“Well, we must not talk about two of them, but robbery accompanied with violence;—setting fire to houses in which people are residing, attempting to murder, and scuttling ships are all capital offences, upon conviction of which judgment of death is recorded, but never of late years put into execution.”
“How much imprisonment, then, can you give me,” asked Jack, “if this perjured Scribbler’s story is to be believed?”
“Penal servitude for life. But we must try you first, and talk about your punishment afterwards. There, now,” he continued, wheeling round an amber-satin ottoman, “that is the dock, and the prisoner, on account of his delicate state of health, is permitted to sit down. This sofa is the bench, and Tiney! jump up good doggie (Tiney was a Skye terrier somewhere underneath his long hair); Tiney, I say, is the high-sheriff, who is privileged to sit on the right-hand of the judge (that’s myself). Observe the high-sheriff’s sword and cocked-hat,” placing a pen-wiper under Tiney’s paw and propping the paper-knife against his side.
“Do you know, mamma,” observed Fanny, “that Sir Hildebrand Jones wore a cocked-hat and sword, to-day, with his ordinary evening dress. Do you not think it is a very ridiculous costume for a high-sheriff to wear in the day time?”
“My dear Miss Wardleur,” rejoined Charley very sententiously, “it’s the fashion to do so. Need I add anything more?”
“I suppose not,” was the reply; “but what does the high-sheriff do?”
“What will Tiney do?” asked Jack, rolling that shaggy favourite over on his back.
“Sit still like a good dog, and not make a noise,” answered Grace.
“Then,” said Jack, restoring the subject of the conversation to a sitting posture, “if Tiney does so, he will make an admirable high-sheriff.”
“But let us get on with our trial. As before observed,” said Charley, “I am the judge. On my left-hand is my secretary, and at a desk, somewhat further on, is the under-sheriff—an attorney who acts as ‘Tiney’s’ deputy, and makes a very good thing of it. It is his duty to see that judgments are put into execution. Immediately underneath me is the clerk of assize, who has prepared Jack’s indictment and taken his plea. In front of his table are the benches appropriated to attorneys, and, further on, the seats occupied by the gentlemen of the bar. On one side, to the right, is the jury-box, and opposite this the witness-box. The dock faces the bench, beyond the bar-seats. There, now, we are settled.”
“Grace! have you instructed counsel for the prosecution?”
“Yes,” was the reply; “you were only a magistrate just now, and have promoted yourself into a judge. I have called myself to the bar, and shall prosecute Jack. Behold, and tremble!” And the winsome one bound a lace handkerchief over her bonnie tresses to imitate a wig, and sate down upon the chair indicated by Charley as the Bar seat.
“Am I to have any counsel?” demanded Jack.
“Time was,” replied Charley, “when you would not have been allowed one, and your witnesses would not have been examined upon oath on your trial. You fare better now. If you have 1l. 3s. 6d., or if your vile associates can scrape together for you that sum, you may give it to any barrister present (one guinea for himself, and half-a-crown for his clerk), and ask him to defend you.”
“But suppose he won’t.”
“The rules of his profession do not allow him to refuse a brief, accompanied by such a fee as I have named, if handed to him by a prisoner from the dock.”
“I thought barristers only took briefs from regular attorneys,” remarked Fanny.
“That is the general rule; but there exists an exception in favour of wretched criminals like Jack.”
“But supposing I have not even that much in the world?” asked Jack, playing with the massive gold pendants from his watch-chain.
“If you are to be tried for murder, the judge will perhaps assign you an advocate; but in all cases he will see that you have fair play.”
“All right, then—go on.”
“Very well,” said Charley. “Attend now to what the clerk of the Crown is going to say. About a dozen other persons who have pleaded ‘Not guilty,’ are placed in the dock with you, and you are all thus addressed: ‘Prisoners at the bar! these good men that you shall now hear called, and who will attend, are the jurors who are to pass between our Sovereign Lady the Queen and you upon your respective trials. If, therefore, you or any of you will challenge them, or any of them, you must challenge them as they come to the book to be sworn—before they are sworn—and you shall be heard.’”
“I remember hearing that,” said Grace. “But why do they swear the jurors one by one!”
“To give the prisoner the opportunity of seeing the faces, as well as of hearing the names, of the men who are to try him, in order that he may object to any whom he may suppose to be prejudiced against him. If he please, he may challenge the whole number summoned by the sheriff. This is called a ‘challenge to the array;’ objections to single jurymen are called, ‘challenges to the polls.’ These latter are of two kinds—peremptory challenges, when no reason is given, and challenges for cause. Jack, being an ordinary felon, is allowed twenty ‘peremptory challenges;’ were he upon his trial for high treason, unless indeed he had compassed the Queen’s death, he would have twenty-five.”
“I suppose I may make as many challenges for cause as I can establish?” demanded Jack.
“Yes; that is the case.”
“And suppose,” asked Grace, “that I see some friends of his on the jury, may not I, as counsel for the Crown, object to them?”
“You may. You may challenge, without showing any cause, until the panel has been gone through, and it appears that there will not be jurors enough to try the prisoner, and then he is bound to show all his causes of challenge before you can be called upon to give reasons for yours. Well, we will suppose that twelve jurors have