Month: January 2023

To Fake a Death, 1861

Millais, The Artist Attending the Mourning of a Young Girl, via the Tate.

From the Paisley Herald and Renfrewshire Advertiser, 25 May 1861:

“THE DEAD ALIVE – EXTRAORDINARY CASE

Some years ago, in Dublin, a husband and wife, it appears, took it into their heads to possess themselves of £500 which had been left as a legacy to the wife, under the condition that she should receive the interest during her life, and be at liberty to bequeath the principal to any friend at her death. Being anxious, it appears to obtain the principal, it was arranged that she should make her will and die, and accordingly did so, and acted the character of a deceased woman. The wake was held, the coffin procured, and the funeral procession proceeded, with ‘measured step and slow,’ in Glasnevin Cemetery, where the coffin with the supposed body, was interred. The parties who managed the entire matter had a will drawn up before the pretended death, and after the burial it was opened, and the money was drawn by the husband, to whom it was left by his wife.

The pretended death took place in 1859, but recently it was discovered that the deceased was alive and well, and that the coffin at Glasnevin had never contained a dead body. A young man, a solicitor’s clerk it seems, drew out the will, and made all the arrangements for the funeral, even to the buying of the coffin. The circumstances having come to light, and the dead to life, the police authorities of Dublin have taken the case up, and warrants were issued for the arrestment of those concerned in the fraud. The solicitor’s clerk left Dublin, but was pursued to Belfast by a detective officer, and on the latter arriving at this town, Inspector Mcllroy and Assistant Inspector Paterson proceeded on the search for the accused, and succeeded in arresting him on Friday evening, a few hours after the Dublin officer had arrived. It appears the prisoner had only been in town two days at the time. He has been forwarded to Dublin to take his trial. it is expected that there will be further extraordinary disclosures in relation to the case, and that some very respectable persons will be implicated in it.”

The Fictitious Burial case, as it was known, came up again in June 1861, when respectable-looking solicitor’s clerk Henry William Devereux aged ‘about 32’ and the even more respectable Dublin citizen Charles Higgins, of Haddington Terrace, were put on trial for conspiracy to obtain money from the Court of Chancery, by fraudulent means.

According to Serjeant Sullivan, for the prosecution, stating the case, Mr Higgins’ wife Maria had to her credit a sum of five hundred pounds in the English Court of Chancery, in which she had a life interest, but which could not be obtained until her demise. Devereux ordered a coffin for her, on which there was a plate with her name inscribed, stating that she had departed that life in the fifty-ninth year of her age; the coffin was filled with bags of sand, was waked in a house in Bishop-street, and conveyed with all pomp and ceremonial to Glasnevin Cemetery, where it was interred.  A will was drawn up by Devereux, alleged to have been executed by the deceased lady, and upon sworn affidavits deposing her death, administration was granted by the Court of Probate.

Witnesses to the above included Mr. Eugene Sweeny, of Camden Street, coffin maker, who supplied the coffin, the price of which was never paid, Anne O’Loughlin, who provided sand for the coffin to whom Mr Higgins allegedly said that he had got a very clever attorney, named Devereux, who would get him all his wife’s money, and James Mc Kenna, who drove the coffin to Glasnevin in a hearse led by four horses with black plumes, again without receiving any fee for it.

The Superintendent of Glasnevin Cemetery gave evidence as to the ‘burial’ of Mrs Higgins and the subsequent exhumation of the coffin, which was found to contain a quantity of clay and sand.

Jane Clinton, of Haddington Terrace, said that she had rented the drawing room of her house to Mr and Mrs Higgins, who had joined her for tea and cake on Christmas Day 1858.  Mr. Clinton’s brother, George Young, a member of the constabulary force, deposed that he had likewise spent the Christmas of 1858 in the company of the couple, Mrs Higgins being hale and well despite her apparent death having occurred the previous August.

Luke Fox, acting inspector of the G Division, deposed to being present at the opening of the grave and coffin, and produced the coffin plate, inscribed ‘Mrs. Maria Higgins, aged 54 years, died 29th July 1858.’  Inspector Fox stated that when he arrested Devereux in Belfast, on the 10th May last, he said, when arrested, that he had been drawn into the matter by Higgins, and only got 14 pounds for the transaction, that it was necessary it should be done, as, if it were not done, he (Devereux) should have had to go to the poorhouse.

John Adye Curran, for Devereux, said that his client had drawn up the will but that was all. There was no evidence he knew Mrs. Higgins was alive, and he had been drawn into the whole transaction and misled by Mr Higgins and others.

In response to Mr. Curran, Charles Higgins addressed the court and said he was worried that the learned counsel by his remarks had sought to saddle himself with the fraud, to the exclusion of others who were the real perpetrators. He stated that the fraud was committed by Devereux, and by other parties interested, who had drawn him in to it.  He proceeded to name several persons but was interrupted by Mr. Justice Hayes, who said he thought it right to caution all present that they should pay no attention to statements made against the character of parties who had no opportunity of vindicating themselves.

The prisoners were convicted of obtaining money under false pretenses and sentenced to two years imprisonment. Mrs Higgins herself escaped prosecution, possibly because she was thought to have been under the undue influence of her husband; it was generally accepted that she must have known about the scheme.

An interesting side-note to the case was some reference in evidence to ‘the Yellow Doctor,’ otherwise Dr Thorn, an American, who had been living at Mr Price’s house in Aungier Street, Dublin, and who had been present at the fake wake close by.   Thorn had also signed the Death Certificate for Mrs Higgins; however, by the time of the 1861 trial, he was stated to be dead himself.  The ‘yellow’ reference appears to relate to Thorn’s skin colour; he was also described as ‘black’ in some of the news reports.  

It would be interesting to know more about this African-American physician practising in mid-19th century Dublin!

The Bells of St Bartholomew’s and Serjeant William Bennett Campion, 1882-1907

St Bartholomew’s Church, Clyde Road, Dublin, via Postcards Ireland

Emily Barney, Interior of St Bartholomew’s Church, Clyde Road, via National Gallery of Ireland.

From the Freeman’s Journal, 9 February 1924:

“UNHAPPY CHIMES

In the first days of a New Year, we find ourselves chatting of joybells. It seldom occurs to the present generation of Dubliners that our local peal of bells has figured in anything but joyous litigation, and in the old Four Courts too. The story is told in the Memoirs of William Bennett Campion, Serjeant-at-Law. Shortly after the erection of the bells of St Bartholomew’s, residents began to complain to the ecclesiastical authorities that the bells pealed at night, and played tunes every three hours, as they do still. The bells did not mind the remonstrances, and Serjeant Campion was consulted. He advised an action, and, strangely enough, immediately afterwards, chancing to drive past when the peal rang out, his horse bolted and galloped along Blackrock [now Merrion] road before it could be checked, narrowly escaping a collision at the corner of Elgin Road. The bells had won the first round.

The Bells Win

The application for an interlocutory injunction was based on six suitably strong affidavits testifying to the annoyance caused by the bells. The Master of the Rolls was against the chimes, and only granted an adjournment for three weeks on an understanding that the bells in the meantime were to stop altogether. The bells lost the second round, but at once rallied their supporters to the tune of forty affidavits firmly denying that ‘any rational person could be disturbed by the peals.’  Some even went so far as to swear that they found the ‘noises’ positive aids to slumber and were quite depressed by their temporary silence.

The bells were leading in the third round, and the memoir most pathetically adds:

‘Mr. Campion found himself completely outsworn. The judge veered round absolutely in favour of the defendants, who won in a canter.’”

A letter to the newspaper by Dr Maurice Neligan, who wanted the bells to stay.
Another letter to the newspaper, this time by the man who had taken the case against the bells, Arthur K Deane, published shortly after losing it.

A rare reference to the potential karma imperiling a barrister who has annoyed someone by the outcome of their advice or pleading! As anyone who has heard their beautiful peals can attest, the bells of St Bartholomew do indeed possess an esoteric power, and this story corroborates it. Perhaps it was fortunate for Serjeant Campion that he did not succeed in the case. 

As it was, the Serjeant, the acknowledged doyen of the 19th century Irish Equity Bar, lived happily on for many years thereafter, passing away at the age of 92 in 1907 after a knee-sprain at his summer residence in Greystones. The Belfast Telegraph of the 1940s recalls him as “a tall gaunt, well remembered figure, who worked on almost to the end in the Law Library, fond of saying in his old age: ‘my father was born 146 years ago.’” 

Brought up in a rectory in Cork, each year the Serjeant’s family visited Dublin, and here on one occasion in the 1820s or 30s the children were sent off in the care of a nursery maid who was so excited by the wonders of the shop windows and the delights of the city that for a time she forgot about her charges and young William was lost. A search, conducted for hours, proved futile until his parents, driving along one of the streets leading to Stephen’s Green, saw a chimney sweep dragging along a boy, obviously a captive. It was the missing William. The man was pursued, and his victim rescued.  According to the Daily Express of 1 February 1912, “[i]n those days it was a not uncommon occurrence for children to be stolen and sold to sweep as the latter found it difficult to find the little slaves they needed to crawl and clean the dark and filthy chimneys.  But for this chance rescue, as stated, the boy’s future might have been vastly different.”

Far from being disillusioned by the metropolis, young William subsequently returned to Dublin at the age of 15 to enter Trinity College. Later, he was to combine his professional practice with a forty-eight year lecturing gig in English Law at Queen’s University, Galway, lasting until his death. In the early years of the 1850s and 60s, his journey to Galway was initially taken in a barge that started from Portobello and took him as far as Mullingar, the remainder of the distance being accompanied by coach – in total two days; continuous travelling!

His obituary in the Freeman’s Journal of 21 September 1907 states that “he took no public part in politics himself, which probably accounts for him never having received what the lawyers call ‘promotion’ and the public call a job.”

A nice write-up of the Memoirs is to be found in the Irish Independent of 15 January 1892, which describes them as

“a brief, but far from uninteresting, record of the life of one of the ‘old school of brilliant Irish lawyers of the 19th century… William Bennett Campion was one who may not have made history, as the saying is, but at the same time it would have been a pity had he passed without the world being able to see the worth and charm of a personality hitherto known only to intimate friends. ‘Simplicity and childlikeness are the traits that one specially recalls of William Bennett Campion.’  Thus writes the author of this memoir, and certainly as one looks at the singularly open and expressive countenance as portrayed in the frontispiece, one realizes that there was a man of a ‘steadfast character which never deviated by a hair’s breadth from the lofty moral principles guiding a strenuous life that extended into the reigns of four different sovereigns’…

Records of the busy life of a successful lawyer are sometimes apt to drag, particularly when there are interspersed records of the case in which they may have happened to appear, but there are few dull pages in this short but exceedingly well-written book. It is those portions that deal with the personal traits and the character of a very charming figure that most interest centers. About the many brilliant lawyers with whom he came into contact during the last century, there is also much that is very readable. The Serjeant lived, indeed, among a race of giants in the law, and it is all the more remarkable to quote, therefore, the following advice – ‘Avoid litigation,’ he would say again and again, ‘remember it is the very last resource.’  

Perhaps the most touching pages in the whole book are those which deal with the close of an active and honourable life.  We cannot do better to finish this brief review than by repeating the closing lines of the book – ‘There amongst the quiet hills he was laid to rest, far from the busy scenes of which he once seemed such an inescapable part. But until the last of those who knew him have also passed away, he will not be forgotten.”

The Newry Reporter of 16 May 1912 records some other good stories from the Serjeant’s memoir, including a father who arranged a match for his daughter with a pig as a dowry, only to repent that the girl was pretty and might find a husband on easier terms, which was unlikely to be the case with his older daughter. ‘There’s Mary, the ould wan’ he said to the other father – they of course, were negotiating the affair – ‘She can have the pig with her and welcome.’ Mary and the bridegroom married and lived happily ever after.

Another story involved an eminent counsel who ‘accepted a brief and did not come near the court. After a while, his clerk wrote to the solicitors suggesting that the fee should be paid. ‘It had been sent, they explained, ‘pinned to the first leaf of the brief.’

Another eminent bishop was famous for his eloquence. Once, when he had been heard with enthusiasm, it turned out that he had come without a discourse and had borrowed one from the rector, who was regarded by his flock as driest of the dry. As an Equity barrister of acknowledged brilliance, Serjeant Campion would have well appreciated how a really good lawyer – or bishop – will know how to make the driest content sparkle!

Discoveries at the Four Courts Bookstalls, 1796-1886

The Four Courts, 1885, by Walter Frederick Osborne, via Irish Art Digital Archive. Can you spot the bookstalls? A zoom in may help, or alternatively there is a larger version of the image at the link above.

From the Freeman’s Journal, 19 February 1921:

TREASURE HUNTERS HAUNTS

Reminiscences of Dublin’s Old Book Stores

(By M. M. O’H.)

“The old bookshops of Dublin! What a vista of pleasant thoughts they create.  What delightful experiences of eager prowlings round their shelves, of unexpected ‘finds,’ of surprising bargains, of staunch friends acquired at trifling cost, of jostlings with ardent book-hunters – poets and prosewriters, judges, doctors, artists, musicians, a formidable fraternity bound by one of the strongest and most agreeable of bonds.

As in Paris, our old book shops and stalls have always clung to the river bank, and though Dublin may not be able to boast the secondhand treasures to be seen in the Gay City, this is no case of Eclipse first and the rest nowhere.

Forty years ago there were far more second-hand bookstalls in Dublin than to-day.  The vendors of those days, for the most part, did trade in the open air, not having as yet advanced to the dignity of shops and shutters.  The great rendezvous in the early Eighties was the Four Courts.  The moveable cases, in all stages of Decrepitude, were fixed standing on a low platform running from the main entrance on the quays each side of the gates of the eastern square.  The cases were tied to the railings with bits of rope and straps that had seen many weathers.

It was a queer, quaint show surely.  But when the Courts rose for the day, here could be seen all the legal luminaries prying into decrepid volumes and peering at the titles of the tattered tomes huddled in the cases.

A close-up on one of the bookstalls in the Osborne photograph above, complete with eager browser or perhaps the bookseller himself arranging his wares to best advantage.
The other bookstall shown in the Osborne photograph, with seller and browsers clearly visible.

Two of the chief vendors of the time were the Traynors – all elderly women – and quaint old John Campion, who used to sport a splendiferous top hat on Sundays as befitted one with his literary connections.  It was a time and a place for real, hard, well-contested bargaining, in which the lawyers had not always the best of it.

At the close of the day the cases were taken down, the counters dismantled, and books, shelves, planks and props were shouldered across the Court yard, and left in repose for the night in the basement of what was then the Exchequer and Common Pleas building. What a free and easy age it was.  And this procedure had been going on time out of mind.

Besides John Campion, the doyen of the trade, there was a Mr Traynor, who kept shop near Parliament street bridge.  But his was a more proper, secondhand store – the wares at the Four Courts being rather fifth, sixth, indeed tenth hand stock if their venerable appearance did not woefully belie them.  Traynor kept his books with scrupulous neatness, and they were sufficiently new-looking to grace any library.

Dear old Father CP Meehan, Clarence Mangan’s friend, and himself an author of many gifts, was constantly to be seen delving amidst Traynor’s treasures. Canon O’Hanlon, another eminent Irish historian, was also a frequent visitor, and I have seen the late Professor Galbraith, of Trinity, and the late Mr Justice William O’Brien, in his seedy frock coat and tattered tall hat, going the rounds of the shop together, while the judge’s detective guard stood leaning against the quay wall, doubtless making internal uncomplimentary remarks about his distinguished charge’s addiction to literature…

Hickey, of Bachelor’s Walk, next appeared on the scene, and his store was as dishevelled looking as Traynor’s was neat.  It looked as though the books had wandered into him and flung themselves down any way – tired out with their peregrinations.  One could always ‘cut’ Hickey.  He hated to see anybody leave his shop without a book, and I have known him to toss up with a customer over an odd sixpence.  His description of classics, especially to people who had not a bookish appearance, was sometimes quaint and fearsome.  He was the last of the old school.  Today the second hand book trade has gone holus-bolus to the Southern Quays, the shops are on Crampton Quay and Aston’s quay, and the barrows lined upon the whole length of Aston’s place.  There are pretty much the same kind of hunters and the same kind of jostling…”

Not just books, but poets, could be discovered at the Four Courts.  As recounted in the Limerick Chronicle of 1837, the poet Thomas Dermody owed his brief and tragic success to a chance meeting at one of its bookstalls:

“One day a gentleman, whose name has escaped us, was turning over the leaves of an old volume at a bookstand in the vicinity of the Four Courts, in Dublin, when his attention was attracted by a squalid boy in the ragged dress of a peasant, standing close beside him, devouring in silent abstraction, the contents of a mutilated Greek Homer.  The circumstance naturally excited curiosity, and produced inquiries which led to the discovery that, with the powerful impetus of genius struggling against obstacles, the wretched-looking boy had abandoned his native village, destitute of friends and meant to seek books and mankind in the metropolis.  Fortunately the gentleman was a patron of letters, and a man of great influence: he undertook to advance the fortunes of the stranger, and through his means, Dermody, whom the reader will have recognised in the ragged urchin, was introduced to the Countess of Moira, who continued to patronize him until he exhausted her patience by his irreclaimable vices…”

Thomas Dermody, the ragged country lad with extraordinary poetic gifts ‘discovered’ at one of the Four Courts bookstalls around the time of its opening in 1796. Image via Wikidata.

Another poet often seen standing before the bookstalls of the early 19th century Four Courts was James Clarence Mangan, described in a retrospective account in the Dublin Weekly Nation of 18 August 1883 as ‘spectral-looking’ in appearance, ‘sicklied over with the diaphanous pallor said to distinguish those in whom the fire of genius has burnt to rapidly even from childhood,’ and never without his ‘large malformed umbrella which, when partly covered by his cloak, might easily be mistaken for a scotch bagpipe.’

Architectural purists deplored the bookstalls in front of the courts and there were at least two critical letters written to the Dublin Daily Express in 1857, possibly by the same person, which, however, went nowhere.  In an era before the internet, television, movies and, indeed, the popular press, buying books outside the Four Courts was one of the great Dublin pastimes and no one was going to see it taken away. 

Even the most dog-eared purchases were gloated over with delight and pride. One writer in the Dublin Evening Packet and Correspondent of 1853 recounts joyously that “the other day, rambling about, I stumbled upon an odd volume of an old Magazine of my favourite ‘Ninety Eight.’  This was at a bookstall close to the Four Courts, Dublin, and I immediately became its possessory at the price of seven pence sterling.  The book-stall keeper, who was quite a Sir Chares Grandison of bibliopoles, politely offered to send my purchase home for me, but I took it to my habitat myself, and revelled in Ninety Eight half that night.”

This very early photograph of the Four Courts by William Henry Fox Talbot, via the Bodelian, shows a very extensive collection of bookstalls and advertisements in front of the central block in the mid 19th century.

A generation or so later, another bibliophile, writing in the Church of England Temperance Chronicle of 25 February 1882, enthused about the “venerable book stalls… on the sluggish banks of the Liffey – stalls where one can get old books ‘for a mere song,’ unlike some of the London would-be old bookshops, where all the old books are new, and all the new books old.  In Dublin too, whether one purchaser or not apparently makes little difference to the genially disposed proprietor of the stall.  ‘All the latest news at the court,’ witty comments on current events, deftly woven into a continuous narrative, with sparkling snatches from Tom Moore, and other native bards, why an hour at a Dublin bookstall is a delightful treat, once enjoyed, never to be forgotten.”

Another man of the cloth drawn to the irresistible attractions of Four Courts bookstalls was the aptly named Reverend Robert Herbert Story, whose ‘tendency to bibliomania, leading him to linger in all sorts of dingy and grimy corners in town,’ often became a severe trial to his friends, as ‘it was not at all a pleasant pastime… to have to loiter among the dubious purlieus of the Quays and Four Courts while he was poking around among the bookstalls and conversing with the voluble and ragged Irish gentleman who presided there.‘  The same account notes that Story did manage to acquire as a result a large collection of old and curious editions – some of them of considerable value. 

Not just buyers, but the booksellers themselves, made substantial profits out of the Four Courts trade.  One brother and sister, who kept a stall at the early 19th century Four Courts, are described by the Dublin University Magazine of 1868 as having ‘retired to the country to enjoy a competence, before old age made his approach to either, and this within the recollection of the author.’ 

Rare the barrister practising within its Hall who could hope to achieve as much!

The Barrister and the ‘Charley,’ c.1780

‘A Brace of Public Guardians,’ by Thomas Rowlandson, via the Met Museum.

From the Irish Independent, 12 November 1907, this fantastic piece on ‘The Charleys,’ or the Old Dublin Watch, by D.J.M. Quinn, with an amusing story in its last paragraph about how an eminent and somewhat officious ‘gentleman of the wig and gown’ of times past found himself magnificently outwitted by a ‘Charley’ he had sought to reprimand:

“THE CHARLEYS

OR

THE OLD DUBLIN WATCH

Could the good citizen, who, gazing today on the stalwart form of the Dublin Metropolitan policeman as he paces with measured tread the streets of the city, take a glance backwards, say to the end of the 18th century, he would behold a vastly different type of custodian of the law.  At that period there existed in Dublin a body whose official designation was ‘the Watch,’ but who were known to the gallants of the day by the sobriquet of ‘The Charleys.’  The origin of the latter appellation is said to date back to the time of the gay King Charles II, in whose reign the Watch was first instituted.

SENILE GUARDIANS OF THE PEACE

‘The Charleys,’ who were the only guardian of the streets at night (there were none during the day), were generally old and feeble men, many of whom had, in their earlier days, been the domestic servants or retainers of members of the Corporation and of their friends.  They wore long frieze coats with large capes and low-crowned hats, and were armed with a single weapon, which they used for offensive and defensive purposes alike.  This was a long pole, with a spear at one end, and at the other was a crook for the purpose of catching runaway offenders.  They also carried a rattle, which they twisted violently round, made a harsh and discordant noise like that of a gigantic corncrake; with this, when in trouble or danger, they summoned fellow watchmen to their assistance.

THEIR DUTIES.

The duties of these senile guardians of the peace were, to patrol a certain beat, to quell riots, and to arrest and bring to the watchhouse disorderly characters.  The first of these tasks they carried out fairly well, but the latter two, owing to their old age and stiff joints, was naturally a somewhat difficult and often an impossible achievement.  At times, however, they did manage to effect an arrest, but such an event was invariably brought about through sheer force of numbers.  They had also, as they walked along their beat, to call out the hour and the state of the weather, such as ‘Past 12 o’clock and a cloudy night,’ or ‘Past 2 o’clock and a stormy morning.’

FROZEN TO DEATH

For each ‘Charley’ at the end of his beat, was provided a small sentry-box, somewhat after the fashion of the shelter supplied at present to the night watchmen of the implements of the Corporation workmen.  In this, in bad weather, and often in good, he might be seen comfortably dozing away the silent watches of the night, oblivious to all the disturbance which were, at the time, the rule rather than the exception, of the hours of darkness.  But frequently his seeking after comfort proved his undoing, for it was no uncommon incident during a severe winter to find a ‘Charley’ stiff and cold in his box – literally frozen to death.  This was notably the case in the winter of 1785, when Dublin was visited with a terrible and prolonged spell of frost.  An old chronicler tells us: – ‘The Liffey was frozen over for weeks, traffic was at a standstill, and the Lord Mayor caused huge fires to be lit in the market-places to warm the poor.’  During this period no fewer than five ‘Charleys’ were found frozen to death in their boxes.

BEATEN BY RIOTERS

To show how utterly impotent were the ‘Charleys’ as preservers of the peace, the riot of 1790 between the frequenters of the coffee-houses in Dame Street will plainly show.  At midnight in December of that year, a duel was fought between two of the young Dublin bloods, each of whom asserted that the other had grossly insulted him.  During the progress of the fight, the supporters of the combatants had words, and in a short time two formidable forces were opposing each other with every conceivable weapon, naked fists included.  Above the din of the fight the loud buzzing sound of the Watch’s rattle was heard, but their advent had no effect whatever on the mob who, placing their own differences to one side, banded together to attack the common enemy, with the result that the Watch were severely mauled; their hats and cloaks were torn, their crooks and rattles taken from them, and they were chased from the courtways, where they endeavoured to secrete themselves.  The Lord Mayor, hearing of the riot, set out in his coach with the object of trying to restore order, but after a futile attempt to do so, he hurried to the Castle, where he invoked the aid of the soldiery, at whose approach the midnight disturbers of the peace made a rapid retreat.

‘Tom Getting the Best of a Charley,’ by Cruikshank, via Meisterdrucke.uk

FIRST TRINITY BOYS

The greatest plague, however, with which the unfortunate ‘Charleys’ had to deal was the Trinity boy. These young gentlemen would sally out at night from one of the theatres (where they had perchance suddenly blown out all lights and left the audience in darkness) and walk in a body up the main streets of the city.  They usually contented themselves with flattening the hats of the ‘Charleys,’ who were out of their boxes, but those who were unfortunate enough to be inside fared much worse.  Creeping noiselessly behind him, they tilted the box over, thus imprisoning the unlucky Watch as securely as if he were under lock and key in the Watchhouse.   There he remained until his muffled shouts attracted some of his fellows or until some righteous citizen gave the alarm and summoned help to liberate him from his uncomfortable and undignified position.

TROPHIES OR SALE

If there was anything more than another which increased the respect of the Trinity boys for one another, it was some trophy borne triumphantly away after one of those midnight encounters, and as a result the walls of some of their ‘dens’ in the College were lavishly ornamented with crooks, rattles, hats, and even cloaks, wrested from time to time from the unfortunate ‘Charleys’.  So great became this practice that the Lord Mayor was forced to offer a reward ‘to any person or persons who would give information leading to the arrest of anyone despoiling the Watch of the various parts of their uniform.’ Notwithstanding the reward, however, the Trinity boys always managed to escape scot free, and at one time they had the audacity to advertise, whether in joke or otherwise is not known, a sale of property ‘most suitable to persons following the occupation of watchmen.’

THE LAWYER TRICKED

A good story is told of a celebrated barrister of those days and an astute ‘Charley.’  The gentleman of the wig and gown returning to his home late at night came across a watchman asleep in his box.  Hastily shaking him up the man of opinions soundly rated him for his dereliction of duty and threatened to report him at headquarters for being asleep.  The ‘Charley,’ though recently awakened from a sound sleep, proved himself equal to the occasion, for swinging his rattle quickly round his head, so that its noise attracted a neighbouring watchman, he laid violent hands on the interpreter of his dreams.  When the other ‘Charley’ arrived on the scene, the disturbed one complained bitterly of the legal man’s bad language and disorderly conduct.  The barrister protested his innocence, but all to no purpose, and with a crook securely fastened in his coat tails, to prevent any attempt on his part to escape, he was ignominiously escorted by his captors to the Watchhouse, where he stormed and raved until morning, when he was brought before the magistrate.  Here things were somewhat cleared up, as the magistrate had a full knowledge of the prisoner’s character, and liberated him.  The ‘Charley’s purpose had, however been effected, as it is, of course, unnecessary to say how futile the barrister’s complaint of finding him asleep in his box would have been after he had himself been arrested for disorderly conduct.

D.J.M. QUINN.”

A wonderful article impossible to resist transcribing in its entirety!

Point to Ponder: Could the well-known expressions: ‘a right Charlie,’ ‘get back in your box,’ and ‘you’re out of your box’ originally have been referable to the ‘Charleys’?

A Objectionable Dress, 1909

Miss Minnie Cunningham, as depicted in the Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News, 24 May 1890.

From the Donegal Independent, 14 May 1909 and the Irish News and Belfast Morning News, 8 May 1909:

“AN ACTRESS’S SKIRTS

The jury in the Nisi Prius Court, Dublin failed to agree to a verdict in an action brought by Miss Minnie Cunningham, burlesque actress, against two companies owning theatres in Dublin and Belfast, and were discharged.

Miss Cunningham had been engaged to play the principal girl in the pantomime of ‘Jack and Jill’, which was produced last Christmas season in Belfast and subsequently in Dublin.

Her action claimed damages for alleged breach of that agreement.

The principal question in the case was whether the dresses supplied to her were too short. 

Mr Healy KC, leading counsel for the defendants, addressing Lord Chief Justice O’Brien, said that Serjeant Moriarty, who appeared for Miss Cunningham, had made the suggestion that it would be an advisable thing if the plaintiff would put on the dresses that she had objected to.

The Lord Chief Justice said he was about to make the suggestion himself.

‘I think,’ he said, ‘the jury should see those dresses on the lady.’

Serjeant Moriarty – It is a most admirable suggestion.  If the truth is on my side, it must appear in that way.

The plaintiff, her mother and Miss Scott, wardrobe mistress, retired.

The Lord Chief Justice said the question in the case was if, in fact, the dresses were indecent, irrespective of the plaintiff’s opinion and the opinion of the defendant.

Serjeant Moriarty – that is the question, I think.

Mr. Healy – That is quite right, but we will submit that, the plaintiff in the first instance having violated the contract in not attending rehearsal, her opinion on the point is of no value.  This is in our pleadings.

The Court then adjourned for half an hour.

On the court resuming, the Lord Chief Justice invited the jury to ask any questions they wished as to whether the dresses were altered or not since they were first given to the plaintiff.  It would be a terrible thing if a lady should be asked to wear an objectionable dress.  On the other hand, it would be a horrible thing, that a man who is in a public position, a stage manager, should try to get rid of a lady by forcing an objectionable dress upon her.  He would like to know if Mr. Healy saw one of the dresses on the lady.

Hr. Healy said he had.

Miss Scott, wardrobe mistress to one of the defendant companies, Warden, Limited, Belfast, stated in reply to Mr. Healy, that she had considerable expertise as she had acted for Mr. George Alexander, Miss Ada Reeve and others.

Since she saw the dress which had just been fitted on Miss Cunningham, in Belfast, it was not altered or shortened in any way.  She was quite clear about that.

The witness, in answer to Mr. Healy, said the dresses had come from the Bristol pantomime, and she had altered them to suit Miss Cunningham. 

Mr Healy -You would not be a party to any indecency in dress? Certainly not.

Witness further stated that when Miss Cunningham complained that the dresses were too short, she (the witness) said they were not and that she had made them according to her own measurement.  Miss Cunningham tried on the dresses again, and Mr. Warden came in, and he failed to see anything the matter with them.  Miss Cunningham was very cross about it, and she said she was not used to wearing small dresses and that she would not wear these.  She also said she was not used to going in rags.  Miss Cunningham was very unhappy, and she did not seem to like any of the dresses.

Miss Cunningham, from the Sketch, 4 October 1893.

‘I said,’ continued witness, ‘that I was willing to get more material, and that I would do anything for her.  I told her I would make a new little skirt for her.’

The Lord Chief Justice – What prevented that from being done?

Witness – I don’t know.  Mr. Warden was willing to alter it a little, for to make the dress long would make the character ridiculous.  Miss Cunningham wanted the dress to be three quarter length, but that would not suit a child’s part.

Witness, in further evidence, said Miss Cunningham had told her subsequently that she had given up the part.  Witness said that was a pity, as she thought the pantomime without Miss Cunningham would not be a pantomime.  She thought Miss Cunningham a very clever artiste.

The Lord Chief Justice – Whatever the result of this action will be, her reputation will remain as a very clever artiste.

Miss Cunningham’s part had been given to Miss Fink.

Some discussion took place as to the measurements of Miss Cunningham and Miss Fink, and it was suggested that they stand on the table in the court in the presence of the jury.

Serjeant Moriarty – Let them take off their boots.

Mr. Healy – I really think it is their hats that should be removed.

The Lord Chief Justice: And the jury agrees.  Let the ladies take off their hats and boots.

Miss Cunningham and Miss Fink, as depicted in the Irish Independent, 8 May 1909.

The two actresses, minus hats and boots, then stood upon the table side by side, and afterwards back-to-back.

The foreman of the jury – Miss Cunningham is undoubtedly the taller.

Mr. FW Warden was then examined by Mr. Healy, and he stated that he was the managing director of Warden, Limited, and carried on business in Belfast and Dublin. He had been in the theatre business all his life, and he had never had a case like this before.  The pantomime was visited by 74,000 people. ‘Jill’ was the part of the Princess, disguised as ‘Jill,’ and of course was a girl’s part.  Having obtained the services of Miss Dorothy Ward for the ‘boy’s’ part, he thought Miss Cunningham would suit the ‘girl’s’ part admirably.  She was an artiste of great talent and was one of the greatest favorites in Ireland.  She was well known in Belfast – her name was attractive – a household word in fact. 

The witness then detailed the circumstances under which he engaged Miss Cunningham at a salary of £30 per week.  It was usual in his company for the artistes to attend rehearsals free, but Miss Cunningham would not, and he gave way.  The plaintiff said to him ‘You have engaged Miss Dorothy Ward?’ He said ‘Yes.’  She said, ‘She is a great favorite in Belfast and Dublin.’  He replied that Miss Ward had made an enormous success in his last pantomime, and he hoped she would repeat it.  Miss Cunningham hesitated, and, after several questions had passed between them, she said, ‘I don’t think I would like to be in the same pantomime as Miss Ward.  She would outshine me.’  He said, ‘Nonsense. You are one of the greatest artistes that come to Ireland.’ 

At a subsequent interview he asked Miss Cunningham what she intended to do – was she going to carry out her threat not to appear in the pantomime.  She replied, ‘If I have to wear these dresses, I do not intend to play the part.’  He told her he would not alter them, and Miss Cunningham said, ‘I don’t want you or your d— part either.’ And she handed him the book part. 

The Lord Chief Justice – Did she use that expression?

Witness – Yes, she said ‘I don’t want you nor your d— part either. That was the exact expression she used to me on the stage of the theatre.’

Witness further stated that, luckily, Miss Fink was in Belfast at the time, and he engaged her for the part.  Her terms were £15 a week.  In his opinion the dresses in question were not in any way improper.

The witness was cross-examined at some length by Serjeant Moriarty and admitted that Miss Cunningham had on numerous times said to him that the dresses were too short, although they were very dainty and nice otherwise.

Mr. Thomas Hill, who was assistant stage manager during the production of the pantomime, was examined by Mr. Hanna, and stated that on the Wednesday, when they were at rehearsal in Belfast, Miss Cunningham went to Mr. Warden and said, ‘Can I have this song here?’ indicating a particular part of the performance.  Mr. Warden said, ‘My dear Miss Cunningham, no.’ (Laughter) She said, ‘I don’t seem as if I had got anything to do in the pantomime at all.’

Miss Cunningham, the witness went on to say, seemed to be always by herself, and not speaking to any of the other members of the company.  He further deposed to having heard Miss Cunningham say to Mr. Warden, ‘I don’t want you or your d—- part.’

At this point, Miss Cunningham was recalled and in reply to the Lord Chief Justice, denied emphatically that she ever used the words ‘your d— part.’

The next witness was Mr. John McMahon, who acted as stage manager during the pantomime, and who had come from Stockton-on-Tees to give evidence.  Questioned as to what he heard about the dresses, he stated that Mr. Warden told Miss Cunningham she could wear the Colleen’s dress in the song ‘Connemara.’

‘That’s all,’ added witness, ‘I heard about dresses.’  Being examined as to the demeanour of Miss Cunningham at the rehearsals, witness expressed the opinion that she did not put enough ‘go’ into the lines.  The part perhaps was not strong enough.

Miss Edith Fink, in reply to Mr. Hanna, for the defendant, stated that she was approached by Mr. Warden on Friday morning, the 18th, in Belfast – that was after Miss Cunningham had definitely thrown up her part – to play the part of ‘Jill’ in the pantomime in Belfast and afterwards in Dublin.

During the entire time in Belfast and Dublin, did you wear these dresses that Miss Cunningham had objected to? -Yes

The Lord Chief Justice – Is the length of the dresses the same? Exactly.

The Lord Chief Justice – Are you quite sure no alteration was made in the length of the dresses at all? Oh, no.

Mr. Hanna – Was there anything improper or indecent in the dress s worn by you?  No.

Mr. Hanna – You would not suggest that in December last you were as popular in Ireland as Miss Cunningham?  No, I had never played in Belfast before.

The Lord Chief Justice – Miss Cunningham is very popular and an excellent artiste in every way, I believe.

In cross-examination by Mr. Powell, the witness said that the dresses in question were altered for her from what they were made to fit Miss Cunningham.

Mr. George Miller, who had played the part of the ‘Widow Cobble’ in ‘Jack and Jill’ said, in his opinion, there was nothing indecent or improper in the dresses.

Mr. Chambers, also for the defendant, addressed the jury at the conclusion of the evidence, and Mr. Powell replied for the plaintiff.

The Lord Chief justice proceeded to address the jury.  Dealing with the facts of the case, he said the only question the jury had to consider was as to whether the dresses were so short as to be indecent.

The case was a singular one in some respects.  He had never heard a plaintiff so praised as Miss Cunningham was, and he was sure, as a general proposition, it was well deserved.  She seemed to have been a great success at her profession, and whatever might be the result of the present case, he thought she had got a great advertisement (Laughter) because there had been a chorus of praise for that interesting lady. He impressed the jury not to allow themselves to be run away on one side or the other, but to calmly do justice.

It was just half past four o’clock when the jury retired.

After thirty-five minutes deliberation, the jury disagreed and were discharged.”

Miss Cunningham, leaving court with her solicitor Mr Christopher Friery, again from the Irish Independent, 8 May 1909.

Miss Cunningham, who retired from the stage c.1916, is also known for being the muse of Walter Sickert, artist, suspected by some to be the infamous Jack the Ripper.  More about their interesting relationship can be found here.