillingly, bringing faggots to pile the fire. Before the trial began many an eye was dim, many a cheek was humid.
The Court entered: the people rose: the Counsel bowed to the Bench: the Lord Mayor took his seat: beside him the Judge: with him the Aldermen and the Sheriffs: the prisoner also did reverence to the Court like a gentlewoman receiving company. One would not have been surprised had my Lord Mayor stepped down and kissed her on the cheek in City fashion. But neither in her look nor in her actions was there betrayed the least sign of degradation, fear, or shame.
When a somewhat lengthy indictment had been read, she raised her head. 'My Lord, I would first desire to ask for my name to be amended.'
'What amendment do you desire?'
'I am described as Madame Vallance, alias Jenny Wilmot, actress. It is true that Jenny Wilmot was my maiden name, and that I assumed the name of Madame Vallance when I left the stage and opened the Assembly Rooms. My true name is Jenny Halliday, and I am the wife of Mr. Matthew Halliday, son of Sir Peter Halliday, Alderman, and partner in the House of Halliday Brothers, West India Wharf, by the Steel Yard in the Parish of All Hallows the Great.'
The Judge, whom nothing could surprise, answered with the awful coldness which becomes a Judge and so terrifies a prisoner. 'There is no dispute concerning identity. Plead in your married name, if you will.'