After condoling with me on my loss and showing her sweet womanly sympathy, she concluded her letter by informing me that she had "one of the sweetest pets eyes ever beheld, a darling devoted to her with a faithfulness which would really be a lesson to 'our specie,'" and that, in the circ.u.mstances, she would let me have her little darling for _five pounds_. I was so astonished and angry at the meanness of this "lady of fashion" that I said--Well, perhaps my exact expression had better be buried in oblivion.

BALLAD OF THE UNSURPRISED JUDGE, 1895.[A]

[Footnote A: It was a well-known expression of Sir Henry Hawkins when on the Bench, "I should be surprised at nothing;" and after the long and strange experiences which these reminiscences indicate, the literal truth of the observation is not to be doubted. This clever ballad, which was written in 1895, seems sufficiently appropriate to find a place in these memoirs, and I wish I knew the name of the writer, that my thanks and apologies might be conveyed to him for this appropriation of them.]

("Mr. Justice Hawkins observed, 'I am surprised at nothing,'"--_Pitts v. Joseph, "Times" Report, March 27_.)

All hail to Sir Henry, whom nothing surprises!

Ye Judges and suitors, regard him with awe, As he sits up aloft on the Bench and applies his Swift mind to the shifts and the tricks of the law.

Many years has he lived, and has always seen clear things That Nox seemed to hide from our average eyes; But still, though encompa.s.sed with all sorts of queer things, He never, no, never, gives way to surprise.

When a rogue, for example, a company-monger, Grows fat on the gain of the shares he has sold, While the public gets lean, winning nothing but hunger And a few sc.r.a.ps of scrip for its ma.s.ses of gold; When the fat man goes further and takes to religion, A rascal in hymn-books and Bibles disguised, "It's a case," says Sir Henry, "of rook _versus_ pigeon, And the pigeon gets left--well, I'm hardly surprised."

There's a Heath at Newmarket, and horses that run there; There are owners and jockeys, and sharpers and flats; There are some who do nicely, and some who are done there; There are loud men with pencils and satchels and hats.

But the stewards see nothing of betting or money, As they stand in the blinkers for stewards devised; Their blindness may strike Henry Hawkins as funny, But he only smiles softly--he isn't surprised.

So here's to Sir Henry, the terror of tricksters, Of law he's a master, and likewise a limb; His mind never once, when its purpose is fixed, errs: For cuteness there's none holds a candle to him.

Let them try to deceive him, why, bless you, he's _been_ there, And can track his way straight through a tangle of lies; And though some might grow gray at the things he has seen there, He never, no, never, gives way to surprise.

By the courtesy of Sir Francis Burnand, who most kindly obtained permission from Messrs. Bradbury and Agnew, I insert the following poem, which appeared in a February number of _Punch_ in the year 1887:--

THE WOMAN AND THE LAW.

(A true story, told before Mr. Justice Hawkins at the recent Liverpool a.s.sizes--_vide Daily Telegraph_, February 8.)

In the criminal dock stood a woman alone, To be judged for her crime, her one fault to repair, And the man who gave evidence sat like a stone, With a look of contempt for the woman's despair!

For the man was a husband, who'd ruined a life, And broken a heart he had found without flaw; He demanded the punishment due to the wife, Who was only a Woman, whilst his was the Law!

A terrible silence then reigned in the Court, And the eyes of humanity turned to the dock; Her head was bent down, and her sobbing came short, And the jailer stood ready, with hand on the lock Of the gate of despair, that would open no more When this wreckage of beauty was hurried away!

"Let me speak," moaned the woman--"my lord, I implore!"

"Yes, speak," said the Judge. "I will hear what you say!"

"I was only a girl when he stole me away From the home and the mother who loved me too well; But the shame and the pain I have borne since that day Not a pitying soul who now listens can tell!

There was never a promise he made but he broke; The bruises he gave I have covered with shame; Not a tear, not a prayer, but he scorned as a joke!

He cursed at my children, and sneered at my fame!

"The money I'd slaved for and h.o.a.rded he'd rob; I have borne his reproaches when maddened with drink.

For a man there is pleasure, for woman a sob; It is he who may slander, but she who must think!

But at last came the day when the Law gave release, Just a moment of respite from merciless fate, For they took him to prison, and purchased me peace, Till I welcomed him home like a wife--at the gate!

"Was it wrong in repentance of Man to believe?

It is hard to forget, it is right to forgive!

But he struck me again, and he left me to grieve For the love I had lost, for the life I must live!

So I silently stole from the depths of despair, And slunk from dark destiny's chastening rod, And I crept to the light, and the life, and the air, From the town of the man to the country of G.o.d!

"'Twas in solitude, then, that there came to my soul The halo of comfort that sympathy casts; He was strong, he was brave, and, though centuries roll, I shall love that one man whilst eternity lasts!

O my lord, I was weak, I was wrong, I was poor!

I had suffered so much through my journey of life, Hear! the worst of the crime that is laid at my door: I said I was widow when, really a wife!

"Here I stand to be judged, in the sight of the man Who from purity took a frail woman away.

Let him look in my face, if he dare, if he can!

Let him stand up on oath to deny what I say!

'Tis a story that many a wife can repeat, From the day that the old curse of Eden began; In the dread name of Justice, look down from your seat!

Come, sentence the Woman, and shelter the Man!"

A silence more terrible reigned than before, For the lip of the coward was cruelly curled; But the hand of the jailer slipped down from the door Made to shut this sad wanderer out from the world!

Said the Judge, "My poor woman, now listen to me: Not one hour you shall stray from humanity's heart When thirty swift minutes have sped, you are free In the name of the Law, which is Mercy, depart!"

CHAPTER XLVIII.

OLD TURF FRIENDS.

An announcement in the morning papers of the death of Mr. Richard C. Naylor of Kelmarsh, Northamptonshire, at the age of eighty-six, carried me back to the far-off days when, tempted by the hospitality and kind friendship of Lord Falmouth, I became a regular visitor of Newmarket Heath--an _habitue_ during the splendid dictatorship of Admiral Rous!

I would like to mention the names of some of the celebrities of the Turf of those days, many of them my frequent companions, and no less my real and sincere friends. Time, however, fails. But in looking through the piles of letters with which the kindness of my friends has favoured me from time to time, I come across many a relic of the past that recalls the pleasantest a.s.sociations. Even a telegram, most prosaic of correspondence, which I meet with at this moment, is a little poem in its way, and brings back scenes and circ.u.mstances over which memory loves to linger.

It is nothing in itself, but let any one who has loved country life and enjoyed its sports and its many friendships consider what forgotten pleasures may be brought to mind by this telegram.

_Telegram_.

DORCHESTER, _November_ 2, '97.

Handed in at QUORN at 9.10 a.m.

Received here at 11.1 a.m.

_To_ SIR H. HAWKINS, The Judges' House, Dorchester.

Just returned from Badminton to find the most charming present from you, which I shall always regard with the greatest value, and think you are too kind, in giving me such a present. Am writing.--LONSDALE.

"At _Quorn_," I repeat, and then I find the letter which Lord Lonsdale was writing. This is it:--

CHURCHILL COTTAGE, QUORN, LOUGHBOROUGH, _Tuesday, November_ 2, '97.

MY DEAR SIR HENRY,--How can I thank you enough for your magnificent present? It is, indeed, kind of you thinking of me, and I can a.s.sure you that the spurs shall remain an "heirloom" to decorate the dinner-table (a novel ornament) and match the silver spur poor old White Melville gave me. Why you should have so honoured me I do not know, but that I fully value your kindly thought I do know.

Is there any chance of your being in these parts? If so, _do_ pay me a visit.

And with many, many thanks for your extreme kindness,

Believe me

Yours very truly,

(_Signed_) LONSDALE.