MR.J.L. TOOLE ON THE BENCH.
Sir Henry Hawkins was sitting at Derby Assizes in the Criminal Court,
which, as usual in country towns, was crowded so that you could
scarcely breathe, while the air you had to breathe was like that of a
pestilence. There was, however, a little space left behind the dock
which admitted of the passage of one man at a time.
Windows and doors were all securely closed, so as to prevent draught,
for nothing is so bad as draught when you are hot, and nothing makes
you so hot as being stived by hundreds in a narrow space without
draught.
He happened to look up into the faces of this shining but by no means
brilliant assembly, when what should he observe peeping over the
shoulders of two buxom factory women with blue kerchiefs but the _head
of J.L. Toole_! At least, it looked like Mr. Toole's head; but how it
came there it was impossible to say. It was a delight anywhere, but it
seemed now out of place.
The marshal asked the Sheriff, "Isn't that Toole?"
The answer was, "It looks like him."
We knew he was in the town, and that there was to be a bespeak night,
when her Majesty's Judges and the Midland Circuit would honour, etc.
Derby is not behind other towns in this respect.
Presently the Judge's eyes went in the direction of the object which
excited so much curiosity, and, like every one else, he was interested
in the appearance of the great comedian, although at that moment he
was not acting a part, but enduring a situation.
In the afternoon the actor was on the Bench sitting next to the
marshal, and assuming an air of great gravity, which would have
become a Judge of the greatest dignity. There was never the faintest
suggestion of a smile. He looked, indeed, like Byron's description of
the Corsair:--
"And where his frown of hatred darkly fell,
Hope, withering, fled, and Mercy sighed farewell."
A turkey-cock in a pulpit could not have seemed more to dominate the
proceedings.
One very annoying circumstance occurred at this Assize. It was the
cracking, sometimes almost banging, of the _seats_ and wainscoting,
which had been remade of oak. Every now and again there was a loud
squeak, and then a noise like the cracking of walnuts. To a sensitive
mind it must have been a trying situation, as Toole afterwards said,
when you are trying prisoners.
Meanwhile Sir Henry pursued the even tenor of his way, speaking
little, as was his wont, and thinking much about the case before him,
of a very trumpery character, unless you measured it by the game laws.
But no one less liked to be disturbed by noises of any kind than Sir
Henry when at work. Even the rustling of a newspaper would cause him
to direct the reader to study in some other part of the building.
Suddenly there was a squeaking of another kind distinguishable from
all others--it was the squeaking of _Sunday boots_. In the country no
boots are considered Sunday boots unless they squeak. At all events,
that was the case in Derbyshire at the time I write of.
The noise proceeded from a heavy farmer, a juror-in-waiting, who was
allowed to cross from one side of the court to the other for change of
air. His endeavour to suppress the noise of his boots only seemed to
cause them the greater irritation. There was a universal titter as the
crowd looked up to see what line the Judge would take.
Sir Henry reproved quietly, and just as the farmer, who was prancing
like an elephant, had got well in front of the Bench, he said,--
"If that gentleman desires to perambulate this court, he had better
take off his boots."
The gravity of the situation was disturbed, but that of the farmer
remained, unhappily for him, for, with one foot planted firmly on the
ground, and the other poised between heaven and earth, he was afraid
to let it come down, and there he stood. "We will wait," said the
Judge, "until that gentleman has got to the door which leads into the
street." The juryman, Toole told us afterwards, was delighted, for he
escaped for the whole Assize.
Although there was much laughter, Toole knew his position and dignity
too well to join in it; but he did what any respectable citizen would
be expected to do in the circumstances--tried to suppress it, yet made
such faces in the attempt that the whole house came down in volleys.
But now he was resolved to set matters right, and prevent any further
repetition of unseemly conduct. The way he did so is worthy of note.
He took a pen, dipped it in the ink, and then, spreading his elbows
out as one in great authority, and duly impressed with the dignity of
the situation, wrote these words on a sheet of paper, which had the
royal arms in the centre, his tongue meanwhile seeming to imitate the
motion of his pen: "I have had my eye on you for a long time past,
and if I see you laugh again I will send you to prison. Be warned in
time."
"Just hand that," said he, giving it to a javelin-man, "to the
gentleman there in the _green blouse_ and red hair."
The paper was stuck into the slit of the tapering fishing-rod-like
instrument, and placed under the nose of the man who had been
laughing. It was some time before he could believe his eyes, but
a thrust or two of the stick acted like a pair of spectacles, and
convinced him it was intended for his perusal. The effect was
instantaneous, and he handed the document to his wife. It was
interesting to watch the face of Toole, suffused with good-humour
and yet preserving its elastic dignity, in contrast with that of
the farmer, which was almost white with terror as they interchanged
furtive glances for the next half-hour. However, it all ended happily,
for the man never laughed again. Toole was invited to dine at the
Judge's dinner, but being himself on circuit, and not at liberty till
_eleven_, when he took supper, an invitation to "look in" was accepted
instead, if it were not too late.
After supper he accordingly went for his "look in," and arriving at
half-past eleven, was in time for dinner, which did not take place
till half-past twelve, the court having adjourned at 12.15. However,
we spent a very pleasant evening, Toole telling the story of his going
to see Hawkins in the Tichborne trial related elsewhere, and Sir Henry
that of the Queen refusing once upon a time to accept a box at Drury
Lane Theatre while E.T. Smith was lessee, which made Smith so angry
that he could hardly bring himself to propose her Majesty's health
at a dinner that same evening at Drury Lane. Nothing but his loyalty
prevented his resenting it in a suitable and dignified manner. When
one sovereign is affronted by another, the only thing is to consider
their respective _commercial_ values, for that, as a rule, is the test
of all things in a commercial world. But the sequel was that E.T.
said, "_Although me and her Majesty have had a little difference, I
think on the whole I may propose the Queen_!" Fool is he who neglects
his Sovereign, and gets in exchange Sovereign contempt. Such was
Toole's observation.
It was at this little entertainment that Sir Henry told the story of
the banker's clerk and the bad boy--a true story, he said, although it
may be without a moral. The best stories, said Toole, like the best
people, have no morals--at least, none to make a song about--any more
than the best dogs have the longest tails.
A gentleman who was a customer at a certain bank was asked by a bank
clerk whether a particular cheque bore his signature.
The gentleman looked at it, and said, "That is all right."
"All right?" said the bank clerk. "Is that really your signature,
sir?"
"Certainly," said the gentleman.
"Quite sure, sir?"
"As sure as I am of my own existence."
The clerk looked puzzled and somewhat disconcerted, so sure was he
that the signature was false.
"How can I be deceived in my own handwriting?" asked the supposed
drawer of the cheque.
"Well," said the clerk, "you will excuse me, I hope, but I have
_refused to pay on that signature_, because I do not believe it is
yours."
"_Pay_!" said the customer. "For Heaven's sake, do not dishonour my
signature."
"I will never do that," was the answer; "but will you look through
your papers, counterfoils, bank-book, and accounts, and see if you can
trace this cheque?"
The customer looked through his accounts and found no trace of it or
the amount for which it was given.
At last, on examining the _number_ of the cheque, he was convinced
that the signature could not be his, _because he had never had
a cheque-book with that number in it_. At the same time, his
astonishment was great that the clerk should know his handwriting
better than he knew it himself.
"I will tell you," said the clerk, "how I discovered the forgery. A
boy presented this cheque, purporting to have been signed by you. I
cashed it. He came again with another. I cashed that. A little while
afterwards he came again. My suspicions were then aroused, not by
anything in the signature or the cheque, but by the circumstance of
the _frequency of his coming_. When he came the third time, however,
I suspended payment until I saw you, because the _line under your
signature with which you always finish was not at the same angle_; it
went a trifle nearer the letters, and I at once concluded it was a
FORGERY." And so it turned out to be.
"That boy," said Toole, "deserves to be taken up by some one, for he
has great talent."
"And in speaking of this matter," said Sir Henry, "I may tell you that
bankers' clerks are the very best that ever could be invented as
tests for handwriting. Their intelligence and accuracy are perfectly
astonishing. They hardly ever make a mistake, and are seldom deceived.
The experts in handwriting are clever enough, and mean to be true; but
every _expert_ in a case, be he doctor, caligrapher, or phrenologist,
has some unknown quantity of bias, and must almost of necessity, if he
is on the one side or the other, exercise it, however unintentional it
may be. The banker speaks _without this influence_, and therefore, if
not more likely to be correct, is more reasonably supposed to be so.
"Do you remember, Sir Henry," asked Toole, "what the clever rogue
Orton wrote in his pocket-book? 'Some has money no brains; some has
brains no money; them as has money no brains was made for them as has
brains no money.'"
"Just like Roger," said Sir Henry. This was a catch-phrase in society
at the time of the trial.
Some one recited from a number of _Hood's Comic Annual_ the following
poem by Tom Hood:--
A BIRD OF ANOTHER FEATHER.[A]
[Footnote A: These lines appeared about 1874, and I have to make
acknowledgments to those whom I have been unable to ask for permission
to reproduce, and trust they will accept both my apologies and
thanks.]
"Yestreen, when I retired to bed,
I had a funny dream;
Imagination backward sped
Up History's ancient stream.
A falconer in fullest dress
Was teaching me his art;
Of tercel, eyas, hood, and jess,
The terms I learnt by heart.
"He flew his falcon to attack
The osprey, swan, and hern,
And showed me, when he wished it back,
The lure for its return.
I thought it was a noble sport;
I struggled to excel
My gentle teacher, and, in short,
I managed rather well.
"The dream is o'er, and I to-day
Return to modern time;
But yet I've something more to say,
If you will list my rhyme.
I've been a witness in a case
For seven long mortal hours,
And, cross-examined, had to face
The counsel's keenest powers.
"With courteous phrase and winning smiles
He led me gently on;
I fell a victim to his wiles--
But how he changed anon!
'Oh, you're prepared to swear to that!'
And, 'Now, sir, just take care!'
And, 'Come, be cautious what you're at!'
With questions hard to bear.
"And when he'd turned me inside out,
He turned me outside in;
I knew not what I was about--
My brain was all a-spin,
I'm shaking now with nervous fright,
And since I left the court
I've changed my dream-opinion quite--
I don't think Hawkins sport!"
Before concluding the evening, Toole said,--
"You remember your joke, Sir Henry, about Miss Brain and her black
kids?"
"Not for the world, not for the world, my dear Toole!"
"Not for the world, Sir Henry, not for the world; only for us; not
before the boys! You said it was the best joke you ever made."
"And the worst. But I was not a Judge then."]