often cross with each other.
Finally, Christmas put an end to it. I received a gift from Sir John and Lady Fielding of the four volumes of Sir Edward Coke’s Institutes of the Law of England. This was to be the beginning of my education in the law. I started at once to read through it, using those hours which I had previously devoted to Annie’s lessons. When she protested, I reminded her rather priggishly that I, too, had an ambition, and that mine was as dear to me as hers to her. We argued. She sulked. She attempted to push forward on her own, but would come often to me to ascertain pronunciation or meaning. I would then often become short with her, and again she would sulk and sometimes we would quarrel. So is it often with brother and sister in proper families. So was it early in the year 1771 with our own.
Sir John and Lady Fielding could not but notice that some ill feeling had arisen between Annie and me. He, being the just and gentle ruler I have named him, thought to cheer us and bring peace between us by offering a treat. As it happened, Shakespeare was unavailable (and since he was indirectly the cause of our falling-out, might only have complicated the matter between us), and so Sir John looked elsewhere for our diversion. He turned his attention to the Crown and Anchor. It was then, as it is now, a tavern of great dimension in the Strand; in those days it was the site of the Sunday concerts sponsored by the Academy of Ancient Music under the direct patronage of Lord Laningham. If Shakespeare would not do for us, surely a dose of Handel would serve as well. Annie, who had lately turned snappish and glum, would surely be cheered by the mighty choral strains of that late, great master. We knew her, after all, to be the best musician of us all; as a singer of ballads and old songs learned in Covent Garden she knew no peer.
And so it was set: we would be off to the Crown and Anchor for an early dinner with Mr. Donnelly and Mr. Goldsmith, to be followed by a musical entertainment the equal of any in London. It would be an evening to remember, Sir John assured us. And so it was, reader, though not for reasons that any one of us could have foreseen.
Because of the limited capacity of the Bow Street Court’s strong room, it was necessary for Sir John, as magistrate, to hold a short session on Sunday. Saturday night brought him always a rich harvest of drunks. He dealt with them swiftly so that he and Mr. Marsden, his court clerk, might be on their way to enjoy the rest of the day. This usually meant that he dealt with them leniently. There were sometimes complications, of course. And as I remember, one such arose whilst I sat taking my ease on one of the back benches of the Bow Street Court, listening as the magistrate heard one case after another of public drunkenness. Having had part of the night and all the morning to return to themselves, they were now sober and repentant, though they appeared much the worse for their experience. The last of them, tall and thin and dressed in brown linsey-woolsey —but with a plaid waistcoat in the Scottish style —could not pay the fine often shillings which Sir John imposed, for as he explained, he’d “drunk up” all he had in his pocket. His name he gave as Thomas Roundtree, and he claimed to be gainfully employed as a journeyman carpenter, one of a gang working on improvements to one of the great houses on Bloomsbury Square.
“Which great house is that?” asked Sir John.
“It’s that of the Lord Chief Justice,” said Mr. Roundtree.
“And what sort of improvements are you making?”
“We’re puttin’ in a new water closet, sir, makin’ it nice lor the ladies of the house, we are. I’m a good worker, sir, I am truly”
” Ah, well, I suppose in that case you would prefer not to spend thirty days in the Fleet Prison in lieu of fine. That is customary in this court.”
“No sir, indeed I would not, for I am a workingman and would have no job of work
Finally, Christmas put an end to it. I received a gift from Sir John and Lady Fielding of the four volumes of Sir Edward Coke’s Institutes of the Law of England. This was to be the beginning of my education in the law. I started at once to read through it, using those hours which I had previously devoted to Annie’s lessons. When she protested, I reminded her rather priggishly that I, too, had an ambition, and that mine was as dear to me as hers to her. We argued. She sulked. She attempted to push forward on her own, but would come often to me to ascertain pronunciation or meaning. I would then often become short with her, and again she would sulk and sometimes we would quarrel. So is it often with brother and sister in proper families. So was it early in the year 1771 with our own.
Sir John and Lady Fielding could not but notice that some ill feeling had arisen between Annie and me. He, being the just and gentle ruler I have named him, thought to cheer us and bring peace between us by offering a treat. As it happened, Shakespeare was unavailable (and since he was indirectly the cause of our falling-out, might only have complicated the matter between us), and so Sir John looked elsewhere for our diversion. He turned his attention to the Crown and Anchor. It was then, as it is now, a tavern of great dimension in the Strand; in those days it was the site of the Sunday concerts sponsored by the Academy of Ancient Music under the direct patronage of Lord Laningham. If Shakespeare would not do for us, surely a dose of Handel would serve as well. Annie, who had lately turned snappish and glum, would surely be cheered by the mighty choral strains of that late, great master. We knew her, after all, to be the best musician of us all; as a singer of ballads and old songs learned in Covent Garden she knew no peer.
And so it was set: we would be off to the Crown and Anchor for an early dinner with Mr. Donnelly and Mr. Goldsmith, to be followed by a musical entertainment the equal of any in London. It would be an evening to remember, Sir John assured us. And so it was, reader, though not for reasons that any one of us could have foreseen.
Because of the limited capacity of the Bow Street Court’s strong room, it was necessary for Sir John, as magistrate, to hold a short session on Sunday. Saturday night brought him always a rich harvest of drunks. He dealt with them swiftly so that he and Mr. Marsden, his court clerk, might be on their way to enjoy the rest of the day. This usually meant that he dealt with them leniently. There were sometimes complications, of course. And as I remember, one such arose whilst I sat taking my ease on one of the back benches of the Bow Street Court, listening as the magistrate heard one case after another of public drunkenness. Having had part of the night and all the morning to return to themselves, they were now sober and repentant, though they appeared much the worse for their experience. The last of them, tall and thin and dressed in brown linsey-woolsey —but with a plaid waistcoat in the Scottish style —could not pay the fine often shillings which Sir John imposed, for as he explained, he’d “drunk up” all he had in his pocket. His name he gave as Thomas Roundtree, and he claimed to be gainfully employed as a journeyman carpenter, one of a gang working on improvements to one of the great houses on Bloomsbury Square.
“Which great house is that?” asked Sir John.
“It’s that of the Lord Chief Justice,” said Mr. Roundtree.
“And what sort of improvements are you making?”
“We’re puttin’ in a new water closet, sir, makin’ it nice lor the ladies of the house, we are. I’m a good worker, sir, I am truly”
” Ah, well, I suppose in that case you would prefer not to spend thirty days in the Fleet Prison in lieu of fine. That is customary in this court.”
“No sir, indeed I would not, for I am a workingman and would have no job of work
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