remember was Frank Sheridan, a descendant of Richard Brinsley, and inheriting much of his genius. He was an admirable raconteur, and stretched at full length on a sofa, with a cigar in his mouth and a glass of soda-and-brandy by his side, he could go on for hours with his droll narratives, bursting out at intervals into a song, generally sentimental, sung with such melody and pathos that the tears came into one's eyes. He was a prodigious favourite with Lord Normanby on account of these qualities, and he got the governorship of an island somewhere in the Pacific, where he died.

Another was Charles Henry, a man of fortune in those days; light, agile, and active, the first terpsichorean ornament of that gay court. He too made a brilliant marriage, and is still one of the most agreeable men whom it would be possible to meet with, full of bonhomie and abounding in pleasant anecdote. I met him not long since at a watering-place. Alas, quantum mutatus ab illo Hectore!' My friend had grown stout, his hair was white, the end of his nose was red. I dined with. him, and as I sipped leisurely through a bottle of his old port, and listened to his stories, the past rose up before me, and I saw him as he used to beyoung, bright, and gay, covered with gold lace and fur, with a plume of cock's feathers in his hat-the handsomest man, the best waltzer, the most fearless rider, the pleasantest companion of those days. I wonder if he observed the same change in me. Quien sabe? perhaps he did.

I cannot remember at this moment any more of the notabilities of those days. Morpeth, afterwards Earl of Carlisle, was Secretary; and Mr. Drummond, who made himself famous by his apothegm, Property has its duties as well as its rights,' was among them; but the whole pageant, glittering, gorgeous, evanescent, and gay, has faded from my memory now, and I cannot hope ever to mingle in such company again. I only wish I had been old enough then to have more thoroughly appreciated it.

I have often thought, that instead of Home Rule, which would do Ireland no manner of good, a communion of interests closer than that which at present exists would be for the benefit of both Ireland and England. Suppose, for instance, we were periodically to exchange our officials, and some of the English judges were selected to travel the Irish circuits, and a few of the Irish judges allowed to come over here, Westminster Hall being at the same time thrown open to practitioners from the sister isle. I think we should understand each other all the better if the rolling thunder of Whiteside's eloquence could have been heard in the English Court of Queen's Bench. How the judges would have pricked up their ears and the bar roused itself from the sleepy air of indifference which is its prevailing atmosphere! If one or two of the Irish judges whom I remember well could have been transplanted to the English bench

for a few terms, how curiously the bar would have regarded them! I doubt if Lord Norbury's jokes or Chief Justice Doherty's jeux de mots would have been properly appreciated. And there was one judge in particular whom I should have liked to see submitted to the critical approbation of the English practitioners. This was Mr. Justice Burton. He was like Tennyson's many-wintered crow, no one could tell his age. I doubt if he knew it himself. The visitor to the Court of Queen's Bench might have seen in one corner a little old shrivelled man, on whose rusty wig seemed settled the accumulated powder of many lustres. In hue his face resembled the title-deeds, dear reader, of your grandfather's estates, that is to say if you had a grandfather among the landed gentry; his eyes were generally half closed; his skin was puckered by a thousand wrinkles, and there was always a drop of moisture like dew on the end of his very red nose. His knowledge of law was supposed to be profound; tradition said he had been picked up in this country by John Philpot Curran, and brought over to Ireland to act as his devil that is to say, to note his briefs, &c. He crept into great practice, and eventually climbed up to a seat on the Queen's Bench, where he remained for many and many a year. He was never seen in general society, in any public place, or walking about the streets like an ordinary mortal. His movements were full of mystery; as the clock struck eleven every morning he could be observed seated in his usual corner, seldom interchanging a syllable with his brother judges or speaking, except to interrupt the flow of a learned argument by some pertinent remark which showed that notwithstanding his sleepy appearance he was vigilantly attending to what was going

on.

He was the judge usually selected to dispose of what were termed motions of course,' of which there was a fertile crop at the Irish bar. These were generally intrusted to the junior counsel, and the old judge, being a kind-hearted person, would bestow as much attention upon this class of business as if he were listening to the most acute and learned argument. Something like the following frequently occurred; it happened once to the present writer.

Scene, the Court of Queen's Bench. Mr. Justice Burton solus in the corner; immediately below him sits Costello, the jolly-looking fat registrar of the court. Junior counsel rising with a paper in his hand, his voice tremulous at hearing its own sound in that place for perhaps the first time, My lord, in the case in which John Macnamara is plaintiff and Thomas O'Toole defendant, I have humbly to apply to your lordship for liberty to compute-’

Eh, what?' says the judge, winking with both his eyes and leaning forward in an attitude of strained attention; eh, what? Can't hear you, sir. Pray speak a little louder.'

'M'lud, in the case in which Thomas O'Toole is plaintiff' Hereupon the judge leans down to the registrar. Mr. Cos

tello, pray what is this young gentleman's name? Tell him he must raise his voice, and explain to me distinctly the nature of his application.'

Mr. Costello, always glad to have a joke at the expense of a junior barrister, and put him out of countenance if he can, says, The judge wishes to know your name, if you playse; he's never seen you before!'

'My name is Bullfinch; there is my card. I am applying to his lordship in the case of So-and-so for an order to compute.' A what?' shouts Costello.

'Be japers,' interposes a friendly solicitor standing near, it's an order to tot the Counsellor wants.'

Mr. Costello Why the divil can't he say so?'

'O, that's it, is it?' says Mr. Justice Burton, nodding his head and smiling benignantly; and pray how much is due to your client?' Fifty-two pounds seventeen and twopence, principal, interest, and costs, my lord.'

'Take your order, Mr. Bullfinch; in my time we used to call it an order to tot.'

The Counsellor is only a beginner, and will know better another time,' suggests Mr. Patrick Costello sotto voce, but loud enough to be heard by every one in court.

Then Mr. Justice Burton would close his eyes and apparently go to sleep, until disturbed by some other junior counsel with some similar application; and in this way he listened and dozed alternately all through the day, until four o'clock came, when he went home to dinner at his house in Stephen's-green, where he dozed and sipped port-wine for the remainder of the evening. In this way he spent the evening of his life tranquilly. When he was about one hundred years of age or so, he was found asleep by his library fire with a volume of Vesey junior in his hand, and when they tried to Iwake him it was found that Mr. Justice Burton was dead. He was unmarried. I never heard that he had any relations, and what became of his fortune I never knew.