“Very well, then,” said Charlie. “Be good enough to suppose that I am two justices of the peace, or one stipendiary magistrate; Grace here is my clerk, and Mabel is an active and intelligent police officer, who has taken Jack into custody. Her duty is to bring him before me as soon as possible after his apprehension, collect the witnesses, and state the case against him. My clerk, Grace, ought to take down the evidence in writing as it is given in open court, but I am afraid that she will not do so—I am afraid she will adopt the slovenly, and I think I may add illegal practice now in vogue, of cooking up the statements of the witnesses—called their depositions—in a little back room either before or after the case has been heard in court, so that the prisoners have no check upon the questions she asks. Be this as it may, I hear the case, and ask Jack if he has anything to advance in reply, cautioning him that he need not say anything unless he pleases, but that what he does say will be taken down, and may be used in evidence against him. If he be a wise Jack, he will hold his tongue; but the chances are that he will tell some stupid lie that—”
“Confound your impudence!” exclaimed Jack; “I”—
“Silence, sir! How dare you interrupt the court?” said Grace, placing a soft little white hand on his mouth.
“I repeat,” continued Charley, “that he will tell some stupid lie which will help to convict him. You know you will, Jack; nineteen criminals out of twenty do it. The prosecutor will state, that when you came into his shop and ran away with his ham, you had a black cap on; and you will get violently excited, and vow that you wore a blue one, thereby admitting the fact of your having been there, as though it really mattered what sort of covering protected your bump of acquisitiveness.”
“Well, you have had your say; and now I must adjudicate upon you, oh, misguided Jack! What have you been doing? You have been supping upon—say salmon—and returning home have created a disturbance in the streets. You are fined five shillings and discharged. You have picked a gentleman’s pocket of his purse, containing less than five shillings, and stoutly maintain your innocence, although your hand was caught with the portemonnaie in it, in the very act of spoliation. I deal with you summarily, and you will go and pick oakum for six months. You have stolen something worth more than a crown, but plead guilty, and ask to be punished at once. I will do so, Jack. This is your first offence, and I will see whether three months’ imprisonment with hard labour may not cause it to be your last. If, after this, you come again, Jack, or if the case against you be a doubtful one, you shall be committed for trial—to the session, if you have only been embezzling, or stealing, or obtaining goods on false pretences; but should you have been indulging in highway robbery with violence, or burglary, which, as you ought to know, Jack, means breaking into a dwelling-house between the hours of nine at night and six in the morning; or should you have married two wives, have set fire to a stack, or killed anybody,—why, then, for these and other charges of a serious nature, you shall be committed to the assizes, and my lords the Queen’s justices, and the jolly old Southern Circuit, shall come all the way from London to try you.”
“Stop a moment,” said Mabel; “your talking about your ‘jolly old Southern Circuit.’ as you call it, reminds me of a question I wanted to ask. What is the meaning of that queer little triangular patch which you barristers wear fluttering at the back of your gowns?”
“You must know,” replied Charlie, “that a barrister’s fee is not considered as a payment for services rendered, but is, in strictness, a present from his client, given, as the housemaids say, ‘quite permiscuous.’ Thus, in olden times, learned counsel wore a purse slung over their shoulders, so that when a client gave them a brief with one hand, he could quietly slip the fee into this purse with the other, without compromising their dignity. The triangular patch that we now wear is the relic of this purse. For many years fees have been paid openly; but to this moment the nature of the payment remains unchanged; it is a mere ‘honorarium,’ or gift, and cannot be recovered at law. In this respect a barrister and a physician are similarly situated.”
“Now to return to this misguided Jack of ours. He is sent for trial to the assizes, and it is your duty, Grace, as clerk to the committing magistrate, to return the depositions to the clerk of assize, in order that he may draw the indictment.”
“What’s that? A picture of him, that he may be known again?” asked Mabel.
“No, not that exactly, but a formal statement of the charge against the prisoner, engrossed upon parchment. You will see that this goes before the grand jury, which consists of me and twenty-two other highly respectable county gentlemen, summoned by the sheriff of the county. To you, Grace, is confided the duty of conducting the case against the prisoner, and you must instruct counsel to prosecute him. Should you have any doubt as to whom you ought to select, go and look at the list of the bar, which is stuck up outside the court, and turning to the letter D you will find ‘Davis, Charles—Mrs. Bull’seyes—No. 2, Barley Sugar Gate,’ the name and lodgings of a most promising young barrister.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” said Grace.
“I never do,” replied Charlie, gravely. “The foreman of the grand jury,” resumed he, “is usually the most distinguished person summoned. I am the foreman of the grand jury. What is this that you have sent before me, Grace, thou relentless prosecutor of crime! A bill against John Wardleur, which runs as follows:
“‘Shropshire to Wit.—The jurors for our Lady the Queen, upon their oath present, that John Wardleur, late of Wardleur Chace, in the parish of Spinnythorpe, in the county of Sharpshire, labourer’
“No, no,—hang it!” interrupted Jack. “Government clerk.”
“The law, my dear Jack,” replied Charlie, “has many fictions, perhaps the most absurd of which is that which makes it call a government clerk