Bruce Alexander - Person or Persons Unknown

I quote Sir John’s judgment, for I have it still very well in my mind. May he forgive me if I have a word or two wrong:

“While the defendant has argued for himself ingeniously indeed, I cannot but believe that there is something specious in his argument that since no other buildings collapsed during the storm in question, the collapse of the stall constitutes an Act of God. He has even gone so far as to suggest that this calamity was visited upon the plaintiff as a punishment for his sins. There, Mr. Beaton, I believe you overstep yourself, for it is not up to us to judge the sins of others, unless they be so flagrant as to be considered criminal in nature — and then, only unless we be jurymen at trial. And just as you go too far there, you go not far enough in your understanding of what constitutes an Act of God. Under the law, this term of divine agency refers to an event that occurs without human intervention or participation — a great flood or a great wind, or the like. Since there was no flood and the wind that blew was of no particular consequence, we cannot attribute the collapse of the stall to such natural causes; and since I would not presume to be privy to the plaintiff’s relation to his Creator, then we are left with your own faulty workmanship as the only possible cause for the collapse of the stall. That is how I rule — in favor of the plaintiff. Therefore, I obligate you, Mr. Beaton, to build a new stall for Mr. Grimes, one to his satisfaction that will stand a minimum of, let us say, five years — barring an Act of God, of course. You must also pay him the sum of five pounds for his loss of stock and custom. If you fail in carrying out this court’s directives — well, sir, that is worth a stay in Newgate. Am I understood? Yea or nay?”

Mr. Beaton was beaten. He hung his head and answered with a docile, “Yes, sir, understood.”

“So be it.” Sir John clapped down his mallet, which did him for a gavel, and called forth, “Next case.”

(Reader, I quote thus at length as an example of the lessons I learned in Sir John Fielding’s Bow Street Court long before I began formally to read the law with him. In this instance, of course, I was never to forget what it was that legally constituted an Act of God.)

“Thaddeus Millhouse, come forward,” bellowed Mr. Marsden in full voice.

Then Sir John conferred a moment with his clerk, listened attentively, then nodded. As he did so, a small man rose in a manner most diffident and measured off the five or six paces which brought him before the magistrate. I recognized him as the drunken man who had fallen before Constable Brede.

“Thaddeus Millhouse, you have been detained for disobeying my order to leave the alley which leads from St. Paul’s churchyard to Bedford Street. Since I gave the order, and Constable Brede who put you under arrest had a long, hard night of it, I have dispensed with his presence. I am well enough acquainted with the circumstances of this matter. So you must tell me, Mr. Millhouse, what have you to say in your defense?”

“Well, sir,” said he, in a voice so small I felt it necessary to strain forward to listen. “I had every intention of doing what you said, but I could not.”

“And why was that?”

“I was drunk, sir.”

“A little louder, please.”

“/ was drunkr’ It came from him as a loud wail of despair.

His shout brought forth a great roar of laughter from those assembled in the courtroom. They came to be entertained and sought every least occasion for merriment. Sir John hammered them to silence.

“Mr. Millhouse, you were not the only drunk in that alley last night. Others managed to stagger out to Bedford Street, why not you?”

“Alas, Sir John, I was so lamentably besotted that I tripped over my own feet and could not then for the life of me rise up.”

“I regret to inform you, sir, that the penalty for public drunkenness is the same as that with which I threatened that unruly crowd last night — fine and imprisonment for not less than thirty days. Have you nothing more to say in your defense?”

“In truth, I have not.”

“Then I have but little choice — ”

“May I speak for him, sir?” It was a woman’s voice that rang out in the small courtroom. And it was a woman in the first row who stood up, a babe in her arms, and took her place beside Thaddeus Millhouse.

“And who might you be, madam?” asked Sir John.

“I am his wife,” said she. “My name is Lucinda Mill-house. And though you cannot see him, he may make himself heard to you,” said she, “and so I mention that I have in my arms our son, Edward Millhouse.”

Far from inciting laughter from the courtroom crowd, the sudden and dramatic interruption by Mrs. Millhouse hushed all present immediately. Even Mr. Marsden could but stare wide-eyed at the two of them together — or perhaps three, better put. I know not if anything such as this had ever happened in his memory; I know it had not in mine. All present simply waited to see what would happen next. Would Sir John countenance such an interruption? Or would he simply instruct Mr. Fuller to eject her from the room?

“What would you say, then, Mrs. Millhouse?” asked the magistrate.

“I would say, sir, that if he is fined, we cannot pay, and if he is imprisoned, Edward and I shall starve. This is no defense, to be sure, but a plea for mercy. Thaddeus has just been given employment. Do, please, let him work.”

There was a great murmur among the courtroom crowd, yet for once Sir John made no move to silence it. He sat quiet for near a minute.

“Mr. Millhouse, tell me, what sort of work do you do?”

“I am a scholar and a poet.”

“Oh, dear God!” gasped Sir John. It was a cry of exasperation.

“Formerly a schoolteacher,” added Mr. Millhouse.

“And no doubt you gave up that position to come to London where you would seek fame and fortune as a poet.”

“Yes, sir.” He hung his head. “That was some six months past.”

“And you have not yet found it.”

“No, sir, only mere occasional work in Grub Street.”

“But now, according to your wife, you have been granted steady employment, presumably of a long term nature. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir, I have been employed by Mr. John Hoole to assist him in the translation of Lodovico Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso and to perform general secretarial duties for him. He is incapacitated with a broken knee. I … I was to begin Monday next. I went out last night with friends to celebrate our good fortune.”

“Friends who allowed you to drink far past your capacity.”

“I cannot blame them, sir. I fear that when I start drinking, I cannot stop.”

“Well, it would seem, Mr. Millhouse, that you would then be wisest never to start.”

“That would indeed seem to be the answer, sir.”

Again, Sir John fell silent. He clasped his hands before him and gave thought to the matter.

“This court is not in the business of starving mothers and babies,” said he at last. “Nevertheless, you, Mr. Mill-house, have admitted you culpability. You have declared that it was your intention to obey my order, but you could not because of your drunken state. Either way, sir, you are liable for punishment. What shall your punishment be?” He left us all in suspense for a moment. “I am willing to waive the jail term of thirty days in answer to your wife’s plea. However, I shall fine you one shilling to be paid each month for a time not exceeding one year from today. Can you manage that?”

Both Mr. and Mrs. Millhouse cried out at the same time, he offering his heartfelt thanks, and she blessing him in God’s name.

Sir John waved them quiet and continued: “However, Mr. Millhouse, if in that year you appear before me again for public drunkenness, you may expect little mercy from me. Is that understood?”