OR a period of twenty years I had the distinguished honour of being decidedly "well known to the police." When I was between seventeen and eighteen years of age, and still at the North London Collegiate School, I received instructions from my father, who was just starting for Liverpool, that as Mr. Courtenay was ill I must go and "do" Bow Street. Mr. John Kelly Courtenay used to do all the reporting at Bow Street Police Court during my father's absence on his lecturing tours. I had learned shorthand (the Lewisian system, I believe it was called) some two or three years previously.

Off I marched to Bow Street with the greatest sang-froid to report a case, at which in after years I should certainly have shied. It was a most important bank fraud, and meant enormous complications in figures. Mr. Burnaby, then chief clerk, was kind enough to let me correct my figures from the depositions which had been taken by him; Sir Thomas Henry repeated to me the gist of his remarks on remanding the case, and the result was I turned out a report on manifold for all the evening and morning papers, and the usual special report for The Times — in this instance over a column long — with which my father was delighted.

I received a most encouraging letter from him after a few days' interval. The interval was merely to give time for the arrival of any complaint from the papers. Editors are not in the habit of sending letters of congratulation, only of complaint. No complaint arrived, however, and my only disappointment was the complete absence of important and interesting cases.

At last another opportunity arrived which enabled me to distinguish myself. I wish it had not. A poor woman was charged with purloining a shirt which was hanging outside a cheap hosier's in Clare Market somewhere. It was a windy day, and the end of the shirt was apparently flapping round the corner of the shop; so the prisoner, unable to resist temptation, filched it after the manner of a clown in a pantomime. Inspired by the punning humour of Tom Hood, I parodied one of his poems for the heading of my police report. The heading was "The Tale of a Shirt." This had a most undesired effect. The serious papers wrote to complain of the flippancy of the title; the refined papers of its vulgarity; while the vulgar papers inserted the title, which they emphasised by printing the word "tale" in italic.

This caused sarcastic paragraphs to appear in other papers directed against my father, who, of course, was the responsible reporter, and who, consequently, wrote me a second letter anent my talents for reporting which differed widely from the first.

Fortunately for all parties, Mr. Courtenay got well and returned to his post, and in 1866 it was decided I should thoroughly learn the business from him, so as to have some remunerative occupation while studying, and eventually following, the profession of the bar. Circumstances, however, ultimately prevented me from doing either. There are several, if not many, barrister-reporters in London; I know my friend Mr. E. T. Besley was one, and so were Mr. Finlayson and Mr. Corrie Grant, and I could mention three or four others.

My parent, with an eye to business, pointed out the absolute advantage that would arise from my being able to support myself by the press during the years I should, in all probability, be waiting for the arrival of a brief. His suggestion was adopted, and for the next three years I stuck entirely to the work, assisting Mr. Courtenay, who, in his turn, often assisted me in revising little occasional articles or verses which I wrote for humorous periodicals, &c., some of which were inserted to my great delight. He used to write prologues for amateur performances in which I took part, and at which he was always present. He was very kind to me, and I became very much attached to him, feeling great grief when he died in October 1869.

The whole of the work then fell upon my shoulders during the absence of Grossmith, senior; and very hard work it was sometimes. When there was no work to do, — that is, nothing of consequence to report, — then the life of a reporter resembled that of a superior loafer — at least, that was my feeling. A reporter is not considered a sufficiently important person to be allotted a room for his own use. Sir Thomas Henry promised that the gentlemen of the press should have a room to themselves in the new Court, but he was unable to carry his promise out, as he died soon afterwards.

Therefore, when nothing was going on, the reporter became a kind of Micawber hanging about waiting for something to turn up. I used to sit in Court and write the opening chapters of three-volume novels which were never published, or extra verses to comic songs which were never sung.

When tired of this I used to loiter about the passages, or sit in the usher's room in company with solicitors, solicitors' clerks, witnesses with and without babies, detectives, defendants, and equally interesting people. Sometimes I meandered into the gaoler's room and gazed at the police and the prisoners. Sometimes I would go out to lunch and take three or four hours over it, and on returning find a most important murder case had been disposed of in my absence.

On one occasion I returned and found Mr. John Brown giving evidence in a charge against a lad for an attempt upon the life of our Most Gracious Majesty. However, I have managed to write a case just as well when I have not been present as when I have. The Court was a miserable one for sound, but the clerk was close to the witnesses and could hear them; so that his notes, which with courtesy I was permitted to copy, were, at all events, most reliable.

It must not be inferred from my absence that I was not interested in the work. On the contrary, there was so much variety in the important cases that one could not be otherwise than interested: but one never knew when they were coming on. But people of all classes would come day after day, and sit out (especially on a Monday morning) dozens of simple charges of drunk and disorderly, or of fighting and disturbing. This I could not quite understand. The days on which Mr. Flowers sat were certainly the most amusing, and consequently selected by the visitors. Mr. Irving, Mr. Toole, and the late George Belmore have often in bygone days sat by my side watching the more important cases.

Sometimes the monotony of the proceedings would be varied by my seeing one of my own acquaintances in the dock. Then an awkward question of etiquette arose. The dock joined the reporters' box. Now ought I to have shaken hands with him? As a matter of fact I never did, but I do not see why I should not have done so. However I thought it best to follow the footsteps of the magistrates — they did not shake hands with their friends when charged.

I have heard of an instance of a metropolitan police magistrate who, upon recognising an old friend in the dock, ordered him immediately to be accommodated with a seat on the bench and declined to hear the charge of embezzlement that was to have been preferred against him. Soon he was no more a magistrate, and subsequently was "no more" in the term's other sense.

The most disagreeable case of recognising a friend in the dock that I ever experienced was some years after, when I was combining the professions of journalist and entertainer. I accepted an engagement at Margate to give a couple of sketches nightly at the Hall-by-the-Sea, which was then under the management of the late E. P. Hingston, who had been formerly the manager of Artemus Ward's lecture at the Egyptian Hall in 1866. [By-the-by, the only other humorist who took part in the concert was J. Hatton, the composer and author of "To Anthea," who used to take his seat at the piano and sing his song, "Old Simon the Cellarer" and "The Merry Little Fat Grey Man," his resemblance to the latter being somewhat pronounced. He used to reside at Margate, and was an immense favourite.]

One evening I was introduced to a young gentleman of good manners and appearance, who begged I would sup with him. I did. We afterwards became rather intimate and I lunched with him. Like most small stars, I was surrounded by a lot of satellites. They were all eventually introduced to my new acquaintance, who seemed to have plenty of time and money to spare, and who was the essence of hospitality. As my engagement was terminating he gave us all a parting banquet at one of the principal hotels. Some old friend of mine had advised me particularly not to go. What reason he gave I do not remember, but I fancy it was that the young fellow had not paid some bill. However, I did not go, but heard there was much to eat, more to drink, and any amount of conviviality.

It was one of those parties where everybody talked, nobody listened, nobody cared, and every man's health was proposed by somebody else: the health of the host, I believe, was proposed about half a dozen times.

I returned to Bow Street, and a few days after this poor fellow, who turned out to be a clerk in a warehouse in Southampton Street, Strand, at about 35s. a week, was placed in the dock on a charge of robbing his employer. He was committed for trial and ultimately convicted; but in consequence of his previous good character and the kindness of his employer in not wishing to press the charge, the sentence was one of months when it might have been years.

I spent part of the spare time, in my earlier days at Bow Street, in editing a paper called Ourselves at Home. It was published by a printer for me, and consisted of eight pages, a little larger than the Bristol Library Series, with very little matter — much spacing out and very big type. The cost was ten shillings a week for which we had fifty or a hundred copies.

Two of my friends contributed each two shillings and sixpence a week towards the expense, with the privilege of inserting articles. The contribution of their specie was more valuable than that of their brains; but as their contributions were not so bad as mine, no complaint was made. The periodical terminated after thirteen numbers, because our friends could not be induced to read it, much less buy it. It died a natural death on March 8th, 1867.

At this time the chief magistrate was Sir Thomas Henry, the other two being the kind and genial Mr. Flowers, who died only a few years ago, and Mr. James Vaughan, who still sits in the new Court. The old Court was adjacent to the Floral Hall, Covent Garden.

Having sat in that Court so many years, it seemed odd to me to pay it a visit under such different circumstances. Last summer (1887) I was advised to go to Mr. Stinchcombe, the theatrical costumier, on some little matter. I entered the front door of the old familiar Police Court. Instead of the idle, motley crowd one was accustomed to see blocking up the passages, there were rows of shelves with carefully-packed costumes.

In the Court, the dock, attorneys' table, barristers' bench, my old reporters' box, every partition in fact, had been swept away to make room for shelves of costumes, armour, and tons of theatrical paraphernalia. Out of curiosity I asked to see the cells and was politely shown them. There they were as of yore — the iron doors, with the little window or grating; but the doors were not locked, barred, and bolted — they were wide open, and the prison cells were occupied with sock and buskin.

Sir Thomas Henry was the main instrument in getting erected the spacious new Court opposite, in which he was never destined to sit. It was his ambition. Frequently had he said on the bench that the old court was a disgrace. I could not help thinking what Sir Thomas's opinion of the old Court would have been if he had seen it as I had just now. I could not help thinking the faithful old Court had followed my example, and gone in for the stage.

Now it is razed to the ground, and there is not a brick left of the old place which, in my time, saw the preliminary examinations of the Flowery Land Pirates; Müller for the murder of Mr. Briggs; Barrett and others for blowing up Clerkenwell Prison; Burke and Casey; Dr. Hessell, who was acquitted on the charge known as the Great Coram Street murder, and on whose behalf Mr. Douglas Straight (now Mr. Justice Straight, of Allahabad) made the best speech he ever made in his life, I venture to think; the female impersonation case; and the charge against the police detectives Druscovich, Palmer, Meiklejohn, Clarke, and Mr. Froggatt, the solicitor, of assisting Kurr, Benson and others in committing the De Goncourt turf frauds. With the exception of the Pirates and Müller, The Times' reports were done chiefly by me.

The record of which I am most proud was in reference to a speech of Mr. Besley's in one of the above cases. He spoke for about seven hours, with one short interval, and as it proceeded I reported it in long hand, in the third person of course. To have done so verbatim would have been an impossibility. To have reported this speech with a pencil and paper would have tolerably easy matter, but I wrote it on manifold, producing twelve copies — that is, there were twelve oiled tissue sheets and six blank tissues between, altogether a thickness of eighteen papers to press through with the stylus.

To those uninitiated in the method of manifold writing, I can only explain that the system is the same as that adopted by cashiers in the stores and shops, who place a piece of black paper in a book, a little bill on the top, and by writing on the latter the impression is conveyed through the black to the book. Two copies are therefore procured. Imagine, therefore, the amount of pressure required for twelve copies, and the state of your fingers and hands after doing this with the utmost rapidity for seven hours with only about half an hour's cessation!

I may as well give a slight sketch of the characters of the three magistrates. Sir Thomas Henry was the very model of a police-court beak. He was tall and slim, and had natural dignity — a very different thing from the assumption of it. He was a good lawyer and a perfect courtier — not a mere police courtier. He liked approval, and whene'er he made a palpable hit in a passage of arms with an important counsel (specially retained), he would glance round the Court to see if it had been appreciated. After an effective summing up, the auditors in the body of the Court would sometimes break out with loud applause. Sir Thomas Henry would sternly observe that if such unseemly manifestations were again displayed, he should order the Court to be cleared. For all that, Sir Thomas liked that applause and was much gratified by it.

Mr. Frederick Flowers was a totally different type of man altogether. He was short, and had iron-grey hair and whiskers. He was exceedingly kind — much too kind for a magistrate, and possessed a dangerous talent for being humorous in Court. He hated to punish people and had a tendency to let everybody off — and did, if he could do so legally.

I remember once a woman, an old offender, being sentenced by one of the other magistrates to a month's imprisonment. On being removed from the dock by the gaoler she shouted, "Look here, the next time I am charged here I'll take jolly good care it's before old Flowers."

A little boy of about eight years of age was charged with snowballing an old gentleman. Mr. Flowers read the boy a kindly lecture, and told him never to snowball people in the streets again. As he had been detained in the gaoler's room for four hours and had been crying his eyes out, Mr. Flowers added that the child was evidently very sorry for what he had done, and would, therefore, be discharged. The mother, who was advised to keep a better watch over her boy in future, came forward with profusions of thanks, and carried off the little prisoner in triumph. The prosecutor, who had watched the proceedings with amazement, here stepped into the box, and, addressing Mr. Flowers, said:

"Why, your worship, you've let him off."

Mr. Flowers : Of course I have.

Prosecutor : What for?

Mr. Flowers : You wouldn't have me punish a child like that, would you?

Prosecutor : Of course I would — what have I had him brought here for?

Mr. Flowers : I think he has been sufficiently punished.

Prosecutor : But look here — he has cut my cheek.

Mr. Flowers : Well, he did not do that on purpose.

Prosecutor : He snowballed me on purpose.

Mr. Flowers : Yes, but he didn't mean to cut your face.

Prosecutor : Well, he has done it, at all events.

Mr. Flowers : And he is very sorry, and so am I sorry; but I dare say when you were a boy you were in the habit of snowballing old gentlemen. At all events, I know I used to snowball people, and I am not going to fine any boy for doing what I used to do myself.

One morning a poor woman stepped into the box and expressed a wish to prosecute some man who had passed a bad sixpence upon her. Mr. Flowers took the counterfeit coin and after examining it said, "Well, I dare say the man didn't know it was a bad one: it is a remarkably good imitation of a genuine one. I'll tell you what I will do — I will give you a good sixpence in exchange; that will put an end to all legal proceedings." Mr. Flowers gave the woman a sixpenny-piece, and requested that the bad one should be broken up. When the Court was afterwards cleared, the good-natured magistrate, addressing me, said, "I hope, Mr. Grossmith, you won't think it necessary to report that case. If you do, I shall be having three or four hundred people coming to me to-morrow with bad sixpences to exchange."

A man was charged with violently assaulting his friend. A policeman saw the assault committed, and gave his evidence to that effect. The complainant, however, did not appear for the purpose of pressing the charge. When the constable had given his evidence, the defendant shouted out, "I didn't commit the assault. I never hit him."

Mr. Flowers (thinking this was the usual imputation on the evidence of the police): Then, if you didn't do it, who did I should like to know?

Defendant : I didn't do it. 'Twas the beer that did it.

Mr. Flowers : Oh, then we had better send the beer to prison.

Constable : Please, your worship, the complainant ain't here. He didn't wish to press the case.

Mr. Flowers : Oh, very well. (To the Defendant) There being no prosecutor, you and your friend the beer are discharged; but I should advise you not to become too closely associated with each other in the future.

In a series of articles which I contributed to Punch, at the beginning of the year 1884, entitled "Very Trying," I gave a skit of this magistrate. It was in the fourth article, and was headed "The Good-humoured Magistrate." He was extremely popular, and nobody, from his colleagues and counsel down to the prisoners themselves, was ever heard to say a harsh word against him.

Mr. James Vaughan (who still sits at Bow Street) was a solemn and severe type of magistrate. Absolutely just, and yet everyone seemed afraid of him. The just are always to be most feared. Mr. Vaughan makes a good magistrate, but he would have been a better judge. He has a power of "summing up" which is almost thrown away in a police court. He would give a decision (sometimes very elaborate) in every case that came before him. He was quite the reverse of a well-known magistrate of Great Marlborough Street, whose object was to get everything over as quickly as possible. I was once present at the last-named Court when there were a number of summonses against cabmen for delaying and obstruction. It was the custom to take all these summonses on one day. The mode of procedure adopted by this magistrate was as follows:

Magistrate : All those who plead guilty, step forward.

(Here about fifteen cabbies pushed to the front of the Court.)

Magistrate : Fined two shillings — don't do it again.

(Exeunt fifteen cabbies.)

Another magistrate, who used to sit at Worship Street, delivered his decisions in a species of shorthand. Suppose Smith and Brown were charged together with assaulting the police. At the conclusion of all the evidence the magistrate would say:

"Smith, five or five; Brown, ten or fourteen;" which, being interpreted, meant that Smith was to be fined five shillings, or in default of payment to be imprisoned for five days, and Brown to be fined ten shillings, or in default, fourteen days.

Now, Mr. Vaughan would certainly have read each man a serious warning, which (as Mr. Vaughan is a highly educated man) the prisoners may or may not have understood.

When I first went to the Court, I could not always understand his remarks, especially when some intricate technicalities were involved in them. In this predicament, I invariably went to his worship and asked if he would give me the principal points of his observations, a request on my part which was always met by Mr. Vaughan with much courtesy.

Mr. Vaughan was also a subject of my raillery in the Punch articles, from which I will give a short extract. A little boy of seven years of age is charged with begging, his excuse being he did not know he was doing any wrong. The magistrate delivers his decision in the following manner:

"Prisoner, you have been brought before me on the sworn testimony of a metropolitan constable, charged with begging within the precincts of the monument erected in memoriam to Nelson. It is, as you must be aware, a charge under the Vagrant Act, and I am bound to admit it appears to me there is a primâ facie case against you. You have made no attempt to rebut the evidence of the officer, and I can only, as an ultimatum, give credence to his evidence, which admits of little doubt in my mind. The defence (if a defence it can be designated at all) that you have elected to set up is, to my mind, unworthy of the invention you have thought necessary to bestow upon it. You may not have perused the sections of the Act of Parliament bearing upon this particular charge, but every child must be aware, from maternal or paternal information, that the act of begging in any form is contra leges. Your defence is, therefore, totally unworthy of consideration. Now I warn you, if in future you will persist in pursuing this nefarious method of existence, I shall have to sentence you to a term of incarceration without the option of a pecuniary penalty. Pray do not treat this caution with indifference. Upon this occasion, however, your liberty will be afforded you.

"The Prisoner (in tears): Oh! how long have I got? Oh! what have I got?

"Gaoler (interpreting the learned magistrate): What have you got? Why, you've got let off, and don't do it again. (Sotto voce to the boy) Hook it!

"And the little boy left the Court, under the impression that the magistrate had sentenced him to several years' penal servitude, but that the gaoler had kindly overlooked the offence and liberated him."

Of course, this sketch is caricatured in the same way that the portraits in Vanity Fair are by "Ape" (Mr. Carlo Pelligrini) and "Spy" (Mr. Leslie Ward).

Sir James Taylor Ingham succeeded to the post of chief magistrate at Bow Street on the death of Sir Thomas Henry, and was (and still is) a kind and considerate gentleman. It was the custom of some magistrates to wear their hats in Court, but I never saw this at Bow Street. At other Courts I have seen magistrates wear their hats; and one in particular I have seen walk about the bench with his hat on and his hands in his pockets, and never even remove it when a respectably-dressed woman was making an application to, or giving evidence before, him. If it were compulsory to keep the head covered, as when the judge assumes the black cap, one could understand it. But it is not compulsory, and there is no excuse for it, any more than there is for the young masher swaggering up a public dining-room where ladies are seated around dining, without having the common decency to remove his hat.

In 1877, when I appeared at the Opéra Comique, I retired from the work; but resumed it again in 1880, when my father died, having for my right-hand man Mr. Cleverley, whom my father had engaged to assist him. I retired eventually in favour of Mr. Cleverley, who is now The Times reporter; and if I possibly can help it, I will never give him a chance of "showing me up."