CHAPTER I.

The Summer assizes for the county of ——, in the year 18—, excited in the county-town where they were held rather more than the usual sensation; but in the remote and smaller town of Brigland, they roused a stirring interest. Long before the day of the trial, every vehicle which[2] could be hired was engaged to carry the curious to the assizes, to hear the action brought by poor old Richard Smith against the Hon. Philip Martindale, for an assault and false imprisonment. The defendant was by no means popular at Brigland, and there were circumstances, which rendered the injury done to the plaintiff peculiarly hard and oppressive; and whenever the sympathy of the multitude is with the poor oppressed against the rich oppressor, that sympathy is very strong, and indignation is not choice in the terms of its expression, nor does cool deliberation precede judgment. It was the common, and almost universal wish, that the defendant might have to pay heavy damages; and that he might hear from the lips of the plaintiff’s counsel some home truths, which

might mortify his pride, and abate his arrogance.

In addition to the excitement which this action produced, there was also another, though smaller stimulus to curiosity, in the first appearance on the circuit of a young barrister, who was a native of the town in which the assizes[3] were held. These two circumstances, therefore, filled the court at an early hour with anxious and curious expectants.

The plaintiff’s attorney had put his brief into the hands of the young barrister; the defendant had retained a more experienced advocate, one well versed in the theory of the law, and, what is far more to the purpose, deeply skilled in the ways of the world, and the practice of courts—one who had the professionally desirable art of mystifying a jury, and of persuading twelve men out of their senses—one who would be sure of every cause he undertook, were it not for the summing up of the judge—one who, by means of a loud voice and swaggering manner, was a terror to nine-tenths of the simpletons who entered the witness’ box—one who never cross-examined a female witness without making her blush, or terrifying her to tears—one who could talk very solemnly about “our holy religion,” and could convert into a joke the clearest principles of morality, or the deepest sufferings of humanity. It was a great amusement to the country people and the county magistrates to[4] hear this very clever man; and poor old Richard Smith was very much alarmed when he found

what a dexterous and terrific adversary was employed against him, and he expressed his fears to his own attorney, who comforted him by saying, “Had your cause been a bad one, I would have retained Mr. ——.”

After one or two causes had been disposed of, that of Smith versus Martindale was called. Then, for the first time, and in his native town, did Horatio Markham open his lips in a court of justice. Notwithstanding the profound and anxious silence which prevailed in the court, scarcely one-half of the persons there could hear distinctly the commencement of his speech; but by degrees he gained confidence, and his voice was more audible. The audience, however, was not very highly pleased with what he said. Many thought that he stated the case much too feebly. Some thought that he was afraid of the defendant’s counsel; and others thought he was fearful of offending the defendant himself. The Hon. Philip Martindale, who was on the bench, listened with but slight attention[5] to the speech; and when it was finished, honoured it with a contemptuous sneer. This sneer was reflected in most courtly style by the gentlemen who sat on either side of him; the high-sheriff was one, and a clerical magistrate was the other.

Witnesses were then called to prove the case. From them it appeared very clear that the Hon. Philip Martindale had, upon very defective evidence, and against very credible evidence, committed Richard Smith to jail as a poacher; and the said Hon. Philip Martindale had also with great severity, not to say cruelty, struck the said Richard Smith, in order, as the defendant had said, to punish the old man for his insolence. What this insolence was, would not have appeared to the court, had it not been for the dexterity of the defendant’s counsel, in cross-examining one of the plaintiff’s witnesses.

This witness was a very pretty, modest-looking young woman, who seemed to suffer quite enough from the publicity in which she was placed by being brought to speak in open[6] court. The temptation was too strong for the defendant’s counsel to resist; and he therefore took abundant pains to show his wit, by asking a long string of impertinent questions, and repeating the answers to those questions in a loud insulting tone. He and those who follow his example, are best able to say how far such a mode of proceeding can answer the ends of justice—how far it is consistent with the gravity and decorum of a court, and with the character of a gentleman—how far it is calculated to impress the multitude with a sentiment of reverence for the expounders of the law—and how far it is likely to advance those who adopt it, in their own esteem.

The cross-examination of this young woman, who was the plaintiff’s niece, led to a re-examination, in which it was made manifest to the court, as it had been previously known to most then present, that the severity of the Hon. Philip Martindale towards poor old Richard Smith arose from the vigilance with which the old man guarded his niece, and preserved her from the artifices of the defendant. When this[7] fact came out in evidence, there was an involuntary and indescribable expression of contempt in the court; and the honourable defendant endeavoured to smile away his mortification, but did not succeed, though he was countenanced by the high-sheriff on one side of him, and a clerical magistrate on the other. The contrast between impertinence and decorum was never so strongly manifested as in the cross-examination and re-examination above alluded to; and it has been said that the witty barrister himself was not quite at his ease, and that he broke down in an attempted jest upon gravity.

The counsel for the defendant called no witnesses, but made a witty speech; in which he proved by arguments which made the multitude laugh, that it is a very slight inconvenience to be imprisoned for a few months; that seduction is a very venial offence, and highly becoming a gentleman; that it is a great condescension in a man of high rank to knock down a poor cottager; that gray hairs are a very ludicrous ornament; that it is very insolent in a poor man to interrupt a rich man in his pursuit of vicious[8] pleasure; that the game-laws are so very excellent, that persons only suspected of violating them ought to be punished. Then he gave the jury to understand, that if they should be foolish enough to give a verdict for the plaintiff, they must award the least possible damages. Then he sat down, and took a great quantity of snuff, and winked at the high-sheriff. In spite of all the wit and coxcomical impertinence of this redoubtable advocate, the jury found a verdict for the plaintiff, giving him one hundred pounds damages.

This verdict, and the unpretending sobriety of the young barrister’s mode of arguing his case, occasioned much conversation in the town, and gave also ground for some observations among the gentlemen of the bar. Some of these gentlemen had known Horatio Markham from the very first day that he had entered his name in the Temple. They were acquainted with his taste and the line of his reading, and they knew that the oratorical writers of antiquity and of modern times occupied a place on his shelves and a share of his attention; and[9] they expected that when he held such a brief as that of which we have made mention, he would indulge a little in declamation. It was therefore a matter of surprise to them when he confined himself so strictly to the record, and suffered his case to rest so independently on its own strength. The opposing counsel was completely at fault. He had calculated so confidently on Markham’s eloquence, and was so familiar with the common places of declamation, that he was quite prepared with a copious supply of extemporaneous witticisms,

with which he designed to overwhelm the young gentleman, and throw ridicule on his cause. It was therefore a disappointment to him when he found that all this previous preparation was labour lost. But though most of the barristers on the circuit joined with the witty counsel for the defendant in his vituperation of those who had been instrumental in procuring such a verdict, yet secretly they were not displeased that their tyrant had been so fairly set down. Markham was absolutely beginning to be a favourite on the circuit. The judge himself all but[10] publicly complimented him on the able and gentleman-like manner in which he had managed his cause; and even the honourable defendant was mortified that there was nothing in Markham’s language to which any exception could be taken.

When the court had broken up, the young barrister most unblushingly walked into a linen-draper’s shop, and passing on to a little back parlour, took off his gown and wig, and sat down to dine with his father and mother. The old people were proud of their son, and the young man was not ashamed of his parents. But he had seen many instances of young persons who had scarcely deigned to acknowledge those to whom they were not only bound by the ties of nature, but to whose self-denial they owed their distinction and station in life. These little think how much substantial reputation they lose, and how little shadowy honour they gain.

As the family of the young barrister was sitting at dinner, there entered to them unannounced, and without apology, an elderly man,[11] in very singular attire, and of very singular appearance. Markham had a recollection of having seen him in court. His countenance had an expression of archness, and he seemed by his looks as though he were on the eve of uttering some choice piece of wit; there were also observable indications of impetuosity and strong self-will. His head was nearly bald; his shoulders of ample breadth; his stature short; his voice shrill; and his manner of speaking quick and dogmatical. Without taking any notice of the father and mother of the barrister, he addressed himself directly to Horatio.

“I suppose you don’t know me—my name is Martindale.”

“The Hon. Philip Martindale?” replied the young man with great composure; for he was quite ignorant of the person of the defendant in the recent action.

“The Hon. Philip Martindale!” echoed the stranger, with a tone and with a look which answered the question very decidedly. “The Hon. Philip rascal!—no, sir; my name is not[12] made ridiculous by any such lying adjunct. My name is John Martindale; and it is my misfortune to be called cousin by that hopeful spark who was defendant in the action this morning. I am come, sir, to tell you that I think you did yourself honour by the manner in which you conducted the poor man’s cause.”

Horatio Markham perceived that, though the gentleman was somewhat of an oddity, he was a man of some consequence, and apparently a man of good feeling; he therefore replied:

“Sir, you are very polite; you.…”

“No such thing,” interrupted Mr. Martindale; “I am not polite, and hope I never shall be polite. My cousin Philip is a very polite man.” Then directing his conversation to Mr. Markham the elder, he continued: “I congratulate you, sir, on having for a son a young man who can make a speech without fine words and metaphors.”

This seemed to the father a singular ground of congratulation, and he did not know how to reply to it: fortunately, the speaker did not wait for a reply; but turning again to the young[13] man, he said: “You must come and spend a few weeks with me in my cottage at Brigland. I will have no excuses, so tell me when you will come. Will you go home with me tonight?”

Markham recollected that he had in his boyhood heard frequent talk and many singular anecdotes of Mr. John Martindale of Brigland; but as his general character was one of benevolence and shrewd sense, he was not reluctant to accept the invitation, especially as it was given in such terms as not to be refused without that degree of rudeness which did not seem suitable from a young man of humble origin towards an elderly person of high rank. He therefore professed his readiness to spend a short time with his new friend, and fixed the following day for the purpose. The stranger then took his leave.

[14]

CHAPTER II.

Brigland-Abbey was one of those desirable mansions which auctioneers love to describe, but which are beyond all power of advertising flattery. It stood on a gradually descending and very extensive sweep of land; at the back of which rose a dense and ancient forest, and in front flowed a stream which had[15] been artificially widened into the semblance of a fair and placid lake. The building was in harmony with the scenery; graceful, stately, extensive. The architect had successfully imitated the florid Gothic style of building; and over the principal entrance was a window of enormous magnitude, and most brilliant colouring. Through this window the beams of the declining sun cast on the marble pavement of the great hall a luxuriant mass of variegated light, forming one of the most magnificent specimens of internal beauty which any mansion in this kingdom has to boast. This beautiful estate was the property of Mr. John Martindale, but the residence of the Hon. Philip Martindale. The elder Martindale had, for the place of his abode, a fancifully constructed

cottage, immediately opposite to the great gates that opened into the park; and so well placed was this residence, that it had a most beautiful and imposing view of the great building. For when Mr. Martindale had finished the erection of the splendid abbey, it was remarked to him, as it has been remarked to many others who[16] have built splendid mansions, “Now you should have another house opposite to this, that you may enjoy the pleasure of looking at this magnificent pile.”

On this principle the proprietor acted; residing in a dwelling called the cottage, and giving up the great house to his hopeful cousin. He found a peculiar pleasure in this whim; for thereby he became master of the master of the great house; and nothing pleased him more than to be mistaken for a person of no consequence, and then to be discovered as the opulent and remarkable Mr. Martindale. Some of his neighbours used to report that he had a right to a title, but that he would not prosecute his claim, because he despised titles as mere foolery. These good people were wrong in their conjecture; but the supposition was not displeasing to Mr. Martindale.

As we are on the subject, we may as well state here that he was an old bachelor, of extensive wealth; and that he was third, fourth, or fifth cousin to a Mr. Martindale, who had recently been created Lord Martindale, but[17] whose income was not quite equal to his title. Now, though Mr. Martindale professed a great contempt for titles, the fact is, that on his remote relative’s obtaining this distinction, he took more notice of him than ever he had before, and gave very strong indications that it was his intention to make the Hon. Philip Martindale his heir. He had established the young gentleman at the Abbey, tempting his vanity by the offer of a residence far too magnificent for his means, and too extensive for his establishment.

The young man’s vanity was pleased with this arrangement, for he very sensibly felt that he was the occupier of the great house; but he was not so deeply sensible of the fact, that he was quite under the command of his opulent and humorous relative. He looked forward to the possession of ample means at the decease of Mr. Martindale; but he was desirous of supplying his deficiencies, if possible, before that time. It might, indeed, be imagined that the heir-apparent to a barony, and the expectant of most ample wealth, might have made his selection[18] among the daughters of opulence. There were, however, difficulties and objections. The young gentleman himself was, especially, particular as to rank and connexion. None of his family had ever been engaged in or connected with trade, so far as he could ascertain; and most of the large fortunes which appeared at all accessible, had been the obvious result of commercial engagement of some kind or other. He might have had rank; he might have had wealth; but he could not have both.

The occupant of the cottage observed his relative’s vanity, and was in the habit of mortifying it, even though he was not quite free from some tincture of the same in his own temperament. He also was not insensible to the fact, that his honourable cousin was not overstrict in his morals; but his mode of reproving irregularities did not much tend to their correction. The old gentleman was not a magistrate, but was, as far as he thought fit, the dictator of his cousin’s proceedings in the office of magistrate: not that the transaction alluded to in the first chapter was with the approbation or even[19] knowledge of the elder Martindale. Such, however, was the oddity of this gentleman’s humour, that had Horatio Markham declaimed with what some would have considered merited severity against the magistrate for his violation of the laws, he would have been the first to take fire at the insult offered to his relative. He was unprepared for so much temperance, so much good sense, and so little common-place. This circumstance, together with the fact that

Markham was of plebeian origin, led Mr. Martindale to invite the barrister to Brigland, that he might amuse himself with his cousin’s annoyance and embarrassment.

As Markham was entering the village on the side of the park, he naturally paused to admire the beauty of the Abbey; and while he was thus engaged, Mr. Martindale rode up to him, and without any preface of common-place salutation, called out—

“That is a fine house, Mr. Barrister. I dare say you would rather pay a visit to an honourable in the Abbey, than to a plain mister in a cottage.”

[20]

Horatio apologised that he had not observed Mr. Martindale; but as he began to discern his peculiar humour, he replied: “I was certainly admiring the taste of the architect, and his judgment in selecting so fine and commanding a situation: the very ground, by its disposition, seemed to ask for a mansion of no ordinary magnificence.”

“Oh, ho—you understand how to pay compliments. I suppose you did not know that your humble servant, plain John Martindale, was the designer and builder of this mansion. Did you never hear the proverb, that fools build houses, and wise men live in them?”

“Is the occupier of that mansion a wise man, sir?” replied Horatio.

“I cannot say that he is. And so from that you would infer that it was not a fool who built the house. Well, well, you shall see him soon, and judge for yourself. I told my honourable relative that I should insist upon bringing you to the Abbey.”