A turkey-c.o.c.k in a pulpit could not have seemed more to dominate the proceedings.
One very annoying circ.u.mstance occurred at this a.s.size. 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 t.i.tter 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 a.s.size.
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 circ.u.mstances--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 repet.i.tion 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 doc.u.ment 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 circ.u.mstance 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 quant.i.ty 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 n.o.ble 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."]