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Mr. Justice Hawkins was very far from being an admirer of the fresh-air cure, thus standing out in sharp contrast to one of his predecessors on the bench, Maule, who fumed and fussed if every window in court was not open. On one occasion when presiding in a court in the Midlands he interrupted counsel to point out that every window was closed.

“We must have some of these windows open,” he said peremptorily. “Where is the sheriff?”

That gentleman promptly came forward and explained that those who had designed the building had determined in their wisdom that all the windows should be hermetically sealed.

“Do you mean to tell me,” exclaimed Maule, suspecting that he was being trifled with, “that this court-house cannot be ventilated except by means of the doors?”

“That is so, my lord,” answered the sheriff.

“Then it is about time the defect was remedied,” said his lordship, and turning to the attendants he ordered them to break the windows.

The sensation was terrific and those who saw it never forgot the expression of horror on the face of the sheriff, who glanced about him with a look which seemed to say that he considered the judge had gone mad.

“Now that we’ve a little fresh air,” said Maule, startling his audience out of the reverie into which it had been thrown by the steady progression of splintered glass to the pavement outside, “we’ll proceed with the case.”

The dead and gone architect was, however, avenged to some extent, for when the judge began his summing-up an itinerant cornet-player who knew that the old court was proof against street noises took up a position within a few yards of where his lordship was sitting and played with piercing distinctness if unmusical fervour a popular song of the day. Maule, who hated to be interrupted and was ever haunted by a fear that some one was trying to make him ridiculous, started as though he had been struck, and the titters from the auditorium did not lessen the acerbity in his voice when he thundered forth an order for the musician to be driven away. But when this was done it was only a matter of a few minutes before another street performer came on the scene, and eventually an officer had to be stationed outside to acquaint stragglers with the news that the windows of the court had been opened at last.

Hawkins, on the other hand, was a sworn foe of ventilation. The officers at the Old Bailey knew this weakness of his and catered for it, but in the provinces it often happened that when the judge took his seat on the bench the windows on either side flooded the court with fresh air. With a venomous look at the half-open windows Hawkins would allow no case to proceed until they had been closed, and, if it so happened that there was the slightest suspicion of a draught curtains were drawn, or, failing curtains, a screen was found and put into position between “the wind and his nobility.” It has been said that this habit of his contributed to some extent to saving the four prisoners in the Penge mystery case—as it has been called—while the irreverent members of the Bar professed to believe that Hawkins had fires in every room in his house, winter and summer alike.

To prevent the advocates of fresh air claiming Hawkins as a “terrible example” it must be recorded that although Maule lived to seventy Hawkins was ninety when he died in 1907, but it should be explained that apart from his judicial work Hawkins was a lover of the open air, given to the sports of the field and to walking; whereas Maule had no interests beyond his books when his day’s work was done.

These two judges had a greater sense of their dignity than certain of their idiosyncrasies implied, indeed, dignity is almost the chief asset of the judge who during his career at the Bar has had little time to acquire learning because of his popularity as a defender of criminals. It was Lord Westbury who advised the flattered recipient of unexpected promotion to the bench to “look wise and never give a reason for a decision unless compelled to.” In those days there was no Court of Criminal Appeal and whenever mistakes were made at the Old Bailey and similar institutions throughout the country little was heard of them by the public. It was another matter when judges of the calibre of Hawkins had to take their turn in trying civil cases. Not that Hawkins was a failure, but he trusted to his strong common sense rather than to his knowledge to steer safely away from the Court of Appeal. It may have been that he purposely avoided acquiring a reputation as a humorist because of a stronger ambition to preserve the dignity of the law, and yet the man they called the “hanging judge” could bandy jests with the best of them. There never has been a better joke perpetrated in court than that which is credited to Hawkins when he was about the most successful practitioner at the Bar. The case concerned the wreck of a ship called “The Hannah,” a name which leading counsel on the other side, Channell, insisted on pronouncing “Annah,” the learned gentleman suffering from the handicap of not being able to control the aspirate. When Hawkins had called the ship “Hannah” a dozen times and Channell had as often referred to it as “Annah” the judge, puzzled by the discrepancy in pronunciation, asked what the name really was.

“When the case started, my lord,” said Hawkins, with a smile, “it was ‘Hannah,’ but since then I am afraid the ‘h’ has been lost in the chops of the Channell.”

That was an undoubted score, but Hawkins was not so happy in his encounter with a cabman in Whitehall.

“Take me to the Courts of Justice,” said the judge, as he climbed into the hansom.

“Beg pardon, sir,” said the man, with a puzzled expression, assumed for the occasion, “but where are they?”

“What! Don’t you know where the Law Courts are?” said Hawkins, in amazement.

The cabman’s face cleared.

“I know where the Law Courts are, sir,” he answered promptly, “but I thought you said Courts of Justice.”

I have referred to the judge who blandly feigns ignorance of persons and things which by reason of their current popularity should be known to everybody; happily, he is becoming a rarity. Quite recently a judge inquired what the precise meaning of the betting term “both ways” was, and the probability is that he was not insincere. It is a common weakness to affect superiority to the ordinary weaknesses of humanity and there are few of us who can resist the temptation to present ourselves with testimonials. I have been told that Charles Russell, one of whose favourite resorts was Newmarket, once insisted on a witness explaining at length what he meant by the word “hedging.” Now there were few men of his time who knew more about racing matters than did the brilliant Irishman whose devotion to the turf was notorious, but if there were titters in court when he pretended to be ignorant of “hedging” they were probably due to a misconception. It was not likely that Russell would deceive himself by trying to deceive his audience, and I imagine that he was merely utilizing an old weapon of the cross-examiner, that of confusing a witness by harrying him as to the particular meaning of an ordinary word or phrase.

In the course of one of the great trials over which he presided Russell asked a witness to amplify a passing reference to a lady who had achieved a very public reputation at the expense of her character. As her exploits had been described in almost every paper during the preceding week there was considerable laughter at the judge’s ignorance, but he turned the laughter away from him by remarking that he must take the precaution to ensure that every member of the jury understood the full significance of the reference.

MR. JUSTICE FLETCHER

From an engraving by T. Blood

Such thoroughness is to be commended, though it can be carried too far and a trial consequently unduly prolonged. There was an Irish judge, Fletcher, who considered it his duty to compile what was practically a verbatim report of every case in which he was concerned, saving, of course, the speeches by counsel. Fletcher was unfortunate in his cast of countenance, his features, otherwise insignificant, earning unpleasant prominence by reason of a misshapen nose, crooked mouth and a habitual scowl. He was trying an important case in the west of Ireland in which one of the chief witnesses was a farm labourer who could speak Irish only. Some little difficulty was experienced in finding an interpreter, but eventually a gentleman of the name of Kirwan volunteered. Kirwan was a solicitor and a landed proprietor who was famous for his linguistic abilities and his eccentricities, and was popularly supposed to be half-mad. However, he made an admirable interpreter, and when the witness entered the box Mr. Justice Fletcher took up his pen and prepared to record every word. His lordship was looking for the ink-well when the witness leaned towards Kirwan and said something in a whisper.

“What’s that?” asked Fletcher, his small, dark eyes glowing with suspicion. The fact that a titter followed upon the sotto voce confirmed the judge’s suspicions that the witness had said something of importance to the case.

“I don’t think I can tell his lordship,” answered Kirwan, obviously embarrassed.

“But I insist, sir,” exclaimed Fletcher angrily. “I wish to take down the witness’ observation in full.”

“I simply daren’t, my lord,” said the volunteer interpreter.

Now Fletcher knew Kirwan and his reputation for eccentric jokes and that made him all the more determined not to be put aside.

“Unless you repeat what the witness said,” cried the judge, in a fury, “I’ll commit you to prison for a month.”

“Oh, in that case,” said Kirwan, with a short laugh, “I’ll obey.”

“I’m glad that you’ve come to your senses, sir,” said the judge sharply, at the same time taking up his pen. “Now, Mr. Kirwan, repeat slowly and distinctly the witness’ observation so that I can take it down correctly.”

“He said, my lord, ‘He’s the ugliest old devil I’ve ever seen,’ ” said Kirwan, and not for the first time in his life Mr. Justice Fletcher discovered the danger of inquisitiveness.

Another Irish judge had an almost similar experience, although he came out of it with little loss of dignity owing to the spontaneous manner with which he joined in the laughter. A typical Irish peasant was charged with the murder of a land agent who had had the audacity to sue him for rent three years overdue, and when the unlettered savage entered the dock he was greatly impressed by the rows of bewigged lawyers. From them his gaze wandered to the scarlet-robed figure on the bench and overcome by curiosity he whispered something to the warder at his side to which the latter promptly replied.

“What did the prisoner say?” asked the judge peremptorily.

The warder went red in the face and did not answer.

“What did the prisoner say?” his lordship repeated.

“I hardly like to repeat it, my lord,” said the unfortunate official. “It was something about your lordship.”

“Never mind that, let’s have it,” said the judge.

There was a short pause during which everybody in court prepared to listen to the repetition of the brief dialogue between the prisoner and the warder.

“He sez to me he sez,” said the latter, “ ‘Who’s the old man in the red night shirt?’ and I sez to him, ‘Shut up, ye omadhawn, that’s the oul’ fella who’s going to hang ye.’ ”

It would be absurd, of course, to suggest that judges are prone to risk the penalty of ridicule by making unnecessary interruptions. Invariably his lordship’s questions are necessary and illuminating and of special service to the jury. When Lord Darling was on the bench his conduct of a case was a model of its kind, for he seemed to know everything, especially when to intervene with a question or a comment. No judge was more successful than he was at the Old Bailey, which is, all things considered, the supreme test. It is safe enough to be jocular in a civil case, but it is the reverse when a prisoner’s life or liberty is at stake, and it must be recorded in Lord Darling’s favour that unless unduly provoked or tempted he never exercised his brilliant wit at the expense of the occupant of the dock. A man or woman on trial is poor game and the most subtle of jokes can sound like a jeer when the object of it is a wretch struggling in the toils. Lord Darling recently denied that he quoted Greek in the House of Commons, but I have a distinct recollection of hearing him intermingle a line from Virgil with a sentence of seven years for coining.

“What did he mean?” whispered the convict huskily, to the jailer who accompanied him out of court.

“I don’t know,” was the answer, “but you’ve got seven years in which to find out.”

I am not quite certain if to Lord Darling belongs the credit of the following encounter with a juryman who claimed exemption because he was completely deaf in the left ear.

“You can go,” said the judge gravely, “I cannot have anyone in the jury-box who cannot hear both sides.”

His humour was always apropos, springing as it did from a source as fertile as it was spontaneous. The carefully-prepared “impromptu” was abhorrent to this great judge, who could say with truth that sufficient unto the day was the humour thereof.

It is not unusual at the Old Bailey for a trial to degenerate into something of a scramble, caused by the anxiety of the prisoner’s friends to make speeches while they are giving evidence. As champions and partisans of the prisoner they consider it their duty to shout and gesticulate, and the weaker their testimony the stronger their lungs. This was what happened when a Jew was charged with receiving stolen goods. The evidence for the prosecution seemed clear enough, but the accused was evidently a very popular young man, for the number of volunteer witnesses almost constituted a record and when one was in the box the others kept prompting him audibly. It was obvious that the conviction of the prisoner would be regarded as a catastrophe by his acquaintances and so they talked and shouted and emphasized and made speeches. Now Mr. Justice Darling was always anxious to give an accused prisoner plenty of scope, but the din became so great that at last he had to intervene.

“It is the rule of this court,” he said politely, to the most insurgent and gesticulatory of the witnesses, “that only one person at a time can be allowed to tell the truth.”

The laughter aroused by this cynical comment on the perjured evidence to which the court had been listening was not wholly lost on the intelligent young man in the dock, as his sickly grin testified.

One of his lordship’s prettiest efforts of wit was taken seriously by an audience which evidently required time to think it over. The case was a civil one and one of the counsel engaged irrelevantly introduced the subject of free will.

“Is there such a thing as free will?” said the then Mr. Justice Darling. “The House of Lords were discussing recently whether there was such a thing or whether everything was not predestined. I think they reserved judgment.”

Now in my opinion that was a gem, and as it was quite unpremeditated it stamps his lordship as a great wit.

It is remarkable how inexpert an expert witness can be, and in saying this I am merely echoing the opinion of more than one judge. We all know the famous definition which tells us that the three degrees of perjurers are “liars, damned liars, and expert witnesses.” Only the ignorant are afraid to confess their ignorance; the wise man is ever eager to learn. Mr. Justice Darling dealt with the expert witness addicted to talking the jargon of his profession in a manner which was delightful.

“The jury may understand your Latin, sir,” he remarked to a doctor, “but as I do not I’ll be glad if you’ll translate it.”

On this occasion the witness took the rebuke as a compliment, unaware that he was in the presence of a judge whose knowledge of the classics was profound.

Speaking of doctors reminds me of an encounter between one of them and Mr. Justice Patteson. The two men met at a trial in a midland town where an action for damages was being tried. The plaintiff claimed two hundred pounds because of injuries he alleged he had sustained owing to the negligence of the defendant, and amongst his witnesses was a doctor whose pomposity rendered him at times nearly incoherent.

“You examined the plaintiff?” asked counsel.

“I did,” said the doctor, surveying the court as if he were monarch of it.

“And what injuries did you find?”

“He was suffering from ecchymosis of the left eye,” he answered pompously.

For a few minutes a deeply impressed audience tried to fathom the consequences of such a terrible injury as ecchymosis and, doubtless, they were commiserating with the plaintiff because it seemed as though he would lose his eyesight when Mr. Justice Patteson reduced the awe-inspiring term to the ranks of the commonplace.

“Tell me, sir,” he said sharply, “isn’t ecchymosis merely another way of saying that he got a black eye?”

“Yes, my lord,” said the witness reluctantly, plainly disgusted with the translation into vulgar English of his pet term for a very ordinary injury.

“Then why didn’t you say so at first?” exclaimed the judge angrily. “What do you think the jury know about ecchymosis? It is your duty to assist the court and not to try to puzzle it. Always use simple language, and don’t forget that ‘a little learning is a dangerous thing.’ You remind me of an incident which happened when I was a younger man. A friend of mine preached a sermon in a village church and in the course of his sermon he several times made use of the word ‘felicity.’ As we came out of church after the service I overheard a group of yokels discussing the sermon, and from their remarks I gathered that they were under the impression that ‘felicity’ meant something in the inside of a pig.”