bag in his hand; the same is the case in the literature of Queen Anne's
reign; and until a comparatively recent date green bags were generally
carried in Westminster Hall and in provincial courts by the great body
of legal practitioners. From Wycherley's 'Plain Dealer,' it appears that
in the time of Charles II. angry clients were accustomed to revile their
lawyers as 'green bag-carriers.' When the litigious Widow Blackacre
upbraids the barrister who declines to argue for her, she
exclaims--"Impertinent again, and ignorant to me! Gadsboddikins! you
puny upstart in the law, to use me so, you green-bag carrier, you
murderer of unfortunate causes, the clerk's ink is scarce off of your
fingers." In the same drama, making much play with the green bag,
Wycherley indicates the Widow Blackacre's quarrelsome disposition by
decorating her with an enormous green reticule, and makes her son the
law-student, stagger about the stage in a gown, and under a heavy burden
of green bags.
So also in the time of Queen Anne, to say that a man intended to carry a
green bag, was the same as saying that he meant to adopt the law as a
profession. In Dr. Arbuthnot's 'History of John Bull,' the prevalence of
the phrase is shown by the passage, "I am told, Cousin Diego, you are
one of those that have undertaken to manage me, and that you have said
you will carry a green bag yourself, rather than we shall make an end of
our lawsuit. I'll teach them and you too to manage." It must, however,
be borne in mind that in Queen Anne's time, green bags, like white
bands, were as generally adopted by solicitors and attorneys, as by
members of the bar. In his 'character of a pettifogger' the author of
'The London Spy' observes--"His learning is commonly as little as his
honesty, and his conscience much larger than his green bag."
Some years have elapsed since green bags altogether disappeared from our
courts of law; but the exact date of their disappearance has hitherto
escaped the vigilance and research of Colonel Landman, 'Causidicus,' and
other writers who in the pages of that useful and very entertaining
publication, _Notes and Queries_, have asked for information on that
point and kindred questions. Evidence sets aside the suggestion that the
color of the lawyer's bag was changed from green to red because the
proceedings at Queen Caroline's trial rendered green bags odious to the
public, and even dangerous to their bearers; for it is a matter of
certainty that the leaders of the Chancery and Common Law bars carried
red bags at a time considerably anterior to the inquiry into the queen's
conduct.
In a letter addressed to the editor of _Notes and Queries_, a writer who
signs himself 'Causidicus,' observes--"When I entered the profession
(about fifty years ago) no junior barrister presumed to carry a bag in
the Court of Chancery, unless one had been presented to him by a King's
Counsel; who, when a junior was advancing in practice, took an
opportunity of complimenting him on his increase of business, and giving
him his own bag to carry home his papers. It was then a distinction to
carry a bag, and a proof that a junior was rising in his profession. I
do not know whether the custom prevailed in other courts." From this it
appears that fifty years since the bag was an honorable distinction at
the Chancery bar, giving its bearer some such professional status as
that which is conferred by 'silk' in these days when Queen's Counsel are
numerous.
The same professional usage seems to have prevailed at the Common Law
bar more than eighty years ago; for in 1780, when Edward Law joined the
Northern Circuit, and forthwith received a large number of briefs, he
was complimented by Wallace on his success, and presented with a bag.
Lord Campbell asserts that no case had ever before occurred where a
junior won the distinction of a bag during the course of his first
circuit. There is no record of the date when members of the junior bar
received permission to carry bags according to their own pleasure; it is
even matter of doubt whether the permission was ever expressly accorded
by the leaders of the profession--or whether the old restrictive usage
died a gradual and unnoticed death. The present writer, however, is
assured that at the Chancery bar, long after _all_ juniors were allowed
to carry bags, etiquette forbade them to adopt bags of the same color as
those carried by their leaders. An eminent Queen's Counsel, who is a
member of that bar, remembers that when he first donned a stuff gown,
he, like all Chancery jurors, had a purple bag--whereas the wearers of
silk at the same period, without exception, carried red bags.
Before a complete and satisfactory account can be given of the use of
bags by lawyers, as badges of honor and marks of distinction, answers
must be found for several questions which at present remain open to
discussion. So late as Queen Anne's reign, lawyers of the lowest
standing, whether advocates or attorneys, were permitted to carry
bags;--a right which the junior bar appears to have lost when Edward Law
joined the Northern Circuit. At what date between Queen Anne's day and
1780 (the year in which Lord Ellenborough made his _debut_ in the
North), was this change effected? Was the change gradual or sudden? To
what cause was it due? Again, is it possible that Lord Campbell and
Causidicus wrote under a misapprehension, when they gave testimony
concerning the usages of the bar with regard to bags, at the close of
the last and the beginning of the present century? The memory of the
distinguished Queen's Counsel, to whom allusion is made in the preceding
paragraph, is quite clear that in his student days Chancery jurors were
forbidden by etiquette to carry _red_ bags, but were permitted to carry
blue bags; and he is strongly of opinion that the restriction, to which
Lord Campbell and Causidicus draw attention, did not apply at any time
to blue bags, but only concerned red bags, which, so late as thirty
years since, unquestionably were the distinguishing marks of men in
leading Chancery practice. Perhaps legal readers of this chapter will
favor the writer with further information on this not highly important,
but still not altogether uninteresting subject.
The liberality which for the last five and-twenty years has marked the
distribution of 'silk' to rising members of the bar, and the ease with
which all fairly successful advocates may obtain the rank of Queen's
Counsel, enable lawyers of the present generation to smile at a rule
which defined a man's professional position by the color of his bag,
instead of the texture of his gown; but in times when 'silk' was given
to comparatively few members of the bar, and when that distinction was
most unfairly withheld from the brightest ornaments of their profession,
if their political opinions displeased the 'party in power,' it was
natural and reasonable in the bar to institute for themselves an 'order
of merit'--to which deserving candidates could obtain admission without
reference to the prejudices of a Chancellor or the whims of a clique.
At present the sovereign's counsel learned in the law constitute a
distinct order of the profession; but until the reign of William IV.
they were merely a handful of court favorites. In most cases they were
sound lawyers in full employment; but the immediate cause of their
elevation was almost always some political consideration--and sometimes
the lucky wearer of a silk gown had won the right to put K.C. or Q.C.
after his name by base compliance with ministerial power. That our
earlier King's Counsel were not created from the purest motives or for
the most honorable purposes will be readily admitted by the reader who
reflects that 'silk gowns' are a legal species, for which the nation is
indebted to the Stuarts. For all practical purposes Francis Bacon was a
Q.C. during the reign of Queen Elizabeth. He enjoyed peculiar and
distinctive _status_ as a barrister, being consulted on legal matters by
the Queen, although he held no place that in familiar parlance would
entitle him to rank with her Crown Lawyers; and his biographers have
agreed to call him Elizabeth's counsellor learned in the law. But a Q.C.
holding his office by patent--that is to say, a Q.C. as that term is
understood at the present time--Francis Bacon never was. On the
accession, however, of James I., he received his formal appointment of
K.C., the new monarch having seen fit to recognise the lawyer's claim to
be regarded as a 'special counsel,' or 'learned counsel extraordinary.'
Another barrister of the same period who obtained the same distinction
was Sir Henry Montague, who, in a patent granted in 1608 to the two
Temples, is styled "one of our counsel learned in the law." Thus
planted, the institution of monarch's special counsel was for many
generations a tree of slow growth. Until George III.'s reign the number
of monarch's counsel, living and practising at the same time, was never
large; and throughout the long period of that king's rule the fraternity
of K.C. never assumed them agnitude and character of a professional
order. It is uncertain what was the greatest number of contemporaneous
K.C.'s during the Stuart dynasty; but there is no doubt that from the
arrival of James I. to the flight of James II. there was no period when
the K.C.'s at all approached the sergeants in name and influence. In
Rymer's 'Foedera' mention is made of four barristers who were appointed
counsellors to Charles I., one of whom, Sir John Finch, in a patent of
precedence is designated "King's Counsel;" but it is not improbable that
the royal martyr had other special counsellors whose names have not been
recorded. At different times of Charles II.'s reign, there were created
some seventeen K.C.'s, and seven times that number of sergeants. James
II. made ten K.C.'s; William and Mary appointed eleven special
counsellors; and the number of Q.C.'s appointed by Anne was ten. The
names of George I.'s learned counsel are not recorded; the list of
George II.'s K.C.'s, together with barristers holding patents of
precedence, comprise thirty names; George III. throughout his long
tenure of the crown, gave 'silk' with or without the title of K.C., to
ninety-three barristers; George IV. to twenty-six; whereas the list of
William IV.'s appointments comprised sixty-five names, and the present
queen has conferred the rank of Q.C. on about two hundred advocates--the
law-list for 1865 mentioning one hundred and thirty-seven barristers who
are Q.C.'s, or holders of patents of precedence; and only twenty-eight
sergeants-at-law, not sitting as judges in any of the supreme courts.
The diminution in the numbers of the sergeants is due partly to the loss
of their old monopoly of business in the Common Pleas, and partly--some
say chiefly--to the profuseness with which silk gowns, with Q.C. rank
attached, have been thrown to the bar since the passing of the Reform
Bill.
Under the old system when 'silk' was less bountifully bestowed, eminent
barristers not only led their circuits in stuff; but, after holding
office as legal advisers to the crown and wearing silk gowns whilst they
so acted with their political friends, they sometimes resumed their
stuff gowns and places 'outside the bar,' on descending from official
eminence. When Charles York in 1763 resigned the post of Attorney
General, he returned to his old place in court without the bar, clad in
the black bombazine of an ordinary barrister, whereas during his tenure
of office he had worn silk and sat within the bar. In the same manner
when Dunning resigned the Solicitor Generalship in 1770, he reappeared
in the Court of King's Bench, attired in stuff, and took his place
without the bar; but as soon as he had made his first motion, he was
addressed by Lord Mansfield, who with characteristic courtesy informed
him that he should take precedence in that court before all members of
the bar, whatever might be their standing, with the exception of King's
Counsel, Sergeants, and the Recorder of London. On joining the Northern
Circuit in 1780, Edward Law found Wallace and Lee leading in silk, and
twenty years later he and Jemmy Park were the K.C.'s of the same
district; Of course the circuit was not without wearers of the coif, one
of its learned sergeants being Cockell, who, before Law obtained the
leading place, was known as 'the Almighty of the North;' and whose
success, achieved in spite of an almost total ignorance of legal
science, was long quoted to show that though knowledge is power, power
may be won without knowledge.
From pure dislike of the thought that younger men should follow closely
or at a distance in his steps to the highest eminences of legal success,
Lord Eldon was disgracefully stingy in bestowing honors on rising
barristers who belonged to his own party, but his injustice and
downright oppression to brilliant advocates in the Whig ranks merit the
warmest expressions of disapproval and contempt. The most notorious
sufferers from his rancorous intolerance were Henry Brougham and Mr.
Denman, who, having worn silk gowns as Queen Caroline's Attorney General
and Solicitor General, were reduced to stuff attire on that wretched
lady's death.
It is worthy of notice that in old time, when silk gowns were few, their
wearers were sometimes very young men. From the days of Francis North,
who was made K.C. before he was a barrister for seven full years'
standing, down to the days of Eldon, who obtained silk after seven
years' service in stuff, instances could be cited of the rapidity with
which lucky youngsters rose to the honors of silk, whilst hard-worked
veterans were to the last kept outside the bar. Thurlow was called to
the bar in November, 1754, and donned silk in December, 1761. Six years
had now elapsed since his call to the English bar, when Alexander
Wedderburn was entitled to put the initials K.C. after his name, and
wrote to his mother in Scotland, "I can't very well explain to you the
nature of my preferment, but it is what most people at the bar are very
desirous of, and yet most people run a hazard of losing money by it. I
can scarcely expect any advantage from it for some time equal to what I
give up; and, notwithstanding, I am extremely happy, and esteem myself
very fortunate in having obtained it." Erskine's silk was won with even
greater speed, for he was invited within the bar, but his silk gown
came to him with a patent of precedence, giving him the status without
the title of a King's Counsel.
Bar mourning is no longer a feature of legal costume in England. On the
death of Charles II. members of the bar donned gowns indicative of their
grief for the national loss, and they continued, either universally or
in a large number of cases, to wear these woful habiliments till 1697,
when Chief Justice Holt ordered all barristers practising in his court
to appear "in their proper gowns and not in mourning ones"--an order
which, according to Narcissus Luttrell, compelled the bar to spend L15
per man. From this it may be inferred that (regard being had to change
in value of money) a bar-gown at the close of the seventeenth century
cost about ten times as much as it does at the present time.
CHAPTER XXIV.
HATS.
Not less famous in history than Bradshaw's broad-brimmed hat, nor less
graceful than Shaftesbury's jaunty beaver, nor less memorable than the
sailor's tarpaulin, under cover of which Jeffreys slunk into the Red
Cow, Wapping, nor less striking than the black cap still worn by Justice
in her sternest mood, nor less fanciful than the cocked hat which
covered Wedderburn's powdered hair when he daily paced the High Street
of Edinburgh with his hands in a muff--was the white hat which an
illustrious Templar invented at an early date of the eighteenth century.
Beau Brummel's original mind taught the human species to starch their
white cravats; Richard Nash, having surmounted the invidious bar of
plebeian birth and raised himself upon opposing circumstances to the
throne of Bath, produced a white hat. To which of these great men
society owes the heavier debt of gratitude thoughtful historians cannot
agree; but even envious detraction admits that they deserve high rank
amongst the benefactors of mankind. Brummel was a soldier; but Law
proudly claims as her own the parent of the pale and spotless _chapeau_.
About lawyers' cocked hats a capital volume might be written, that
should contain no better story than the one which is told of Ned
Thurlow's discomfiture in 1788, when he was playing a trickster's game
with his friends and foes. Windsor Castle just then contained three
distinct centres of public interest--the mad king in the hands of his
keepers; on the one side of the impotent monarch the Prince of Wales
waiting impatiently for the Regency; on the other side, the queen with
equal impatience longing for her husband's recovery. The prince and his
mother both had apartments in the castle, her majesty's quarters being
the place of meeting for the Tory ministers, whilst the prince's
apartments were thrown open to the select leaders of the Whig
expectants. Of course the two coteries kept jealously apart; but
Thurlow, who wished to be still Lord Chancellor, "whatever king might
reign," was in private communication with the prince's friends. With
furtive steps he passed from the queen's room (where he had a minute
before been assuring the ministers that he would be faithful to the
king's adherents), and made clandestine way to the apartment where
Sheridan and Payne were meditating on the advantages of a regency
without restriction. On leaving the prince, the wary lawyer used to
steal into the king's chamber, and seek guidance or encouragement from
the madman's restless eyes. Was the malady curable? If curable, how
long a time would elapse before the return of reason? These were the
questions which the Chancellor put to himself, as he debated whether he
should break with the Tories and go over to the Whigs. Through the
action of the patient's disease, the most delicate part of the lawyer's
occupation was gone; and having no longer a king's conscience to keep,
he did not care, by way of diversion--to keep his own.
For many days ere they received clear demonstration of the Chancellor's
deceit, the other members of the cabinet suspected that he was acting
disingenuously, and when his double-dealing was brought to their sure
knowledge, their indignation was not even qualified with surprise. The
story of his exposure is told in various ways; but all versions concur
in attributing his detection to an accident. Like the gallant of the
French court, whose clandestine intercourse with a great lady was
discovered because, in his hurried preparations for flight from her
chamber, he appropriated one of her stockings, Thurlow, according to one
account, was convicted of perfidy by the prince's hat, which he bore
under his arm on entering the closet where the ministers awaited his
coming. Another version says that Thurlow had taken his seat at the
council-table, when his hat was brought to him by a page, with an
explanation that he had left it in the prince's private room. A third,
and more probable representation of the affair, instead of laying the
scene in the council-chamber, makes the exposure occur in a more public
part of the castle. "When a council was to be held at Windsor," said the
Right Honorable Thomas Grenville, in his old age recounting the
particulars of the mishap, "to determine the course which ministers
should pursue, Thurlow had been there some time before any of his
colleagues arrived. He was to be brought back to London by one of them,
and the moment of departure being come, the Chancellor's hat was
nowhere to be found. After a fruitless search in the apartment where the
council had been held, a page came with the hat in his hand, saying
aloud, and with great _naivete_, 'My lord, I found it in the closet of
his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales.' The other Ministers were still
in the Hall, and Thurlow's confusion corroborated the inference which
they drew." Cannot an artist be found to place upon canvas this scene,
which furnishes the student of human nature with an instructive instance
of
"That combination strange--a lawyer and a blush?"
For some days Thurlow's embarrassment and chagrim were very painful. But
a change in the state of the king's health caused a renewal of the
lawyer's attachment to Tory principles and to his sovereign.
The lawyers of what may be termed the cocked hat period seldom
maintained the happy mean between too little and too great care for
personal appearance. For the most part they were either slovenly or
foppish. From the days when as a student he used to slip into Nando's in
a costume that raised the supercilious astonishment of his
contemporaries, Thurlow to the last erred on the side of neglect. Camden
roused the satire of an earlier generation by the miserable condition of
the tiewig which he wore on the bench of Chancery, and by an undignified
and provoking habit of "gartering up his stockings while counsel were
the most strenuous in their eloquence." On the other hand Joseph
Yates--the puisne judge whom Mansfield's jeers and merciless oppressions
drove from the King's Bench to the Common Pleas, where he died within
four months of his retreat--was the finest of fine gentlemen. Before he
had demonstrated his professional capacity, the habitual costliness and
delicacy of his attire roused the distrust of attorneys, and on more
than one occasion wrought him injury. An awkward, crusty, hard-featured
attorney entered the foppish barrister's chambers with a bundle of
papers, and on seeing the young man in a superb and elaborate evening
dress, is said to have inquired, "Can you say, sir, when Mr. Yates will
return?" "Return, my good sir!" answered the barrister, with an air of
surprise, "I am Mr. Yates, and it will give me the greatest pleasure to
talk with you about those papers." Having taken a deliberate survey of
the young Templar, and made a mental inventory of all the fantastic
articles of his apparel, the honest attorney gave an ominous grunt,
replaced the papers in one of the deep pockets of his long-skirted coat,
twice nodded his head with contemptuous significance, and then, without
another word--walked out of the room. It was his first visit to those
chambers, and his last. Joseph Yates lost his client, before he could
even learn his name; but in no way influenced by the occurrence he
maintained his reputation for faultless taste in dress, and when he had
raised himself to the bench, he was amongst the judges of his day all
that Revell Reynolds was amongst the London physicians of a later date.
Living in the midst of the fierce contentions which distracted Ireland
in the days of our grandfathers, John Toler, first Earl of Norbury,
would not have escaped odium and evil repute, had he been a merciful man
and a scrupulous judge; but in consequence of failings and wicked
propensities, which gave countenance to the slanders of his enemies and
at the same time earned for him the distrust and aversion of his
political coadjutors, he has found countless accusers and not a single
vindicator. Resembling George Jeffreys in temper and mental capacity, he
resembled him also in posthumous fame. A shrewd, selfish, overbearing
man, possessing wit which was exercised with equal promptitude upon
friends and foes, he alternately roused the terror and the laughter of
his audiences. At the bar and in the Irish House of Commons he was alike
notorious as jester and bully; but he was a courageous bully, and to the
last was always as ready to fight with bullets as with epigrams, and
though his humor was especially suited to the taste and passions of the
rabble, it sometimes convulsed with merriment those who were shocked by
its coarseness and brutality. Having voted for the abolition of the
Irish Parliament, the Right Honorable John Toler was prepared to justify
his conduct with hair-triggers or sarcasms. To the men who questioned
his patriotism he was wont to answer, "Name any hour before my court
opens to-morrow," but to the patriotic Irish lady who loudly charged him
in a crowded drawing-room with having sold his country, he replied, with
an affectation of cordial assent, "Certainly, madam, I have sold my
country. It was very lucky for me that I had a country to sell--I wish I
had another." On the bench he spared neither counsel nor suitors,
neither witnesses nor jurors. When Daniel O'Connell, whilst he was
conducting a cause in the Irish Court of Common Pleas, observed, "Pardon
me, my lord, I am afraid your lordship does not apprehend me;" the Chief
Justice (alluding to a scandalous and false report that O'Connell had
avoided a duel by surrendering himself to the police) retorted, "Pardon
me also; no one is more easily apprehended than Mr. O'Connell"--(a
pause--and then with emphatic slowness of utterance)--"whenever he
wishes to be apprehended." It is _said_ that when this same judge passed
sentence of death on Robert Emmett, he paused when he came to the point
where it is usual for a judge to add in conclusion, "And may the Lord
have mercy on your soul!" and regarded the brave young man with
searching eyes. For a minute there was an awful silence in the court;
the bar and the assembled crowd supposing that the Chief Justice had
paused so that a few seconds of unbroken stillness might add to the
solemnity of his last words. The disgust and indignation of the
spectators were beyond the power of language, when they saw a smile of
brutal sarcasm steal over the face of the Chief Justice as he rose from
his seat of judgment without uttering another word.
Whilst the state prosecutions were going forward, Lord Norbury appeared
on the bench in a costume that accorded ill with the gravity of his
office. The weather was intensely hot; and whilst he was at his morning
toilet the Chief Justice selected from his wardrobe the dress which was
most suited to the sultriness of the air. The garb thus selected for its
coolness was a dress which his lordship had worn at a masquerade ball,
and consisted of a green tabinet coat decorated with huge
mother-of-pearl buttons, a waistcoat of yellow relieved by black
stripes, and buff breeches. When he first entered the court, and
throughout all the earlier part of the proceedings against a party of
rebels, his judicial robes altogether concealed this grotesque attire;
but unfortunately towards the close of the sultry day's work, Lord
Norbury--oppressed by the stifling atmosphere of the court, and
forgetting all about the levity as well as the lightness of his inner
raiment--threw back his judicial robe and displayed the dress which
several persons then present had seen him wear at Lady Castlereagh's
ball. Ere the spectators recovered from their first surprise, Lord
Norbury, quite unconscious of his indecorum, had begun to pass sentence
of death on a gang of prisoners, speaking to them in a solemn voice that
contrasted painfully with the inappropriateness of his costume.
In the following bright and picturesque sentence, Dr. Dibdin gives a
life-like portrait of Erskine, whose personal vanity was only equalled
by the egotism which often gave piquancy to his orations, and never
lessened their effect:--"Cocked hats and ruffles, with satin
small-clothes and silk stockings, at this time constituted the usual
evening dress. Erskine, though a good deal shorter than his brethren,
somehow always seemed to take the lead both in pace and in discourse,
and shouts of laughter would frequently follow his dicta. Among the
surrounding promenaders, he and the one-armed Mingay seemed to be the
main objects of attraction. Towards evening, it was the fashion for the
leading counsel to promenade during the summer in the Temple Gardens,
and I usually formed one in the thronging mall of loungers and
spectators. I had analysed Blackstone, and wished to publish it under a
dedication to Mr. Erskine. Having requested the favor of an interview,
he received me graciously at breakfast before nine, attired in the smart
dress of the times, a dark green coat, scarlet waistcoat, and silk
breeches. He left his coffee, stood the whole time looking at the chart
I had cut in copper, and appeared much gratified. On leaving him, a
chariot-and-four drew up to wheel him to some provincial town on a
special retainer. He was then coining money as fast as his chariot
wheels rolled along." Erskine's advocacy was marked by that attention to
trifles which has often contributed to the success of distinguished
artists. His special retainers frequently took him to parts of the
country where he was a stranger, and required him to make eloquent
speeches in courts which his voice had never tested. It was his custom
on reaching the town where he would have to plead on the following day,
to visit the court over-night, and examine its arrangements, so that
when the time for action arrived he might address the jury from the most
favorable spot in the chamber. He was a theatrical speaker, and omitted
no pains to secure theatrical effect. It was noticed that he never
appeared within the bar until the _cause celebre_ had been called; and
a buzz of excitement and anxious expectation testified the eagerness of
the assembled crowd to _see_, as well as to hear, the celebrated
advocate. Every article of his bar costume received his especial
consideration; artifice could be discerned in the modulations of his
voice, the expressions of his countenance, and the movements of his
entire body; but the coldest observer did not detect the artifice until
it had stirred his heart. Rumor unjustly asserted that he never uttered
an impetuous peroration which he had not frequently rehearsed in private
before a mirror. About the cut and curls of his wigs, their texture and
color, he was very particular: and the hands which he extended in
entreaty towards British juries were always cased in lemon-colored kid
gloves.
Erskine was not more noticeable for the foppishness of his dress than
was Lord Kenyon for a sordid attire. Whilst he was a leading advocate
within the bar, Lord Kenyon's ordinary costume would have disgraced a
copying clerk; and during his later years, it was a question amongst
barristers whether his breeches were made of velvet or leather. The wits
maintained that when he kissed hands upon his elevation to the
Attorney's place, he went to court in a second-hand suit purchased from
Lord Stormont's _valet_. In the letter attributed to him by a clever
writer in the 'Rolliad,' he is made to say--"My income has been cruelly
estimated at seven, or, as some will have it, eight thousand pounds per
annum. I shall save myself the mortification of denying that I am rich,
and refer you to the constant habits and whole tenor of my life. The
proof to my friends is easy. My tailor's bill for the last fifteen years
is a record of the most indisputable authority. Malicious souls may
direct you, perhaps, to Lord Stormont's _valet de chambre_, and can
vouch the anecdote that on the day when I kissed hands for my
appointment to the office of Attorney General, I appeared in a laced
waistcoat that once belonged to his master. I bought the waistcoat, but
despise the insinuation; nor is this the only instance in which I am
obliged to diminish my wants and apportion them to my very limited
means. Lady K---- will be my witness that until my last appointment I
was an utter stranger to the luxury of a pocket-handkerchief." The
pocket-handkerchief which then came into his possession was supposed to
have been found in the pocket of the second-hand waistcoat; and Jekyll
always maintained that, as it was not considered in the purchase, it
remained the valet's property, and did not pass into the lawyer's
rightful possession. This was the only handkerchief which Lord Kenyon is
said to have ever possessed, and Lord Ellenborough alluded to it when,
in a conversation that turned upon the economy which the income-tax
would necessitate in all ranks of life, he observed--"Lord Kenyon, who
is not very nice, intends to meet the crisis by laying down his
handkerchief."
Of his lordship's way of getting through seasons of catarrh without a
handkerchief, there are several stories that would scarcely please the
fastidious readers of this volume.
Of his two wigs (one considerably less worn than the other), and of his
two hats (the better of which would not have greatly disfigured an old
clothesman, whilst the worse would have been of service to a
professional scarecrow), Lord Kenyon took jealous care. The inferior wig
was always worn with the better hat, and the more dilapidated hat with
the superior wig; and it was noticed that when he appeared in court with
the shabbier wig he never removed his _chapeau_; whereas, on the days
when he sat in his more decent wig, he pushed his old cocked hat out of
sight. In the privacy of his house and in his carriage, whenever he
traveled beyond the limits of town, he used to lay aside wig and hat,
and cover his head with an old red night-cap. Concerning his great-coat,
the original blackness of which had been tempered by long usage into a
fuscous green, capital tales were fabricated. The wits could not spare
even his shoes. "Once," Dr. Didbin gravely narrated, "in the case of an
action brought for the non-fulfillment of a contract on a large scale
for shoes, the question mainly was, whether or not they were well and
soundly made, and with the best materials. A number of witnesses were
called, one of them, a first-rate character in the gentle craft, being
closely questioned, returned contradictory answers, when the Chief
Justice observed, pointing to his own shoes, which were regularly
bestridden by the broad silver buckle of the day, 'Were the shoes
anything like these?' 'No, my lord,' replied the evidence, 'they were a
good deal better and more genteeler.'" Dr. Didbin is at needless pains
to assure his readers that the shoemaker's answer was followed by
uproarious laughter.
PART V.
MUSIC.
CHAPTER XXV.
THE PIANO IN CHAMBERS.
In the Inns of Court, even more often than in the colleges of Oxford and
Cambridge, musical instruments and performances are regarded by severe
students with aversion and abhorrence. Mr. Babbage will live in peace
and charity with the organ-grinders who are continually doing him an
unfriendly turn before the industrious conveyancer on the first floor
will pray for the welfare of 'that fellow upstairs' who daily practises
the flute or cornopean from 11 A.M. to 3 P.M. The 'Wandering Minstrels'
and their achievements are often mentioned with respect in the western
drawing-rooms of London; but if the gentlemen who form that
distinguished _troupe_ of amateur performers wish to sacrifice their
present popularity and take a leading position amongst the social
nuisances of the period, they should migrate from the district which
delights to honor them to chambers in Old Square, Lincoln's Inn, and
give morning concerts every day of term time.
Working lawyers feel warmly on this subject, maintaining that no man
should be permitted to be an _amateur_-barrister and an
_amateur_-musician at the same time, and holding that law-students with
a turn for wind-instruments should, like vermin, be hunted down and
knocked on the head--without law. Strange stories might be told of the
discords and violent deeds to which music has given rise in the four
Inns. In the last century many a foolish fellow was 'put up' at ten
paces, because he refused to lay down an ophicleide; even as late as
George IV.'s time death has followed from an inordinate addiction to the
violin; and it was but the other day that the introduction of a piano
into a house in Carey Street led to the destruction of three close and
warm friendships.
So alive are lawyers to the frightful consequences of a wholesale
exhibition of melodious irritants, that a natural love of order and
desire for self-preservation has prompted them to raise numerous
obstructions to the free development of musical science in their
peculiar localities of town. In the Inns of Court and Chancery Lane
professional etiquette forbids barristers and solicitors to play upon
organs, harmoniums, pianos, violins, or other stringed instruments,
drums, trumpets, cymbals, shawms, bassoons, triangles, castanets or any
other bony devices for the production of noise, flageolets, hautboys, or
any other sort of boys--between the hours of 9 A.M. and 6 P.M. And this
rule of etiquette is supported by various special conditions introduced
into the leases by which the tenants hold much of the local house
property. Under some landlords, a tenant forfeits his lease if he
indulges in any pursuit that causes annoyance to his immediate
neighbors; under others, every occupant of a set of chambers binds
himself not to play any musical instrument therein, save between the
hours of 9 A.M. and 12 P.M.; and in more than one clump of chambers,
situated within a stone's throw from Chancery Lane, glee-singing is not
permitted at any period of the four-and-twenty hours.
That the pursuit of harmony is a dangerous pastime for young lawyers
cannot be questioned, although a long list might be given of cases where
musical barristers have gained the confidence of many clients, and
eventually raised themselves to the bench. A piano is a treacherous
companion for the student who can touch, it deftly--dangerous as an idle
friend, whose wit is ever brilliant; fascinating as a beautiful woman,
whose smile is always fresh; deceptive as the drug which seems to
invigorate, whilst in reality it is stealing away the intellectual
powers. Every persevering worker knows how large a portion of his hard
work has been done 'against the grain,' and in spite of strong
inclinations to indolence--in hours when pleasant voices could have
seduced him from duty, and any plausible excuse for indulgence would
have been promptly accepted. In the piano these pleasant voices are
constantly present, and it can always show good reason--why reluctant
industry should relax its exertions.
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE BATTLE OF THE ORGANS.
Sir Thomas More and Lord Bacon--the two most illustrious laymen who have
held the Great Seal of England--were notable musicians; and many
subsequent Keepers and Chancellors are scarcely less famous for love of
harmonious sounds than for judicial efficiency. Lord Keeper Guildford
was a musical amateur, and notwithstanding his low esteem of literature
condescended to write about melody. Lord Jeffreys was a good
after-dinner vocalist, and was esteemed a high authority on questions
concerning instrumental performance. Lord Camden was an operatic
composer; and Lord Thurlow studied thorough-bass, in order that he might
direct the musical exercises of his children.
In moments of depression More's favorite solace was the viol; and so
greatly did he value musical accomplishments in women, that he not only
instructed his first and girlish wife to play on various instruments,
but even prevailed on the sour Mistress Alice Middleton "to take lessons
on the lute, the cithara, the viol, the monochord, and the flute, which
she daily practised to him." But More's love of music was expressed
still more forcibly in the zeal with which he encouraged and took part
in the choral services of Chelsea Church. Throughout his residence at
Chelsea, Sir Thomas was a regular attendant at the church, and during
his tenure of the seals he not only delighted to chant the appointed
psalms, but used to don a white surplice, and take his place among the
choristers. Having invited the Duke of Norfolk to dine with him, the
Chancellor prepared himself for the enjoyment of that great peer's
society by attending divine service, and he was still occupied with his
religious exercises when his Grace of Norfolk entered the church, and to
his inexpressible astonishment saw the keeper of the king's conscience
in the flowing raiment of a chorister, and heard him give "Glory to God
in the highest!" as though he were a hired singer. "God's body! God's
body! My Lord Chancellor a parish clerk?--a parish clerk?" was the
duke's testy expostulation with the Chancellor. Whereupon More, with
gentle gravity, answered, "Nay; your grace may not think that the
king--your master and mine--will with me, for serving his Master, be
offended, and thereby account his office dishonored." Not only was it
More's custom to sing in the church choir, but he used also to bear a
cross in religious processions; and on being urged to mount horse when
he followed the rood in Rogation week round the parish boundaries, he
answered, "It beseemeth not the servant to follow his master prancing on
a cock-horse, his master going on foot." Few incidents in Sir Thomas
More's remarkable career point more forcibly to the vast difference
between the social manners of the sixteenth century and those of the
present day. If Lord Chelmsford were to recreate himself with leading
the choristers in Margaret Street, and after service were seen walking
homewards in an ecclesiastical dress, it is more than probable that
public opinion would declare him a fit companion for the lunatics of
whose interests he has been made the official guardian. Society felt
some surprise as well as gratification when Sir Roundell Palmer recently
published his 'Book of Praise;' but if the Attorney General, instead of
printing his select hymns had seen fit to exemplify their beauties with
his own voice from the stall of a church-singer, the piety of his
conduct would have scarcely reconciled Lord Palmerston to its dangerous
eccentricity.
Amongst Elizabethan lawyers, Chief Justice Dyer was by no means singular
for his love of music, though Whetstone's lines have given exceptional
celebrity to his melodious proficiency:--
"For publique good, when care had cloid his minde,
The only joye, for to repose his sprights,
Was musique sweet, which showd him well inclind;
For he doth in musique much delight,
A conscience hath disposed to do most right:
The reason is, her sound within our eare,
A sympathie of heaven we thinke we heare."
Like James Dyer, Francis Bacon found music a pleasant and salutary
pastime, when he was fatigued by the noisy contentions of legal practice
or by strenuous application to philosophic pursuits. A perfect master of
the science of melody, Lord Bacon explained its laws with a clearness
which has satisfied competent judges that he was familiar with the
practice as well as the theories of harmony; but few passages of his
works display more agreeably his personal delight and satisfaction in
musical exercise and investigation than that section of the 'Natural
History,' wherein he says, "And besides I practice as I do advise; which
is, after long inquiry of things immersed in matter, to interpose some
subject which is immateriate or less materiate; such as this of sounds:
to the end that the intellect may be rectified and become not partial."
A theorist as well as performer, the Lord Keeper Guilford enunciated his
views regarding the principles of melody in 'A Philosophical Essay of
Musick, Directed to a Friend'--a treatise that was published without the
author's name, by Martin, the printer to the Royal Society, in the year
1677, at which time the future keeper was Chief Justice of the Common
Pleas. The merits of the tract are not great; but it displays the
subtlety and whimsical quaintness of the musical lawyer, who performed
on several instruments, was very vain of a feeble voice, and used to
attribute much of his professional success to the constant study of
music that marked every period of his life. "I have heard him say,"
Roger records, "that if he had not enabled himself by these studies, and
particular his practice of music upon his bass or lyra viol (which he
used to touch lute-fashion upon his knee), to divert himself alone, he
had never been a lawyer. His mind was so airy and volatile he could not
have kept his chamber if he must needs be there, staked down purely to
the drudgery of the law, whether in study or practice; and yet upon
such a leaden proposition, so painful to brisk spirits, all the success
of the profession, regularly pursued, depends." His first acquaintance
with melodious art was made at Cambridge, where in his undergraduate
days he took lessons on the viol. At this same period he "had the
opportunity of practice so much in his grandfather's and father's
families, where the entertainment of music in full concert was solemn
and frequent, that he outdid all his teachers, and became one of the
neatest violinists of his time." Scarcely in consistence with this
declaration of the Lord Keeper's proficiency on the violin is a later
passage of the biography, where Roger says that his brother "attempted
the violin, being ambitious of the prime part in concert, but soon found
that he began such a difficult art too late." It is, however, certain
that the eminent lawyer in the busiest passages of his laborious life
found time for musical practice, and that besides his essay on music, he
contributed to his favorite art several compositions which were
performed in private concert-rooms.
Sharing in the musical tastes of his family, Roger North, the
biographer, was the _friend_ who used to touch the harpsichord that
stood at the door of the Lord Keeper's bedchamber; and when political
changes had extinguished his hopes of preferment, he found consolation
in music and literature. Retiring to his seat in Norfolk, Roger fitted
up a concert-room with instruments that roused the astonishment of
country squires, and an organ that was extolled by critical professors
for the sweetness of its tones. In that seclusion, where he lived to
extreme old age, the lettered lawyer composed the greater part of those
writings which have rendered him familiar to the present generation. Of
his 'Memoirs of Musick,' readers are not accustomed to speak so
gratefully as of his biographies; but the curious sketch which Dr.
Rimbault edited and for the first time published in 1846, is worthy of
perusal, and will maintain a place on the shelves of literary collectors
by the side of his brother's 'Essay.'
In that treatise Roger alludes to a contest which in the reigns of
Charles II. and James II. agitated the musicians of London, divided the
Templars into two hostile parties, and for a considerable time gave rise
to quarrels in every quarter of the town. All this disturbance resulted
from "a competition for an organ in the Temple church, for which the two
competitors, the best artists in Europe, Smith and Harris, were but just
not ruined." The struggle thus mentioned in the 'Memoirs of Musick' is
so comic an episode in the story of London life, and has been the
occasion of so much error amongst writers, that it claims brief
restatement in the present chapter.
In February, 1682, the Benchers of the Temples, wishing to obtain for
their church an organ of superlative excellence, invited Father Smith
and Renatus Harris to compete for the honor of supplying the instrument.
The masters of the benchers pledged themselves that "if each of these
excellent artists would set up an organ in one of the halls belonging to
either of the societies, they would have erected in their church that
which, in the greatest number of excellencies, deserved the preference."
For more than twenty years Father Smith had been the first organ-builder
in England; and the admirable qualities of his instruments testify to
his singular ability. A German artist (in his native country called
Bernard Schmidt, but in London known as Father Smith), he had
established himself in the English capital as early as the summer of
1660; and gaining the cordial patronage of Charles II., he and his two
grand-nephews soon became leaders of their craft. Father Smith built
organs for Westminster Abbey, for the Church of St. Giles-in-the-Fields,
for St. Margaret's Church, Westminster, for Durham Cathedral, and for
other sacred buildings. In St. Paul's Cathedral he placed the organ
which Wren disdainfully designated a "box of whistles;" and dying in
1708, he left his son-in-law, Christopher Schreider, to complete the
organ which still stands in the chapel of Trinity College, Cambridge.
But notwithstanding his greatness, Father Smith had rivals; his first
rival being Harris the Elder, who died in 1672, his second being Renatus
Harris, or Harris the Younger. The elder Harris never caused Smith much
discomfort; but his son, Renatus, was a very clever fellow, and a strong
party of fashionable _connoisseurs_ declared that he was greatly
superior to the German. Such was the position of these two rivals when
the benchers made their proposal, which was eagerly accepted by the
artificers, each of whom saw in it an opportunity for covering his
antagonist with humiliation.
The men went to work: and within fourteen months their instruments were
ready for competition. Smith finished work before Harris, and prevailed
on the benchers to let him place his organ in the Temple church, well
knowing that the powers of the instrument could be much more readily and
effectively displayed in the church than in either of the dining-halls.
The exact site where he fixed his organ is unknown, but the careful
author of 'A Few Notes on the Temple Organ, 1859,' is of opinion that it
was put up "on the screen between the round and oblong churches--the
position occupied by the organ until the present organ-chamber was
built, and the organ removed there during the progress of the complete
restoration of the church in the year 1843." No sooner had Harris
finished his organ, than, following Father Smith's example, he asked
leave of the benchers to erect it within the church. Harris's petition
to this effect bears date May 26, 1684; and soon afterwards the organ
was "set up in the Church on the south side of the Communion Table."
Both organs being thus stationed under the roof of the church, the
committee of benchers appointed to decide on their relative merits
declared themselves ready to listen. The trial began, but many
months--ay, some years--elapsed ere it came to an end. On either side
the credit of the manufacturer was sustained by execution of the highest
order of art. Father Smith's organ was handled alternately by Purcell
and Dr. Blow; and Draghi, the queen's organist, did his best to secure a
verdict for Renatus Harris. Of course the employment of these eminent
musicians greatly increased the number of persons who felt personal
interest in the contest. Whilst the pupils and admirers of Purcell and
Blow were loud in declaring that Smith's organ ought to win, Draghi's
friends were equally sure that the organ touched by his expert fingers
ought not to lose. Discussion soon became violent; and in every
profession, clique, coterie of the town, supporters of Smith wrangled
with supporters of Harris. Like the battle of the Gauges in our time,
the battle of the Organs was the grand topic with every class of
society, at Court and on 'Change, in coffee-houses and at ordinaries.
Again and again the organs were tested in the hearing of dense and
fashionable congregations; and as often the judicial committee was
unable to come to a decision. The hesitation of the judges put oil upon
the fire; for Smith's friends, indignant at the delay, asserted that
certain members of the committee were bound to Harris by corrupt
considerations--an accusation that was retorted by the other side with
equal warmth and want of justice.
After the squabble had been protracted through many months, Harris
created a diversion by challenging Father Smith to make additional
reed-stops within a given time. The challenge was accepted; and
forthwith the Father went to work and made Vox Humana, Cremorne, Double
Courtel, or Double Bassoon, and other stops. A day was appointed for the
renewal of the contest; but party feeling ran so high, that during the
night preceding the appointed day a party of hot-headed Harrissians
broke into the Temple Church, and cut Smith's bellows--so that on the
following morning his organ was of no more service than an old
linen-press. A row ensued; and in the ardor of debate swords were drawn.
In June, 1685, the benchers of the Middle Temple, made a written
declaration in favor of Father Smith, and urged that his organ should be
forthwith accepted. Strongly and rather discourteously worded, this
declaration gave offence to the benchers of the Inner Temple, who
regarded it as an attempt at dictation; and on June 22, 1685, they
recommended the appointment of another committee with powers to decide
the contest. Declining to adopt this suggestion, the Middle Temple
benchers reiterated their high opinion of Smith's instrument. On this
the Battle of the Organs became a squabble between the two Temples; and
the outside public, laughing over the quarrel of the lawyers, expressed
a hope that honest men would get their own since the rogues had fallen
out.
At length, when the organ-builders had well-nigh ruined each other, and
the town had grown weary of the dispute, the Inner Temple yielded
somewhere about the beginning of 1688--at an early date of which year
Smith received a sum of money in part payment for his organ. On May 27th
of the same year, Mr. Pigott was appointed organist. After its rejection
by the Temple, Renatus Harris divided his organ into two, and having
sent the one part to the cathedral of Christ's Church, Dublin, he set up
the other part in the church of St. Andrew, Holborn. Three years after
his disappointment, Renatus Harris was tried at the Old Bailey for a
political offence, the nature of which may be seen from the following
entry in Narcissus Luttrell's Diary:--"April, 1691. The Sessions have
been at the Old Bailey, where these persons, Renatus Harris, John Watts,
William Rutland, Henry Gandy, and Thomas Tysoe, were tried at the Old
Bailey for setting up policies of insurance that Dublin would be in the
hands of some other king than their present majesties by Christmas next:
the jury found them guilty of a misdemeanor." For this offence Renatus
Harris was fined L200, and was required to give security for his good
conduct until Christmas.
An erroneous tradition assigns to Lord Jeffreys the honor of bringing
the Battle of the Organs to a conclusion, and writers improving upon
this tradition, have represented that Jeffreys acted as sole umpire
between the contendants. In his 'History of Music,' Dr. Burney, to whom
the prevalence of this false impression is mainly due, observes--"At
length the decision was left to Lord Chief Justice Jeffries, afterwards
King James the Second's pliant Chancellor, who was of that society (the
Inner Temple), and he terminated the controversy in favor of Father
Smith; so that Harris's organ was taken away without loss of reputation,
having so long pleased and puzzled better judges than Jefferies."
Careful inquirers have ascertained that Harris's organ did not go to
Wolverhampton, but to Dublin and St. Andrew's Holborn, part of it being
sent to the one, and part to the other place. It is certain that Jeffrys
was not chosen to act as umpire in 1681, for the benchers did not make
their original proposal to the rival builders until February, 1682; and
years passed between that date and the termination of the squabble. When
Burney wrote:--"At length the decision was left to Lord Chief Justice
Jefferies, _afterwards King James II.'s pliant Chancellor_," the
musician was unaware that the squabble was still at white heat whilst
Jeffreys occupied the woolsack. On his return from the Western Campaign,
Jeffreys received the seals in September, 1685, whereas the dispute
about the organs did not terminate till the opening of 1688, or at
earliest till the close of 1687. There is no authentic record in the
archives of the Temples which supports, or in any way countenances, the
story that Jeffreys made choice of Smith's instrument; but it is highly
probable that the Lord Chancellor exerted his influence with the Inner
Temple (of which society he was a member), and induced the benchers, for
the sake of peace, to yield to the wishes of the Middle Temple. It is no
less probable that his fine musical taste enabled him to see that the
Middle Temple benchers were in the right, and gave especial weight to
his words when he spoke against Harris's instrument.
Though Jeffreys delighted in music, he does not seem to have held its
professors in high esteem. In the time of Charles II. musical artists of
the humbler grades liked to be styled 'musitioners;' and on a certain
occasion, when he was sitting as Recorder for the City of London, George
Jeffreys was greatly incensed by a witness who, in a pompous voice,
called himself a musitioner. With a sneer the Recorder interposed--"A
musitioner! I thought you were a fiddler!" "I am a musitioner," the
violinist answered, stoutly. "Oh, indeed," croaked Jeffreys. "That is
very important--highly important--extremely important! And pray, Mr.
Witness, what is the difference between a musitioner and a fiddler?"
With fortunate readiness the man answered, "As much, sir, as there is
between a pair of bag-pipes and a Recorder."
CHAPTER XXVII.
A THICKNESS IN THE THROAT.
The date is September, 1805, and the room before us is a drawing-room in
a pleasant house at Brighton. The hot sun is beating down on cliff and
terrace, beach and pier, on the downs behind the town and the sparkling
sea in front. The brightness of the blue sky is softened by white vapor
that here and there resembles a vast curtain of filmy gauze, but nowhere
has gathered into visible masses of hanging cloud. In the distance the
sea is murmuring audibly, and through the screened windows, together
with the drowsy hum of the languid waves, comes a light breeze that is
invigorating, notwithstanding its sensible warmth.
Besides ourselves there are but two people in the room: a gentlewoman
who has said farewell to youth, but not to feminine grade and delicacy;
and an old man, who is lying on a sofa near one of the open windows,
whilst his daughter plays passages of Handel's music on the piano-forte.
The old man wears the dress of an obsolete school of English gentlemen;
a large brown wig with three rows of curls, the lowest row resting on
the curve of his shoulders; a loose grey coat, notable for the size of
its cuffs and the bigness of its heavy buttons; ruffles at his wrists,
and frills of fine lace below his roomy cravat. These are the most
conspicuous articles of his costume, but not the most striking points of
his aspect. Over his huge, pallid, cadaverous, furrowed face there is an
air singularly expressive of exhaustion and power, of debility and
latent strength--an air that says to sensitive beholders, "This
prostrate veteran was once a giant amongst giants; his fires are dying
out; but the old magnificent courage and ability will never altogether
leave him until the beatings of his heart shall have quite ceased: touch
him with foolishness or disrespect, and his rage will be terrible."
Standing here we can see his prodigious bushy eyebrows, that are as
white as driven snow, and under them we can see the large black eyes,
beneath the angry fierceness of which hundreds of proud British peers,
assembled in their council-chamber, have trembled like so many whipped
schoolboys. There is no lustre in them now, and their habitual
expression is one of weariness and profound indifference to the world--a
look that is deeply pathetic and depressing, until some transient cause
of irritation or the words of a sprightly talker rouse him into
animation. But the most noticeable quality of his face is its look of
extreme age. Only yesterday a keen observer said of him, "Lord Thurlow
is, I believe, only seventy-four; and from his appearance I should think
him a hundred years old."
So quiet is the reclining form, that the pianist thinks her father must
be sleeping. Turning on the music-stool to get a view of his
countenance, and to satisfy herself as to his state, she makes a false
note, when, quick as the blunder, the brown wig turns upon the
pillow--the furrowed face is presented to her observation, and an
electric brightness fills the big black eyes, as the veteran, with deep
rolling tones, reproves her carelessness:--"What are you doing?--what
are you doing? I had almost forgotten the world. Play that piece again."
Twelve months more--and the lady will be playing Handel's music on that
same instrument; but the old man will not be a listener.
From Brighton, in 1805, let readers transport themselves to Canterbury
in 1776, and let them enter a barber's shop, hard by Canterbury
Cathedral. It is a primitive shop, with the red and white pole over the
door, and a modest display of wigs and puff-boxes in the window. A small
shop, but, notwithstanding its smallness, the best shop of its kind in
Canterbury; and its lean, stiff, exceedingly respectable master is a man
of good repute in the cathedral town. His hands have, ere now, powdered
the Archbishop's wig, and he is specially retained by the chief clergy
of the city and neighborhood to keep their false hair in order, and trim
the natural tresses of their children. Not only have the dignitaries of
the cathedral taken the worthy barber under their special protection,
but they have extended to his little boy Charles, a demure, prim lad,
who is at this present time a pupil in the King's School, to which
academy clerical interest gained him admission. The lad is in his
fourteenth year; and Dr. Osmund Beauvoir, the master of the school,
gives him so good a character for industry and dutiful demeanor, that
some of the cathedral ecclesiastics have resolved to make the little
fellow's fortune--by placing him in the office of a Chorister. There is
a vacant place in the cathedral choir; and the boy who is lucky enough
to receive the appointment will be provided for munificently. He will
forthwith have a maintenance, and in course of time his salary will be
L70 per annum.
During the last fortnight the barber has been in great and constant
excitement--hoping that his little boy will obtain this valuable piece
of preferment; persuading himself that the lad's thickness of voice,
concerning which the choir-master speaks with aggravating persistence,
is a matter of no real importance; fearing that the friends of another
contemporary boy, who is said by the choir-master to have an exceedingly
mellifluous voice, may defeat his paternal aspirations. The momentous
question agitates many humble homes in Canterbury; and whilst Mr.
Abbott, the barber, is encouraged to hope the best for his son, the
relatives and supporters of the contemporary boy are urging him not to
despair. Party spirit prevails on either side--Mr. Abbott's family
associates maintaining that the contemporary boy's higher notes resemble
those of a penny whistle; whilst the contemporary boy's father, with
much satire and some justice, murmurs that "old Abbott, who is the
gossip-monger of the parsons, wants to push his son into a place for
which there is a better candidate."
To-day is the eventful day when the election will be made. Even now,
whilst Abbott, the barber, is trimming a wig at his shop window, and
listening to the hopeful talk of an intimate neighbor, his son Charley
is chanting the Old Hundredth before the whole chapter. When Charley has
been put through his vocal paces, the contemporary boy is requested to
sing. Whereupon that clear-throated competitor, sustained by justifiable
self-confidence and a new-laid egg which he had sucked scarcely a minute
before he made his bow to their reverences, sings out with such richness
and compass that all the auditors recognize his great superiority.
Ere ten more minutes have passed Charley Abbot knows that he has lost
the election; and he hastens from the cathedral with quick steps.
Running into the shop he gives his father a look that tells the whole
story of--failure, and then the little fellow, unable to command his
grief, sits down upon the floor and sobs convulsively.
Failure is often the first step to eminence.
Had the boy gained the chorister's place, he would have a cathedral
servant all his days.
Having failed to get it, he returned to the King's School, went a poor
scholar to Oxford, and fought his way to honor. He became Chief Justice
of the King's Bench, and a peer of the realm. Towards the close of his
honorable career Lord Tenterden attended service in the Cathedral of
Canterbury, accompanied by Mr. Justice Richardson. When the ceremonial
was at an end the Chief Justice said to his friend--"Do you see that old
man there amongst the choristers? In him, brother Richardson, behold the
only being I ever envied: when at school in this town we were candidates
together for a chorister's place; he obtained it; and if I had gained my
wish he might have been accompanying you as Chief Justice, and pointing
me out as his old school-fellow, the singing man."
PART VI.
AMATEUR THEATRICALS.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
ACTORS AT THE BAR.
Some years since the late Sergeant Wilkins was haranguing a crowd of
enlightened electors from the hustings of a provincial borough, when a
stentorian voice exclaimed, "Go home, you rope-dancer!" Disdaining to
notice the interruption, the orator continued his speech for fifty
seconds, when the same voice again cried out, "Go home, you
rope-dancer!" A roar of laughter followed the reiteration of the insult;
and in less than two minutes thrice fifty unwashed blackguards were
roaring with all the force of their lungs, "Ah-h-h--Go home, you
rope-dancer!" Not slow to see the moaning of the words, the unabashed
lawyer, who in his life had been a dramatic actor, replied with his
accustomed readiness and effrontery. A young man unacquainted with mobs
would have descanted indignantly and with many theatrical flourishes on
the dignity and usefulness of the player's vocation; an ordinary
demagogue would have frankly admitted the discourteous impeachment, and
pleaded in mitigation that he had always acted in leading parts and for
high salaries. Sergeant Wilkins took neither of those courses, for he
knew his audience, and was aware that his connection with the stage was
an affair about which he had better say as little as possible. Instead
of appealing to their generosity, or boasting of his histrionic
eminence, he threw himself broadly on their sense of humor. Drawing
himself up to his full height, the big, burly man advanced to the marge
of the platform, and extending his right hand with an air of authority,
requested silence by the movement of his arm. The sign was instantly
obeyed; for having enjoyed their laugh, the multitude wished for the
rope-dancer's explanation. As soon as the silence was complete, he drew
back two paces, put himself in an oratorical _pose_, as though he were
about to speak, and then, disappointing the expectations of the
assembly, deliberately raised forwards and upwards the skirts of his
frock-coat. Having thus arranged his drapery he performed a slow
gyration--presenting his huge round shoulders and unwieldy legs to the
populace. When his back was turned to the crowd, he stooped and made a
low obeisance to his vacant chair, thereby giving the effect of
caricature to the outlines of his most protuberant and least honorable
part. This pantomime lasted scarcely a minute; and before the spectators
could collect themselves to resent so extraordinary an affront, the
sergeant once again faced them, and in a clear, rich, jovial tone
exclaimed, "_He_ called me a rope-dancer!--after what you have seen, do
you believe him?"
With the exception of the man who started the cry, every person in the
dense multitude was convulsed with laughter; and till the end of the
election no turbulent rascal ventured to repeat the allusion to the
sergeant's former occupation. At a moment of embarrassment, Mr.
Disraeli, in the course of one of his youthful candidatures, created a
diversion in his favor by telling a knot of unruly politicians that he
_stood on his head_. With less wit, and much less decency, but with
equal good fortune, Sergeant Wilkins took up his position on a baser
part of his frame.
The electors who respected Mr. Wilkins because he was a successful
barrister, whilst they reproached him with having been a stage-player,
were unaware how close an alliance exists between the art of the actor
and the art of the advocate. To lawyers of every grade and speciality
the histrionic faculty is a useful power; but to the advocate who wishes
to sway the minds of jurors it is a necessary endowment. Comprising
several distinct abilities, it not only enables the orator to rouse the
passions and to play on the prejudices of his hearers, but it preserves
him from the errors of judgment, tone, emphasis--in short, from manifold
blunders of indiscretion and tact by which verdicts are lost quite as
often as through defect of evidence and merit. Like the dramatic
performer, the court-speaker, especially at the common law bar, has to
assume various parts. Not only should he know the facts of his brief,
but he should thoroughly identify himself with the client for whom his
eloquence is displayed. On the theatrical stage mimetic business is cut
up into specialities, men in most cases filling the parts of men, whilst
actresses fill the parts of women; the young representing the
characteristics of youth, whilst actors with special endowments simulate
the qualities of old age; some confining themselves to light and trivial
characters, whilst others are never required to strut before the scenes
with hurried paces, or to speak in phrases that lack dignity and fine
sentiment. But the popular advocate must in turn fill every _role_. If
childish simplicity be his client's leading characteristic, his
intonations will express pliancy and foolish confidence; or if it is
desirable that the jury should appreciate his client's honesty of
purpose, he speaks with a voice of blunt, bluff, manly frankness.
Whatever quality the advocate may wish to represent as the client's
distinctive characteristic, it must be suggested to the jury by mimetic
artifice of the finest sort. Speaking of a famous counsel, an
enthusiastic juryman once said to this writer--"In my time I have heard
Sir Alexander in pretty nearly every part: I've heard him as an old man
and a young woman; I have heard him when he has been a ship run down at
sea, and when he has been an oil-factory in a state of conflagration;
once, when I was foreman of a jury, I saw him poison his intimate
friend, and another time he did the part of a pious bank director in a
fashion that would have skinned the eyelids of Exeter Hall: he ain't bad
as a desolate widow with nine children, of which the eldest is under
eight years of age; but if ever I have to listen to him again, I should
like to see him as a young lady of good connexions who has been seduced
by an officer of the Guards." In the days of his forensic triumphs Henry
Brougham was remarkable for the mimetic power which enabled him to
describe friend or foe by a few subtle turns of the voice. At a later
period, long after he had left the bar, in compliance with a request
that he would return thanks for the bridesmaids at a wedding breakfast,
he observed, that "doubtless he had been selected for the task in
consideration of his youth, beauty, and innocence." The laughter that
followed this sally was of the sort which in poetic phraseology is
called inextinguishable; and one of the wedding guests who heard the
joke and the laughter, assures this writer that the storm of mirthful
applause was chiefly due to the delicacy and sweetness of the
intonations by which the speaker's facile voice, with its old and once
familiar art, made the audience realize the charms of youth, beauty and
innocence--charms which, so far as the lawyer's wrinkled visage was
concerned, were conspicuous by their absence.
Eminent advocates have almost invariably possessed qualities that would
have made them successful mimics on the stage. For his mastery of
oratorical artifices Alexander Wedderburn was greatly indebted to
Sheridan, the lecturer on elocution, and to Macklin, the actor, from
both of whom he took lessons; and when he had dismissed his teachers and
become a leader of the English bar he adhered to their rules, and daily
practised before a looking-glass the facial tricks by which Macklin
taught him to simulate surprise or anger, indignation or triumph.
Erskine was a perfect master of dramatic effect, and much of his
richly-deserved success was due to the theatrical artifices with which
he played upon the passions of juries. At the conclusion of a long
oration he was accustomed to feign utter physical prostration, so that
the twelve gentlemen in the box, in their sympathy for his sufferings
and their admiration for his devotion to the interests of his client,
might be impelled by generous emotion to return a favorable verdict.
Thus when he defended Hardy, hoarseness and fatigue so overpowered him
towards the close of his speech, that during the last ten minutes he
could not speak above a whisper, and in order that his whispers might be
audible to the jury, the exhausted advocate advanced two steps nearer to
their box, and then extended his pale face to their eager eyes. The
effect of the artifice on the excited jury is said to have been great
and enduring, although they were speedily enlightened as to the real
nature of his apparent distress. No sooner had the advocate received the
first plaudits of his theatre on the determination of his harangue, than
the multitude outside the court, taking up the acclamations which were
heard within the building, expressed their feelings with such deafening
clamor, and with so many signs of riotous intention, that Erskine was
entreated to leave the court and soothe the passions of the mob with a
few words of exhortation. In compliance with this suggestion he left the
court, and forthwith addressed the dense out-door assembly in clear,
ringing tones that were audible in Ludgate Hill, at one end of the Old
Bailey, and to the billowy sea of human heads that surged round St.
Sepulchre's Church at the other extremity of the dismal thoroughfare.
At the subsequent trial of John Horne Tooke, Sir John Scott, unwilling
that Erskine should enjoy a monopoly of theatrical artifice, endeavored
to create a diversion in favor of the government by a display of those
lachrymose powers, which Byron ridiculed in the following century. "I
can endure anything but an attack on my good name," exclaimed the
Attorney General, in reply to a criticism directed against his mode of
conducting the prosecution; "my good name is the little patrimony I have
to leave to my children, and, with God's help, gentlemen of the jury, I
will leave it to them unimpaired." As he uttered these words tears
suffused the eyes which, at a later period of the lawyer's career, used
to moisten the woolsack in the House of Lords--
"Because the Catholics would not rise,
In spite of his prayers and his prophecies."
For a moment Horne Tooke, who persisted in regarding all the
circumstances of his perilous position as farcical, smiled at the
lawyer's outburst in silent amusement; but as soon as he saw a
sympathetic brightness in the eyes of one of the jury, the dexterous
demagogue with characteristic humor and effrontery accused Sir John
Mitford, the Solicitor General, of needless sympathy with the
sentimental disturbance of his colleague. "Do you know what Sir John
Mitford is crying about?" the prisoner inquired of the jury. "He is
thinking of the destitute condition of Sir John Scott's children, and
the _little patrimony_ they are likely to divide among them." The jury
and all present were not more tickled by the satire upon the Attorney
General than by the indignant surprise which enlivened the face of Sir
John Mitford, who was not at all prone to tears, and had certainly
manifested no pity for John Scott's forlorn condition.
CHAPTER XXIX.
"THE PLAY'S THE THING."
Following the example set by the nobility in their castles and civic
palaces, the Inns of Court set apart certain days of the year for
feasting and revelry, and amongst the diversions with which the lawyers
recreated themselves at these periods of rejoicing, the rude
Pre-Shakespearian dramas took a prominent place. So far back as A.D.
1431, the Masters of the Lincoln's Inn Bench restricted the number of
annual revels to four--"one at the feast of All-Hallown, another at the
feast of St. Erkenwald; the third at the feast of the Purification of
our Lady; and the 4th at Midsummer." The ceremonials of these holidays
were various; but the brief and sometimes unintelligible notices of the
chroniclers give us sufficiently vivid and minute pictures of the
boisterous jollity that marked the proceedings. Miracle plays and
moralities, dancing and music, fantastic processions and mad pranks,
spurred on the hours that were not devoted to heavy meals and deep
potations. In the merriments of the different Inns there was a pleasant
diversity--with regard to the duration and details of the
entertainments: and occasionally the members of the four societies acted
with so little concert that their festivals, falling at exactly the same
time, were productive of rivalry and disappointments. Dugdale thinks
that the Christmas revels were not regularly kept in Lincoln's Inn
during the reign of Henry VIII.; and draws attention to an order made by
the benchers of that house on 27 Nov., 22 H. VIII., the record of which
runs thus:--"It is agreed that IF the two Temples do kepe Chrystemas,
then the Chrystemas to be kept here; and to know this, the Steward of
the House ys commanded to get knowledge, and to advertise my masters by
the next day at night."
But notwithstanding changes and novelties, the main features of a revel
in an Inn of Court were always much the same. Some member of the society
conspicuous for rank or wit of style, or for a combination of these
qualities, was elected King of the Revel, and until the close of the
long frolic he was despot and sole master of the position--so long as he
did not disregard a few not vexatious conditions by which, the benchers
limited his authority. He surrounded himself with a mock court, exacted
homage from barristers and students, made proclamations to his loyal
children, sat on a throne at daily banquets, and never appeared in
public without a body-guard, and a numerous company of musicians, to
protect his person and delight his ear.
The wit and accomplishments of the younger lawyers were signally
displayed in the dramatic interludes that usually enlivened these
somewhat heavy and sluggish jollifications. Not only did they write the
pieces, and put them before the audience with cunning devices for the
production of scenic effect, but they were their own actors. It was not
long before their 'moralities' were seasoned with political sentiments
and allusions to public affairs. For instance, when Wolsey was in the
fulness of his power, Sergeant Roo ventured to satirize the Cardinal in
a masque with which Gray's Inn entertained Henry VIII. and his
courtiers. Hall records that, "This plaie was so set furth with riche
and costlie apparel; with strange diuises of maskes and morrishes, that
it was highly praised of all menne saving the Cardinall, whiche imagined
that the plaie had been deuised of him, and in greate furie sent for the
said Maister Roo, and toke from hym his coife, and sent him to the
Flete, and after he sent for the yoong gentlemen that plaied in the
plaie, and them highly rebuked and threatened, and sent one of them,
called Thomas Moyle, of Kent, to the Flete; but by means of friendes
Master Roo and he wer deliuered at last." The author stoutly denied that
he intended to satirize the Cardinal; and the chronicler, believing the
sergeant's assertions, observes, "This plaie sore displeased the
Cardinal, and yet it was never meant to him." That the presentation of
plays was a usual feature of the festivals at Gray's Inn may be inferred
from the passage where Dugdale, in his notes on that society, says;--"In
4 Edw. VI. (17 Nov.), it was also ordered that henceforth there should
be no comedies called _Interludes_ in this House out of Term time, but
when the feast of the Nativity of our Lord is solemnly observed. And
that when there shall be any such comedies, then all the society at that
time in commons to bear the charge of the apparel."
Notwithstanding her anxiety for the maintenance of good discipline in
the Inns of Court, Queen Elizabeth encouraged the Societies to celebrate
their feasts with costliness and liberal hospitality, and her taste for
dramatic entertainments increased the splendor and frequency of
theatrical diversions amongst the lawyers. Christopher Hatton's name is
connected with the history of the English drama, by the acts which he
contributed to 'The Tragedie of Tancred and Gismunda, compiled by the
gentlemen of the Inner Temple, and by them presented before her
majestie;' and he was one of the chief actors in that ponderous and
extravagant mummery with which the Inner Temple kept Christmas in the
fourth year of Elizabeth's reign.
The circumstances of that festival merit special notice.
In the third year of Elizabeth's reign the Middle Temple and the Inner
Temple were at fierce war, the former society having laid claim to
Lyon's Inn, which had been long regarded as a dependency of the Inner
Temple. The two Chief Justices, Sir Robert Catlyn and Sir James Dyer,
were known to think well of the claimant's title, and the masters of the
Inner Temple bench anticipated an adverse decision, when Lord Robert
Dudley (afterwards Earl of Leicester) came to their relief with an order
from Queen Elizabeth enjoining the Middle Templars no longer to vex
their neighbors in the matter. Submission being the only course open to
them, the lawyers of the Middle Temple desisted from their claim; and
the Masters of the Inner Temple Bench expressed their great gratitude to
Lord Robert Dudley, "by ordering and enacting that no person or persons
of their society that then were, or thereafter should be, should be
retained of councell against him the said Lord Robert, or his heirs; and
that the arms of the said Lord Robert should be set up and placed in
some convenient place in their Hall as a continual monument of his
lordship's favor unto them."
Further honors were paid to this nobleman at the ensuing Christmas, when
the Inner Temple held a revel of unusual magnificence and made Lord
Robert the ruler of the riot. Whilst the holidays lasted the young
lord's title and style were "Pallaphilos, prince of Sophie High
Constable Marshal of the Knights Templars, and Patron of the Honorable
Order of Pegasus." And he kept a stately court, having for his chief
officers--Mr. Onslow (Lord Chancellor), Anthony Stapleton (Lord
Treasurer), Robert Kelway (Lord Privy Seal), John Fuller (Chief Justice
of the King's Bench), William Pole (Chief Justice of the Common Pleas),
Roger Manwood (Chief Baron of the Exchequer), Mr. Bashe (Steward of the
Household), Mr. Copley (Marshal of the Household), Mr. Paten (Chief
Butler), Christopher Hatton (Master of the Game), Messieurs Blaston,
Yorke, Penston, Jervise (Masters of the Revels), Mr. Parker (Lieutenant
of the Tower), Mr. Kendall (Carver), Mr. Martyn (Ranger of the Forests),
and Mr. Stradling (Sewer). Besides these eighteen Placemen, Pallaphilos
had many other mock officers, whose names are not recorded, and he was
attended by a body-guard of fourscore members of the Inn.
From the pages of Gerard Leigh and Dugdale, the reader can obtain a
sufficiently minute account of the pompous ceremonials and heavy
buffooneries of the season. He may learn some of the special services
and contributions which Prince Pallaphilos required of his chief
courtiers, and take note how Mr. Paten, as Chief Butler, had to provide
seven dozen silver and gilt spoons, twelve dozen silver and gilt
salt-cellars, twenty silver and gilt candlesticks, twenty fine large
table-cloths of damask and diaper, twenty dozen white napkins, three
dozen fair large towels, twenty dozen white cups and green pots, to say
nothing of carving-knives, carving table, tureens, bread, beer, ale, and
wine. The reader also may learn from those chroniclers how the company
were placed according to degrees at different tables; how the banquets
were served to the sound of drums and fifes; how the boar's head was
brought in upon a silver dish; how the gentlemen in gowns, the
trumpeters, and other musicians followed the boar's head in stately
procession; and how, by a rule somewhat at variance with modern notions
concerning old English hospitality, strangers of worth were expected to
pay in cash for their entertainment, eightpence per head being the
charge for dinner on the day of Christmas Eve, and twelve-pence being
demanded from each stranger for his dinner on the following day.
Ladies were not excluded from all the festivities; though it may be
presumed they did not share in all the riotous meals of the period. It
is certain that they were invited, together with the young law-students
from the Inns of Chancery, to see a play and a masque acted in the hall;
that seats were provided for their special accommodation in the hall
whilst the sports were going forward; and that at the close of the
dramatic performances the gallant dames and pretty girls were
entertained by Pallaphilos in the library with a suitable banquet;
whilst the mock Lord Chancellor, Mr. Onslow, presided at a feast in the
hall, which with all possible speed had been converted from theatrical
to more appropriate uses.
But though the fun was rare and the array was splendid to idle folk of
the sixteenth century, modern taste would deem such gaiety rude and
wearisome, would call the ladies' banquet a disorderly scramble, and
think the whole frolic scarce fit for schoolboys. And in many respects
those revels of olden time were indecorous, noisy, comfortless affairs.
There must have been a sad want of room and fresh air in the Inner
Temple dining-hall, when all the members of the inn, the selected
students from the subordinate Inns of Chancery, and half a hundred
ladies (to say nothing of Mr. Gerard Leigh and illustrious strangers),
had crowded into the space set apart for the audience. At the dinners
what wrangling and tumult must have arisen through squabbles for place,
and the thousand mishaps that always attend an endeavor to entertain
five hundred gentlemen at a dinner, in a room barely capacious enough
for the proper accommodation of a hundred and fifty persons. Unless this
writer greatly errs, spoons and knives were in great request, and table
linen was by no means 'fair and spotless' towards the close of the rout.
Superb, on that holyday, was the aspect of Prince Pallaphilos. Wearing a
complete suit of elaborately wrought and richly gilt armor, he bore
above his helmet a cloud of curiously dyed feathers, and held a gilt
pole-axe in his hand. By his side walked the Lieutenant of the Tower
(Mr. Parker), clad in white armor, and like Pallaphilos furnished with
feathers and a pole-axe.
On entering the hall the prince and his Lieutenant of the Tower were
preceded by sixteen trumpeters (at full blare), four drummers (at full
drum), and a company of fifers (at full whistle), and followed by four
men in white armor, bearing halberds in their hands. Thrice did this
procession march round the fire that blazed in the centre of the hall;
and when in the course of these three circuits the four halberdiers and
the musicians had trodden upon everybody's toes (their own included),
and when moreover they had blown themselves out of time and breath,
silence was proclaimed; and Prince Pallaphilos, having laid aside his
pole-axe and his naked sword and a few other trifles, took his seat at
the urgent entreaty of the mock Lord Chancellor.
But Kit Hatton's appearance and part in the proceedings were even more
outrageously ridiculous. The future Lord Chancellor of England was then
a very elegant and witty young fellow, proud of his quick humor and
handsome face, but far prouder of his exquisitely proportioned legs. No
sooner had Prince Pallaphilos taken his seat, at the Lord Chancellor's
suggestion, than Kit Hatton (as master of the game) entered the hall,
dressed in a complete suit of green velvet, and holding a green bow in
his left hand. His quiver was supplied with green arrows, and round his
neck was slung a hunting-horn. By Kit's side, arrayed in exactly the
same style, walked the Ranger of the Forests (Mr. Martyn); and having
forced their way into the crowded chamber, the two young men blew three
blasts of venery upon their horns, and then paced three times round the
fire. After thus parading the hall they paused before the Lord
Chancellor, to whom the Master of Game made three curtsies, and then on
his knees proclaimed the desire of his heart to serve the mighty Prince
Pallaphilos.
Having risen from his kneeling posture Kit Hatton blew his horn, and at
the signal his huntsman entered the room, bringing with him a fox, a
cat, and ten couples of hounds. Forthwith the fox was released from the
pole to which it was bound; and when the luckless creature had crept
into a corner under one of the tables, the ten couples of hounds were
sent in pursuit. It is a fact that English gentlemen in the sixteenth
century thus amused themselves with a fox-hunt in a densely crowded
dining-room. Over tables and under tables, up the hall and down the
hall, those score hounds went at full cry after a miserable fox, which
they eventually ran into and killed in the cinder-pit, or as Dugdale
expresses it, "beneath the fire." That work achieved, the cat was turned
off, and the hounds sent after her, with much blowing of horns, much
cracking of whips, and deafening cries of excitement from the gownsmen,
who tumbled over one another in their eagerness to be in at the death.
CHAPTER XXX.
THE RIVER AND THE STRAND BY TORCHLIGHT.
Scarcely less out of place in the dining-hall than Kit Hatton's hounds,
was the mule fairly mounted on which the Prince Pallaphilos made his
appearance at the High Table after supper, when he notified to his
subjects in what manner they were to disport themselves till bedtime.
Thus also when the Prince of Purpoole kept his court at Gray's Inn, A.D.
1594, the prince's champion rode into the dining-hall upon the back of a
fiery charger which, like the rider, was clothed in a panoply of steel.
In costliness and riotous excess the Prince of Purpoole's revel at
Gray's Inn was not inferior to any similar festivity in the time of
Elizabeth. On the 20th of December, St. Thomas's Eve, the Prince (one
Master Henry Holmes, a Norfolk gentleman) took up his quarters in the
Great Hall of the Inn, and by the 3rd day of January the grandeur and
comicality of his proceedings had created so much talk throughout the
town that the Lord Treasurer Burghley, the Earls of Cumberland, Essex,
Shrewsbury and Westmoreland, the Lords Buckhurst, Windsor, Sheffield,
Compton, and a magnificent array of knights and ladies visited Gray's
Inn Hall on that day and saw the masque which the revellers put upon the
stage. After the masque there was a banquet, which was followed by a
ball. On the following day the prince, attended by eighty gentlemen of
Gray's Inn and the Temple (each of the eighty wearing a plume on his
head), dined in state with the Lord Mayor and aldermen of the city, at
Crosby Place. The frolic continued for many days more; the royal
Purpoole on one occasion visiting Blackwall with a splendid retinue, on
another (Twelfth Night) receiving a gallant assembly of lords, ladies,
and Knights, at his court in Gray's Inn, and on a third (Shrovetide)
visiting the queen herself at Greenwich, when Her Majesty warmly
applauded the masque set before her by the actors who were members of
the Prince's court. So delighted was Elizabeth with the entertainment,
that she graciously allowed the masquers to kiss her right hand, and
loudly extolled Gray's Inn "as an house she was much indebted to, for it
did always study for some sports to present unto her;" whilst to the
mock Prince she showed her favor, by placing in his hand the jewel (set
with seventeen diamonds and fourteen rubies) which he had won by valor
and skill in the tournament which formed part of the Shrovetide sports.
Numerous entries in the records of the inns testify to the importance
assigned by the olden lawyers to their periodic feasts; and though in
the fluctuations of public opinion with regard to the effects of
dramatic amusements, certain benchers, or even all the benchers of a
particular inn, may be found at times discountenancing the custom of
presenting masques, the revels were usually diversified and heightened
by stage plays. Not only were interludes given at the high and grand
holidays styled _Solemn Revels_, but also at the minor festivities
termed Post Revels they were usually had recourse to for amusement.
"Besides those _solemn revels_, or measures aforesaid," says Dugdale,
concerning the old usages of the 'Middle Temple,' "they had wont to be
entertained with Post Revels performed by the better sort of the young
gentlemen of the society, with galliards, corrantoes, and other dances,
or else with stage-plays; the first of these feasts being at the
beginning, and the other at the latter end of Christmas. But of late
years these Post Revels have been disused, both here and in the other
Inns of Court."
Besides producing and acting some of our best Pro-Shakespearian dramas,
the Elizabethan lawyers put upon the stage at least one of William
Shakespeare's plays. From the diary of a barrister (supposed to be John
Manningham, of the Middle Temple), it is learnt that the Middle
Templar's acted Shakespeare's 'Twelfth Night' at the Readers' feast on
Candlemas Day, 1601-2.[20]
In the following reign, the masques of the lawyers in no degree fell off
with regard to splendor. Seldom had the Thames presented a more
picturesque and exhilarating spectacle than it did on the evening of
February 20, 1612, when the gentlemen masquers of Gray's Inn and the
Temple, entered the king's royal barge at Winchester House, at seven
o'clock, and made the voyage to Whitehall, attended by hundreds of
barges and boats, each vessel being so brilliantly illuminated that the
lights reflected upon the ripples of the river, seemed to be countless.
As though the hum and huzzas of the vast multitude on the water were
insufficient to announce the approach of the dazzling pageant, guns
marked the progress of the revellers, and as they drew near the palace,
all the attendant bands of musicians played the same stirring tune with
uniform time. It is on record that the king received the amateur actors
with an excess of condescension, and was delighted with the masque which
Master Beaumont of the Inner Temple, and his friend, Master Fletcher,
had written and dedicated "to the worthy Sir Francis Bacon, his
Majesty's Solicitor-General, and the grave and learned bench of the
anciently-called houses of Grayes Inn and the Inner Temple, and the
Inner Temple and Grayes Inn." The cost of this entertainment was
defrayed by the members of the two inns--each reader paying L4, each
ancient, L2 10_s._; each barrister, L2, and each student, 20_s._
The Inner Temple and Gray's Inn having thus testified their loyalty and
dramatic taste, in the following year on Shrove-Monday night (Feb. 15,
1613), Lincoln's Inn and the Middle Temple, with no less splendor and
_eclat_, enacted at Whitehall a masque written by George Chapman. For
this entertainment, Inigo Jones designed and perfected the theatrical
decorations in a style worthy of an exhibition that formed part of the
gaieties with which the marriage of the Palsgrave with the Princess
Elizabeth was celebrated. And though the masquers went to Whitehall by
land, their progress was not less pompous than the procession which had
passed up the Thames in the February of the preceding year. Having
mustered in Chancery Lane, at the official residence of the Master of
the Rolls, the actors and their friends delighted the town with a
gallant spectacle. Mounted on richly-caparisoned and mettlesome horses,
they rode from Fleet Street up the Strand, and by Charing Cross to
Whitehall, through a tempest of enthusiasm. Every house was illuminated,
every window was crowded with faces, on every roof men stood in rows,
from every balcony bright eyes looked down upon the gay scene, and from
basement to garret, from kennel to roof-top throughout the long way,
deafening cheers testified, whilst they increased the delight of the
multitude. Such a pageant would, even in these sober days, rouse London
from her cold propriety. Having thrown aside his academic robe, each
masquer had donned a fantastic dress of silver cloth embroidered with
gold lace, gold plate, and ostrich plumes. He wore across his breast a
gold baldrick, round his neck a ruff of white feathers brightened with
pearls and silver lace, and on his head a coronal of snowy plumes.
Before each mounted masquer rode a torch-bearer, whose right hand waved
a scourge of flame, instead of a leathern thong. In a gorgeous chariot,
preceded by a long train of heralds, were exhibited the Dramatis
Personae--Honor, Plutus, Eunomia, Phemeis, Capriccio--arrayed in their
appointed costumes; and it was rumored that the golden canopy of their
coach had been bought for an enormous sum. Two other triumphal cars
conveyed the twelve chief musicians of the kingdom, and these masters of
melody were guarded by torch-bearers, marching two deep before and
behind, and on either side of the glittering carriages. Preceding the
musicians, rode a troop of ludicrous objects, who roused the derision of
the mob, and made fat burghers laugh till tears ran down their cheeks.
They were the mock masque, each resembling an ape, each wearing a
fantastic dress that heightened the hideous absurdity of his monkey's
visage, each riding upon an ass, or small pony, and each of them
throwing shells upon the crowd by way of a largess. In the front of the
mock masque, forming the vanguard of the entire spectacle, rode fifty
gentlemen of the Inns of Court, reining high-bred horses, and followed
by their running footmen, whose liveries added to the gorgeous
magnificence of the display.
Besides the expenses which fell upon individuals taking part in the
play, or procession, this entertainment cost the two inns L1086 8_s._
11_d._ About the same time Gray's Inn, at the instigation of Attorney
General Sir Francis Bacon, performed 'The Masque of Flowers' before the
lords and ladies of the court, in the Banqueting-house, Whitehall; and
six years later Thomas Middleton's Inner Temple Masque, or Masque of
Heroes' was presented before a goodly company of grand ladies by the
Inner Templars.
[20] The propensity of lawyers for the stage, lingered amongst
barristers on Circuit, to a comparatively recent date. 'Old stagers' of
the Home and Western Circuits, can recall how the juniors of their
briefless and bagless days used to entertain the natives of Guildford
and Exeter with Shakspearian performances. The Northern Circuit also was
at one time famous for the histrionic ability of its bar, but toward the
close of the last century, the dramatic recreations of its junior
members were discountenanced by the Grand Court.
CHAPTER XXXI.
ANTI-PRYNNE.
Of all the masques mentioned in the records of the Inns of Court, the
most magnificent and costly was the famous Anti-Prynne demonstration, by
which the lawyers endeavored to show their contemptuous disapproval of a
work that inveighed against the licentiousness of the stage, and
preferred a charge of wanton levity against those who encouraged
theatrical performances.
Whilst the 'Histriomastix' rendered the author ridiculous to mere men of
pleasure, it roused fierce animosities by the truth and fearless
completeness of its assertions; but to no order of society was the
famous attack on the stage more offensive than to the lawyers; and of
lawyers the members of Lincoln's Inn were the most vehement in their
displeasure. The actors writhed under the attack; the lawyers were
literally furious with rage--for whilst rating them soundly for their
love of theatrical amusements, Prynne almost contrived to make it seem
that his views were acceptable to the wisest and most reverend members
of the legal profession. Himself a barrister of Lincoln's Inn, he with
equal craft and audacity complimented the benchers of that society on
the firmness with which they had forbidden professional actors to take
part in the periodic revels of the inn, and on their inclination to
govern the society in accordance with Puritanical principles. Addressing
his "Much Honored Friends, the Right Worshipful Masters of the Bench of
the Honorable Flourishing Law Society of Lincoln's Inne," the
utter-barrister said: "For whereas other Innes of Court (I know not by
what evil custom, and worse example) admit of common actors and
interludes upon their two grand festivalls, to recreate themselves
withall, notwithstanding the statutes of our Kingdome (of which
lawyers, of all others, should be most observant), have branded all
professed stage-players for infamous rogues, and stage-playes for
unlawful pastimes, especially on Lord's-dayes and other solemn
holidayes, on which these grand dayes ever fall; yet such hath been your
pious tender care, not only of this societie's honor, but also of the
young students' good (for the advancing of whose piety and studies you
have of late erected a magnificent chapel, and since that a library),
that as you have prohibited by late publicke orders, all disorderly
Bacchanalian Grand-Christmasses (more fit for pagans than Christians;
for the deboisest roarers than grave civill students, who should be
patternes of sobriety unto others), together with all publicke dice-play
in the Hall (a most pernicious, infamous game; condemned in all ages,
all places, not onely by councels, fathers, divines, civilians,
canonists, politicians, and other Christian writers; by divers Pagan
authors of all sorts, and by Mahomet himselfe; but likewise by sundry
heathen, yea, Christian Magistrates' edicts)."
Concerning the London theatres he observes that the "two old play
houses" (_i.e._, the Fortune and the Red Bull), the "new theatre"
(_i.e._, Whitefriars play-house), and two other established theatres,
being found inadequate to the wants of the play-going public, a sixth
theatre had recently been opened. "The multitude of our London
play-haunters being so augmented now, that all the ancient Divvel's
Chappels (for so the fathers style all play-houses) being five in
number, are not sufficient to containe their troops, whence we see a
sixth now added to them, whereas even in vitious Nero his raigne there
were but three standing theatres in Pagan Rome (though far more splendid
than Christian London), and those three too many." Having thus
enumerated some of the saddest features of his age, the author of the
'Player's Scourge' again commends the piety and decorum of the
Lincoln's Inn Benchers, saying, "So likewise in imitation of the ancient
Lacedaemonians and Massilienses, or rather of primitive zealous
Christians, you have always from my first admission into your society,
and long before, excluded all common players with their ungodly
interludes, from all your solemn festivals."
If the benchers of one Inn winced under Prynne's 'expressions of
approval,' the students of all the Inns of Court were even more
displeased with the author who, in a dedicatory letter "to the right
Christian, Generous Young Gentlemen-Students of the four Innes of Court,
and especially those of Lincolne's Inne," urged them to "at last
falsifie that ignominious censure which some English writers in their
printed works have passed upon Innes of Court Students, of whom they
record:--That Innes of Court men were undone but for players, that they
are their chiefest guests and imployment, and the sole business that
makes them afternoon's men; that is one of the first things they learne
as soon as they are admitted, to see stage-playes, and take smoke at a
play-house, which they commonly make their studie; where they quickly
learne to follow all fashions, to drinke all healths, to wear favours
and good cloathes, to consort with ruffianly companions, to swear the
biggest oaths, to quarrel easily, fight desperately, quarrel
inordinately, to spend their patrimony ere it fall, to use gracefully
some gestures of apish compliment, to talk irreligiously, to dally with
a mistresse, and hunt after harlots, to prove altogether lawless in
steed of lawyers, and to forget that little learning, grace, and vertue
which they had before; so much that they grow at last past hopes of ever
doing good, either to the church, their country, their owne or others'
souls."
The storm of indignation which followed the appearance of the
'Histriomastix' was directed by the members of the Four Inns, who felt
themselves bound by honor no less than by interest, to disavow all
connexion with, or leaning towards, the unpopular author.
On the suggestion of Lincoln's Inn, the four societies combined their
forces, and at a cost of more than twenty thousand pounds, in addition
to sums spent by individuals, entertained the Court with that splendid
masque which Whitelock has described in his 'Memoirs' with elaborate
prolixity. The piece entitled 'The Triumph of Peace,' was written by
Shirley, and it was produced with a pomp and lavish expenditure that
were without precedent. The organization and guidance of the undertaking
were entrusted to a committee of eight barristers, two from each inn;
and this select body comprised men who were alike remarkable for
talents, accomplishments, and ambition, and some of whom were destined
to play strangely diverse parts in the drama of their epoch. It
comprised Edward Hyde, then in his twenty-sixth year; young Bulstrode
Whitelock, who had not yet astonished the more decorous magnates of his
country by wearing a falling-band at the Oxford Quarter Sessions; Edward
Herbert, the most unfortunate of Cavalier lawyers; John Selden, already
a middle-aged man; John Finch, born in the same year as Selden, and
already far advanced in his eager course to a not honorable notoriety.
Attorney General Noy was also of the party, but his disastrous career
was already near its close.
The committee of management had their quarters at Ely House, Holborn;
and from that historic palace the masquers started for Whitehall on the
eve of Candlemas Day, 1633-4. It was a superb procession. First marched
twenty tall footmen, blazing in liveries of scarlet cloth trimmed with
lace, each of them holding a baton in his right hand, and in his left a
flaring torch that covered his face with light, and made the steel and
silver of his sword-scabbard shine brilliantly. A company of the
marshal's men marched next with firm and even steps, clearing the way
for their master. A burst of deafening applause came from the multitude
as the marshal rode through the gateway of Ely House, and caracoled over
the Holborn way on the finest charger that the king's stables could
furnish. A perfect horseman and the handsomest man then in town, Mr.
Darrel of Lincoln's Inn, had been elected to the office of marshal in
deference to his wealth, his noble aspect, his fine nature, and his
perfect mastery of all manly sports. On either side of Mr. Darrel's
horse marched a lacquey bearing a flambeau, and the marshal's page was
in attendance with his master's cloak. An interval of some twenty paces,
and then came the marshal's body-guard, composed of one hundred mounted
gentlemen of the Inns of Court--twenty-five from each house; showing in
their faces the signs of gentle birth and honorable nurture; and with
strong hands reining mettlesome chargers that had been furnished for
their use by the greatest nobles of the land. This flood of flashing
chivalry was succeeded by an anti-masque of beggars and cripples,
mounted on the lamest and most unsightly of rat-tailed srews and
spavined ponies, and wearing dresses that threw derision on legal
vestments and decorations. Another anti-masque satirized the wild
projects of crazy speculators and inventors; and as it moved along the
spectators laughed aloud at the "fish-call, or looking-glass for fishes
in the sea, very useful for fishermen to call all kinds of fish to their
nets;" the newly-invented wind-mate for raising a breeze over becalmed
seas, the "movable hydraulic" which should give sleep to patients
suffering under fever.
Chariots and horsemen, torch-bearers and lacqueys, followed in order.
"Then came the first chariot of the grand masquers, which was not so
large as those that went before, but most curiously framed, carved, and
painted with exquisite art, and purposely for this service and occasion.
The form of it was after that of the Roman triumphant chariots. The
seats in it were made of oval form in the back end of the chariot, so
that there was no precedence in them, and the faces of all that sat in
it might be seen together. The colors of the first chariot were silver
and crimson, given by the lot to Gray's Inn: the chariot was drawn with
four horses all abreast, and they were covered to their heels all over
with cloth of tissue, of the colors of crimson and silver, huge plumes
of white and red feathers on their heads; the coachman's cap and
feather, his long coat, and his very whip and cushion of the same stuff
and color. In this chariot sat the four grand masquers of Gray's Inn,
their habits, doublets, trunk-hose, and caps of most rich cloth of
tissue, and wrought as thick with silver spangles as they could be
placed; large white stockings up to their trunk-hose, and rich sprigs in
their cap, themselves proper and beautiful young gentlemen. On each side
of the chariot were four footmen in liveries of the color of the
chariot, carrying huge flamboys in their hands, which, with the torches,
gave such a lustre to the paintings, spangles, and habits that hardly
anything could be invented to appear more glorious."
Six musicians followed the state-chariot of Gray's Inn, playing as they
went; and then came the triumphal cars of the Middle Templars, the Inner
Templars, and the Lincoln's Inn men--each car being drawn by four horses
and attended by torch-bearers, flambeau-bearers, and musicians. In shape
these four cars were alike, but they differed in the color of their
fittings. Whilst Gray's Inn used scarlet and silver, the Middle
Templars chose blue and silver decorations, and each of the other two
houses adopted a distinctive color for the housings of their horses and
the liveries of their servants. It is noteworthy that the inns (equal as
to considerations of dignity) took their places in the pageant by lot;
and that the four grand masquers of each inn were seated in their
chariot on seats so constructed that none of the four took precedence of
the others. The inns, in days when questions of precedence received much
attention, were very particular in asserting their equality, whenever
two or more of them acted in co-operation. To mark this equality, the
masque written by Beaumont and Fletcher in 1612 was described "The
Masque of the Inner Temple and Grayes Inn; Grayes Inn and the Inner
Temple:" and the dedication of the piece to Francis Bacon, reversing
this transposition, mentions "the allied houses of Grayes Inn and the
Inner Temple, and the Inner Temple and Grayes Inn," these changes being
made to point the equal rank of the two fraternities.
Through the illuminated streets this pageant marched to the sound of
trumpets and drums, cymbals and fifes, amidst the deafening acclamations
of the delighted town; and when the lawyers reached Whitehall, the king
and queen were so delighted with the spectacle, that the procession was
ordered to make the circuit of the tilt-yard for the gratification of
their Majesties, who would fain see the sight once again from the
windows of their palace. Is there need to speak of the manner in which
the masque was acted, of the music and dances, of the properties and
scenes, of the stately banquet after the play and the grand ball which
began at a still later hour, of the king's urbanity and the graciousness
of Henrietta, who "did the honor to some of the masquers to dance with
them herself, and to judge them as good dancers as she ever saw!"
Notwithstanding a few untoward broils and accidents, the entertainment
passed off so satisfactorily that 'The Triumph of Peace' was acted for a
second time in the presence of the king and queen, in the Merchant
Taylors' Hall. Other diversions of the same kind followed with scarcely
less _eclat_. At Whitehall the king himself and some of the choicest
nobles of the land turned actors, and performed a grand masque, on which
occasion the Templars were present as spectators in seats of honor.
During the Shrovetide rejoicings of 1635, Henrietta even condescended to
witness the performance of Davenant's 'Triumphs of the Prince d'Amour,'
in the hall of the Middle Temple. Laying aside the garb of royalty, she
went to the Temple, attended by a party of lords and ladies, and fine
gentlemen who, like herself, assumed for the evening dresses suitable to
persons of private station. The Marquis of Hamilton, the Countess of
Denbigh, the Countess of Holland, and Lady Elizabeth Fielding were her
companions; whilst the official attendants on her person were the Earl
of Holland, Lord Goring, Mr. Percy, and Mr. Jermyn. Led to her place by
"Mrs. Basse, the law-woman," Henrietta took a seat upon a scaffold fixed
along the northern side of the hall, and amidst a crush of benchers'
wives and daughters saw the play and heartily enjoyed it.