The Reminiscences of Sir Henry Hawkins (Baron Brampton) Part 18

On the jury, it so happened, was an elderly Quaker, in his full array of drab coat, vest, and breeches, with the regulation blue stockings.

He had long whitish hair, and a Quaker hat in front of him on the ledge of the jury-box. He was what might be called a "factor" in the situation, which it was no easy matter to know in a moment how to deal with. He would be against prize-fighting to a certainty, but how far he might be inclined to convict a prize-fighter was another matter.

At last I made up my mind in what way to deal with him, and it was this--not on the merits of the n.o.ble art itself, but on those of the case. If I could convince this conscientious juror that there _might be_ (that would be good enough) a doubt as to ident.i.ty, it would be sufficient for my purpose; so I mainly addressed myself to _him_, after disposing of the young policeman pretty satisfactorily, leaving only his bare belief to be dealt with in argument. The young policeman's belief that _that there_ was the man showed what a strong young policeman he was.

I asked the Quaker to allow me to suggest, for the sake of argument only, that _he_, the Quaker, should imagine himself putting off his Quaker dress, and a.s.suming the costume of a prize-fighter, his hair cut so short that it would present the appearance of an aged rat; "then," said I, "divest yourself of your shirt and flannel--strip yourself, in fact, quite to the skin above your belt--and with only a pair of cotton drawers of a sky blue, or any other colour you might prefer, and, say, a bird's-eye _fogle_ round your waist, your lower limbs terminating in cotton socks and high-lows--with the additional ornamentation to all this elegant drapery of a couple of your front teeth knocked out--and I will venture to ask you, sir, and any one of the gentlemen whom I am addressing, whether you think your own good and respectable wife herself would recognize the partner of her joys?"

The burst of laughter which this little transformation of the respectable, stout old Quaker occasioned I was in no way responsible for; but even Old Parke fell back in his seat, and said,--

"Mr. Hawkins! Mr. Hawkins!"

I knew what that meant, and when the usher, by dint of much clamour, secured me another hearing, I continued,--

"Nay, sir, and if you looked at yourself in a looking-gla.s.s you would not be able to recognize a single feature you possessed, had you been battered about the face as the unfortunate man was. Why, the young policeman says in his evidence his nose was flattened, his, eyes were swollen black, blue, and red, his cheeks gashed and b.l.o.o.d.y! But it is enough: if that is a correct description, although a mild one, of the man as he appeared after the scene of the conflict, how can you expect the young constable to recognize such an individual months afterwards, or any of the witnesses, although to their dying day they would not forget the terrible disfigurement of the poor fellow whom you are supposed to be trying?"

All this time there was everywhere painfully suppressed laughter, and even the jury, all of them Epsom men, and many of whom I knew well enough, were hardly able to contain themselves.

His lordship, after summing up the case to the jury, looked down quietly to me, as I was sitting below him, and murmured,--

"Hawkins, you've got all Epsom with you!"

"Yes," I answered, "but you have got the Quaker; he was the only one I was afraid of."

"You have transformed him," said the Judge.

In a few minutes the verdict showed the accuracy of his lordship's observation, for the jury returned a verdict of "Not guilty."

I must say, however, that Parke did his utmost to obtain a conviction, but reason and good sense were too much for him.

CHAPTER XIX.

SAM WARREN, THE AUTHOR OF "TEN THOUSAND A YEAR."

Amongst the ill.u.s.trious men whom I have met, the name of Sam Warren deserves remembrance, for he was a genial, good-natured man, full of humour, and generally entertained a good opinion of everybody, including himself. He not only achieved distinction in his profession and became a Queen's Counsel, but wrote a book which attained a well-deserved popularity, and was ent.i.tled "Ten Thousand a Year."

He was a member of the Northern Circuit, and I believe was as popular as his book. That he did not become a Judge, like several of his friends, was not Sam's fault, for no man went more into society, cultivated acquaintances of the best style, or had better qualifications for the honour than he.

But although he did not achieve this distinction, he was made a little lower than that order, and became in due time a _Master in Lunacy_, a post, as it seemed from Sam's description, of the highest importance and no little fun.

A part of his duties was to visit lunatic asylums and other places where these patients were confined, with a view to report to the authorities his opinion of the patients' mental condition. No doubt to a man of Sam's observant mind this work presented many studies of interest, as well as situations of excitement, and at times of no little humour. He found, for instance, that many of these poor creatures were possessed of a much larger income than ten thousand a year. Some of them were Dukes and some supernatural beings, who were just on a visit to this little clod of a world to see how things were going.

Soon after his appointment, and before he had become used to the work, he told me of a singular experience he once had with a particular gentleman whom he was intending to report as having perfectly recovered from any mental aberration with which he might have been afflicted. Sam wondered how it was possible that a gentleman of such culture and understanding should be considered a fit subject for confinement, for he had several pleasant and intellectual conversations with him, and found him quite agreeable and refined, and of a perfectly balanced mind.

"I had been told," said the Master, "that the peculiar form of derangement with this gentleman was that he had aspired to distinction in the English Church; and on one memorable occasion when I called he received me, not with the usual familiarity, but with a certain stiffness and solemnity of bearing which was hardly in keeping with his courteous demeanour on other occasions. One had to be on one's guard at all times, or he might get a knife plunged into him without notice. I chatted for some time in a kind and easy manner, hoping to find that the mild restraint and discipline had done the poor fellow good. Alas! how deceived I was, when, in a sudden rage, he turned upon me, and asked _who the devil I thought I was talking to_?"

"I told him a gentleman of a kind nature, I was sure, and of an amiable disposition.

"'Yes,' said he, 'but that is no reason why you should not treat me with proper deference and with due respect for my exalted position.'

"I bowed politely, and expressed a hope that I should never forget what was due from one gentleman to another.

"'No, no,' said he, 'that kind of excuse will not do. One gentleman to another, indeed! Whom are you talking to? I insist on your treating me with reverence and respect. Perhaps you do not know that I am _St.

Paul_?'

"'Indeed!' said I, 'I was not aware that I was speaking to that holy Apostle, to one whom I hold in extreme reverence, and whose writings I have made my study.'"

After that, it seems, they got on very well together for the rest of the interview. Warren was able to delight him with his knowledge of Cappadocia, Phrygia, and Pamphylia, and the little incident of leaving his cloak at Troas, his shipwreck, and a vast number of things which the Apostle seemed very pleased to hear, while he conducted himself with that pious dignity which well deserved the obsequious reverence of the official visitor. On parting, St. Paul said,--

"You are rather _mixed in your Scriptures_; the only thing you are accurate about is _leaving my cloak at Troas_."

On Warren's next visit he resolved to conduct himself with more reverence. St. Paul was looking much the same as on the previous occasion. Sam genuflected, and held down his head, putting his hands devoutly together, and making such other manifestations of reverence as he thought the case required.

St. Paul looked at Warren with wonderment, and was evidently by no means satisfied with his salutations.

"Who the devil," said the madman, "do you think you are making those idiotic signs to? Whom do you take me for?"

"St. Paul, your holiness."

"'St. Paul, your holiness,' he repeated. 'My ----, you ought to be put into a lunatic asylum and looked after. You must be stark mad to think I am the holy Apostle St. Paul. What put that into your silly brains?

Down on your knees, villain, at once, and prostrate yourself before _the Shah of Persia_--the dawn of creation and the light of the universe!'

"I thought this was coming it pretty strong," continued Sam, "but as it was all in my day's work, I conformed as well as I could to my instructions. The difficulty was in knowing how to address His Majesty, so I stammered, 'Dread potentate!' and seeing it pleased him, 'Light of the universe,' I cried, 'it is morning! May I rise?'

"'I perceive,' said the Shah, 'you are a genius,'"

"What did you think of his state of mind after that?" I asked.

Sam laughed and answered: "I thought he was getting better, more rational, and thanked him for his good opinion. 'Mighty potentate,'

said I, 'monarch of the universe, I apologize for my mistake, but I was at _St. Luke's_ yesterday,'

"'My faithful Luke!' said he, and clapped his hands. I knew once more where he was.

"'The last time,' said I (thinking I would rather have him the amiable Paul than the savage Shah), 'your Majesty informed me that you were the holy Apostle St. Paul!'

"'So I am,' answered the Shah.

"'I am at a loss, your Majesty, I humbly confess, to understand how your immortal Highness can be at one and the same time the blessed Apostle St. Paul and the Shah of Persia,'

"'Because you are such a d.a.m.ned fool!' replied His Highness.

"Here was the fierceness of the Shah, but immediately the gentleness of the Apostle restored him to a more amiable mood, and coming towards me with a smile, he said,--

"'The explanation, my dear sir, is simple;' and then, in a quiet, confidential tone, he added: '_It was the same mother, but two fathers_!'"

"I had another experience not long after in the same asylum,"

continued Warren. "One of my patients told me he had married the devil's daughter when I was asking him about his relations. 'She was a nice girl enough,' he said, 'and although my people thought I had married beneath me, I was satisfied with her rank, seeing she was a Prince's daughter. We went off on our honeymoon in a chariot of fire which her father lent us for the occasion, and had a comfortable time of it at Monte Carlo, where all the hotels are under her father's special patronage.'