Nobody, however, molested Jack in his seat, and, I believe, had it been one of the seats for the county there would have been no petition to disturb him.  He would have been as faithful a member as the immortal Toby, M.P. for Barkshire, of Mr. Punch, to whom ever my best regards.  Jack considered himself entitled to precedence wherever he went, and maintained it.  He was a famous judge of upholstery, and the softest chair or sofa, hearthrug or divan, was instantly appropriated.  This sometimes made the local dignitaries sit up a little.  They might be accustomed to the dignity of one of her Majesty’s Judges, but the impudence of her Majesty’s “Jack”—­for so he deemed himself on circuit—­was a little beyond their aldermanic natures.

I was much and agreeably surprised to find that the Press everywhere sympathized with my loss of Jack, and many an extract I made containing their very kind remarks.  My room might have been one of Romeike’s cutting-rooms.  Here is one I will give as a sample.  I am sorry I cannot positively state the name of the journal, but I am almost sure it is from the Daily Telegraph.

“An item of judicial intelligence, which may not everywhere be duly appreciated, is the death of Mr. Justice Hawkins’s fox terrier Jack.  Jack has been his lordship’s most constant friend for many years.  With some masters such a useful dog as he was would have found going on circuit a bore; but with Sir Henry Hawkins, who knows what kind of life suits a dog, and likes to see that he enjoys it, going on circuit was a career of adventure.  The Judge was always out betimes to give Jack a long morning walk, and when his duties took him to small county towns he often rose with the farmers for no other purpose.”

Here is another paragraph; and I should like to be able to give the writer’s name, for it is very pleasant at all times to find expression of true love for animals, whose devotion and faithfulness to man endear them to us:—­

“Sir Henry Hawkins has my sincere sympathy in his great bereavement.  Jack, the famous fox terrier who accompanied his master everywhere, is dead.  Innumerable are the things told of Jack’s devotion to Sir Henry, and of Sir Henry’s devotion to Jack.  I first made their acquaintance at Worcester Railway Station some years ago, when I saw Jack marching solemnly in the procession of officials who had come with wands and staves and javelins to receive Sir Henry Hawkins at the opening of the Assizes.  Jack was on one or two special occasions, I believe, accommodated with a seat on the Bench; and at Maidstone, when the lodgings caught fire, Sir Henry rushed back at the risk of his life to save his faithful little dog.”

These are small memories, perhaps, but to me more dear than the praises too often unworthily bestowed on actions unworthy to be recorded.

But here I pause.  Jack rests in his little grave in Hyde Park, and I sometimes go and look on the spot where he lies.  Many and many an affectionate letter was written to me bewailing the loss of our little friend.