Baron Monckton—Judge Boyd—Judge Henn—Legal blunder of a judge, and
Curran’s bon-mot thereon—Baron Power—His suicide—Crosby Morgal’s
spirit of emulation—Judge William Johnson—Curious anecdote between him
and the author—Judge Kelly—His character and bon-mots—Lord
Kilwarden—His character—Murder of him and his nephew the Rev. Mr.
Wolfe—Mr. Emmet executed—Memoir of that person—Judge Robert
Johnson—Arrested in Ireland, and tried in London, for a libel written
on Lord Redesdale in Ireland and published by Cobbett—Doubts of the
legality of his lordship’s trial—He is found guilty.
Before, and for some time after, I was called to the bar, the bench was
in several instances very curiously manned as to judges. The uniform
custom had previously been to send over these dignitaries from
England;—partly with a view to protect the property of absentees,[78]
and partly from political considerations: and the individuals thus sent
appeared as if generally selected because they were good for nothing
else. In truth, as the judges of Ireland were not made independent of
the crown until 1784, no English barrister who could earn his bread at
home would accept a precarious office in a strange country, and on a
paltry salary. Such Irishmen, also, as were in those days constituted
puisne judges, were of the inferior class of _practising_ barristers, on
account of the last-mentioned circumstance.
-----
Footnote 78:
The interest of money in England was only _five_ per cent; in Ireland,
_six_. Moneyed Englishmen, therefore, lent out large sums on Irish
mortgages. Lord Mansfield had vested much money in this way; and as
Irish mortgages, from the confused state of Irish entails at that
time, were generally considered rather _ticklish_ securities, the
Irish judges were sent over from England to _take care_ of that
matter, and were _removable at pleasure_, for the same reason.
-----
A vulgar idea, most ridiculous in its nature, formerly prevailed in
Ireland, of the _infallibility_ of _judges_.—It existed long before and
at an early period of my observations, and went so far even as to
conceive that an ignorant barrister, whose opinion nobody probably would
ask, or, if obtained, nobody would act upon—should he, by interest,
subserviency, or other fortuitous circumstances, be placed on the
judicial bench, immediately changed his character—all the books in his
library pouring their information into his head! The great seal and the
king’s patent were held to saturate his brain in half an hour with all
that wisdom and learning which he had in vain been trying to get even a
peep at during the former portion of his life; and the mere dicta of the
metamorphosed barrister were set down, by reporters, as the infallible
(but theretofore inexplicable) law of the land; and, as such, handed
round to other judges under the appellation of precedents, entitled to
all possible weight and authority in judicial decisions.
This old doctrine of the infallibility of dicta and precedents, (which
presented, in fact, an accumulation of enigmas and contradictions,) was
at one time carried to great lengths;—I believe partly from a plausible
system of making legal decisions _uniform_, whether right or wrong; and
perhaps partly from the inability of the adopters to make any better
sort of precedent themselves. A complaisance so ridiculous has of late
been much relaxed.[79]
-----
Footnote 79:
A judge who feels himself bound by old precedents in the teeth of his
own convictions, is much to be pitied. If he decides according to the
said _precedents_, he does wrong with his eyes open. If he decides
_against_ them, he will be considered as deciding against the _settled
law of the land_, and the _Courts of Error_ quickly set the ancient
mistake on its legs again.
-----
To show the gradual and great improvement of the Irish bench, and the
rapid advance as regards the administration of justice in the law courts
of that country, I will subjoin a few illustrative anecdotes.
Baron Monckton, of the Exchequer (an importation from England), was said
to understand _black_ letter and _red_ wine better than any who had
preceded him in that situation. At all events, being often _vino
deditus_, he on such occasions described the segment of a circle in
making his way to the seat of justice! This learned baron was longer on
the bench than any other I recollect to have heard of; he resided in
Butter-lane, and was held as a _precedent_.
I have in later days enjoyed the intimacy of a very clever well-informed
man, and a sound lawyer, who (like the baron) rather indulged in the
juice of the grape, and whom Lord Clare had made a judge for some
services rendered to himself. The newspapers eulogised this gentleman
very much for his singular _tender-heartedness_, saying, “So great was
the humanity of Judge Boyd, that when he was passing sentence of death
upon any unfortunate criminal, it was observable that his lordship
seldom failed to have ‘_a drop_ in his eye!’” He was, in fact, a humane
though firm-minded man, and understood his trade well. He was tall and
strong, and his face exactly resembled a _scarlet pincushion_ well
_studded_! He was considered to be a slave to the _tender_ passion, and
was called (by no means _mal-apropos_) “_Love in a blaze_!”
I remember a barrister being raised to the Irish bench, who had been
previously well known by the ingenious surname of Counsellor
_Necessity_,—because “necessitas _non legem_ habet:” and certainly, to
do him justice, he was not unworthy of the cognomen.
Old Judge Henn (a very excellent private character) was dreadfully
puzzled on circuit, about 1789, by two pertinacious young barristers
(arguing a civil bill upon some trifling subject) repeatedly haranguing
the court, and each most positively laying down the “law of the case” in
_direct_ opposition to his adversary’s statement thereupon. The judge
listened with great attention until both were tired of stating the law
and contradicting each other, when they unanimously requested his
lordship to _decide_ the point.
“How, gentlemen,” said Judge Henn, “_can_ I settle it between
you?—_You_, sir, positively say the law is _one way_, and _you_ (turning
to the opposite party) as unequivocally affirm that it is the other way.
I wish to God, Billy Harrison, (to his registrar, who sat underneath,) I
knew what the law _really_ was!”
“My lord,” replied Billy Harrison most sententiously, (rising at the
same moment, and casting a despairing glance toward the bench,) “if _I_
knew what the law was, I protest to God I would tell your lordship with
a great deal of pleasure!”
“Then we’ll _save the point_, Billy Harrison!” exclaimed the
judge.—“_What_ point, my lord?” said Billy.
A more modern justice of the Irish King’s Bench, in giving his _dictum_
on a certain will case, absolutely said, “he thought it very clear that
the _testator_ intended to keep a _life interest_ in the estate to
_himself_!” The bar did not laugh outright; but Curran soon rendered
that consequence inevitable. “Very true, my lord,” said he, “very true!
_testators_ generally do secure _life_ interests to themselves. But, in
this case, I rather think your lordship takes the _will_ for the
_deed_!”
The chief judges were, however, generally accomplished men, of
first-rate talent as lawyers; and the chancellors, with few exceptions,
had been learned, able, and dignified; qualities, which Lord Lifford was
the last to unite in an eminent degree.
On the subject of judges, I cannot omit a few anecdotes of a very
different description from the foregoing, totally extra-judicial, which
occurred in my own time.
Baron Power was considered an excellent lawyer, and was altogether one
of the most curious characters I have met in the profession.—He was a
morose, fat fellow, affecting to be genteel: he was very learned, very
rich, and very ostentatious. Unfortunately for himself, Baron Power held
the lucrative office of usher of the Court of Chancery, which was
principally remunerated by fees on monies lodged in that court. Lord
Clare (then chancellor) hated and teazed him, because Power was arrogant
himself, and never would succumb to the arrogance of Fitzgibbon, to whom
in law he was superior. The chancellor had a certain control over the
usher; at least he had a sort of license for abusing him by inuendo, as
an officer of the court, and most unremittingly did he exercise that
license. Baron Power had a large private fortune, and always acted in
office strictly according to the custom of his predecessors; but was
attacked so virulently and pertinaciously by Lord Clare, that having no
redress, it made a deep impression, first on his pride, then on his
mind, and at length on his intellect. Lord Clare followed up his blow,
as was common with him: he made daily attacks on the baron, who chose
rather to break than bend; and who, unable longer to stand this
persecution, determined on a prank of all others the most agreeable to
his adversary!—The baron walked quietly down early one fine morning to
the south wall, which runs into the sea, about two miles from Dublin;
there he very deliberately filled his coat-pockets with pebbles; and
having accomplished that business, as deliberately walked into the
ocean, which received him cordially, but did not retain him long, his
body being thrown ashore with great contempt by the very next tide. His
estates devolved upon his nephews, two of the most respectable men of
their country; and the lord chancellor enjoyed the double gratification
of destroying a baron, and recommending a more submissive usher in his
place; and when all parties were out of mourning, got his own son, the
Honourable Hubert Fitzgibbon (a very nice child at that time), into the
patent. They might have blamed Lord Clare for drowning the baron; but
there is no law human or divine which forbids a man from providing for
his own offspring when he has the opportunity. So, as such or such an
office must exist, if the business is duly performed, it is nothing to
the nation _who_ executes it.
Had the matter ended thus, it might not have been so very remarkable;
but the _precedent_ was too respectable and inviting not to be followed
by persons who had any particular reasons for desiring strangulation; as
a judge drowning himself gave the thing a sort of dignified legal
_éclat_! It so happened, that a Mr. Crosby Morgal, then an attorney
residing in Dublin, (of large dimensions, and with shin bones curved
like the segment of a rainbow,) had, for good and sufficient reasons,
long appeared rather dissatisfied with himself and other people. But as
attorneys were considered much more likely to induce their neighbours to
cut their throats than to execute that office upon themselves, nobody
ever suspected Morgal of any intention to shorten his days in a
voluntary manner.
However, it appeared that the signal success of Baron Power had excited
in the attorney a great ambition to get rid of his sensibilities by a
similar exploit.—In compliance with such his impression, he adopted the
very same preliminaries as the baron had done; walked off by the very
same road, to the very same spot; and, having had the advantage of
knowing, from the coroner’s inquest, that the baron had put pebbles into
his pocket with good effect, adopted likewise this _judicial precedent_,
and committed himself in due form into the hands of Father Neptune, who
took equal care of him as he had done of the baron; and, after having
suffocated him so completely as to defy the exertions of the Humane
Society, sent his body floating ashore, to the full as bloated and
buoyant as Baron Power’s had been. This gentleman was father to a lady
of fortune and some rank, still living, and whose first husband met a
much more disagreeable _finale_, being shot _against_ his will by his
brother candidate at an election. She has herself, however, been
singularly fortunate throughout life.
As a sequel to this little anecdote of Crosby Morgal, it is worth
observing, that, though I do not recollect any of the _attorneys_
immediately following his example, four or five of his _clients_ very
shortly after started from this world of their own accord, to try, as
people then said, if they could any way overtake Crosby, who had left
them no conveniences for staying long behind him.[80]
-----
Footnote 80:
The Irish attorneys had, I believe, then pretty much the same
reputation and popularity enjoyed by their tribe throughout the United
Kingdom. They have now, in each country, wisely changed their
designation into that of _solicitors_. I recollect one anecdote, which
will, I think, apply pretty well to the major part of that celebrated
profession. Some years ago, a suitor in the Court of Exchequer
complained in person to the chief baron, that he was quite _ruinated_,
and could go on no further! “Then,” said Lord Yelverton, “you had
better leave the matter to be decided by reference.”—“To be sure I
will, my lord,” said the plaintiff: “I’ve been now at law _thirteen_
years, and can’t get on at all! I’m willing, please your lordship, to
leave it all either to one _honest man_ or two _attorneys_, whichever
your lordship pleases.”—“You had better _toss up_, head or harp, for
that,” said Lord Yelverton, laughing. Two attorneys were however
appointed, and, in less than a _year_, reported that “they could not
agree:” both parties then declared, they would leave the matter to a
very honest farmer, a neighbour of theirs. They did so, and, in about
a _week_, came hand-in-hand to the court, thanked his lordship, and
told him their neighbour had settled the whole affair square and
straight to their entire satisfaction! Lord Yelverton used to tell the
anecdote with great glee.
-----
Mr. William Johnson (the present Judge Johnson) was one of my brother
barristers whose smiles were not always agreeable to me when we went
circuits together. I liked his frowns extremely, because _they_ were
_very sincere_, extremely picturesque, and never niggardly. But as to
smiles, my own had the trouble of mounting up from my heart; he, more
wise, had an assortment ready prepared for the use of his _policy_: in
this particular, therefore, we were not matched.
When my friend William was angry, I was sure he was in earnest, and that
it would not be over too soon: I therefore considered it as a proper,
steady sort of concern. But his paroxysms of good-humour were
occasionally awkward; and I have frequently begged of him to cheer up
our society by getting into a little passion; nay, I have sometimes
taken the liberty of putting him into a slight one myself, to make him
more _agreeable_.
Be it remembered, however, that this was before Mr. William Johnson
became a _judge_; I cannot say what effect an inoculation by Lord
Norbury’s merry temperament may have had upon his constitution. But I
have frequently told him, when I saw him drooping into _placidity_ (he
is not singular on that point), that either physic or wrangling was
indispensable, to keep the bile from stagnation; and I hope my old chum
has not suffered himself to sink into a morbid state of mental
tranquillity.
I always promised to give William Johnson a page or two in my “Historic
Memoirs of Ireland:” some of his friends suggested that he would be more
appropriately introduced into my “Fragments.” As we are now both rather
stricken in years, I will adopt their suggestion without abandoning my
own purpose, and, with the best wishes for his celebrity, bequeath him
in _each_ work to posterity, to make what use they please of, as they
certainly will of both of us, when we cannot help ourselves.
Though divers curious and memorable anecdotes occur to me of my said
friend, Judge William Johnson, I do not conceive that any of them can be
very interesting _out of court_, particularly after he becomes defunct,
which nature has certainly set down as a “motion of course.” One or two,
however, which connect themselves with my egotistical feelings shall not
be omitted. At the same time, I assure him, that I by no means approve
of our late brother Daly’s method of reasoning, who, on speaking rather
indecorously of Mr. William Johnson, in his absence, at the bar-mess on
circuit, was tartly and very properly asked by the present Mr. Justice
Jebb, “Why he would say such things of Mr. Johnson behind his
_back_?”—“Because,” replied Mr. Daly, “I would not _hurt his feelings_
by saying them to his _face_!”
I often reflect on a singular circumstance which occurred between my
friend Johnson and me, as proving the incalculability of what is called
in the world “luck,” which, in my mind, cannot have a better definition
than “The _state-lottery_ of _nature_.” My friend is the son of a
respectable apothecary, formerly of Fishamble-street, Dublin, and was
called to the bar some few years before me; but the world being blind as
to our respective merits, I got immediately into considerable business,
and he, though a much steadier and wiser man, and a much cleverer
lawyer, got none at all.—Prosperity, in short, was beginning fairly to
_deluge_ me; when suddenly I fell ill of a violent fever on circuit,
which nearly ended my career. Under these circumstances, Johnson acted
by me in a kind and friendly manner, and insisted on remaining with me,
which however I would not allow; but I never forgot the proffered
kindness, and determined, if ever it came within my power, to repay this
act of civility (though _then_ involving no great pecuniary sacrifice).
I was restored to health, and my career of good fortune started afresh,
whilst Johnson had still no better luck. He remained assiduous,
friendly, and good-natured to me; but at the same time he drooped, and
told me at Wexford, in a state of despondency, that he was determined to
quit the bar and go into orders. I endeavoured to dissuade him from
this, because I had a presentiment that he would eventually succeed; and
I fairly owned to him that I doubted much if he were _mild_ enough for a
parson, though quite _hot_ enough for a barrister.
About two years after, I was appointed king’s counsel.—My stuff gown had
been, so far, the most fortunate one of our profession, and Johnson’s
the least so. I advised him jocosely to get a new gown; and shortly
after, in the whim of the moment, fancying there might be some seeds of
good luck sticking to the folds of my old stuff after I had quitted it
for a silken robe, I despatched a humorous note to Johnson, together
with the stuff gown, as a mark of my gratitude for his attentions,
begging he would accept it from a friend and well-wisher, and try if
wearing it would be of equal service to him as to me.
He received my jocose gift very pleasantly, and in good part; and,
laughing at my conceit, in the same spirit of whim put on the gown. But,
whatever may become of _prepossessions_, certain it is that from that
day Johnson prospered; his business gradually grew greater and greater;
and, in proportion as it increased, he became what they call in Ireland,
_high enough_ to every body but the attorneys. No doubt he was well able
to do their business; but they never seemed to find it out till he had
got the _lucky gown_ on his back, though he had a “brother, Tom,” of
that cast, a good _bringer_, too.
Thus my friend William Johnson trudged ably on through thick and thin,
but minding his _stepping stone_, till he got to the Parliament House,
into which Lord Castlereagh stuffed him (as he said himself), “to put an
_end to it_.” However, he kept a clear look-out, and now sits in the
place his elder brother Judge Robert had occupied, who was rather
singularly _un_judged for having _Cobbettised_ Lord Redesdale, as will
hereafter appear. I have always considered that Judge Robert Johnson was
treated cruelly and illegally: the precedent has never been followed,
and I hope never will.
Old Mr. Johnson, the father of these two gentlemen, when upward of
sixty, procured a diploma as physician—to make the family _genteeler_.
He was a decent, orderly, good kind of apothecary, and a very
respectable, though somewhat ostentatious doctor; and, above all, an
orthodox, hard-praying Protestant. I was much amused one day after
dinner at Mr. Hobson’s, at Bushy, near Dublin, where the doctor, Curran,
myself, and many others were in company. The doctor delighted in telling
of the successes of his sons, Bob, Bill, Gam, and Tom the attorney, as
he termed them: he was fond of attributing Bob’s advancement rather to
the goodness of God than the Marquess of Downshire; and observed, most
parentally, that he had brought up his boys, from their very childhood,
with “the fear of God always before their eyes.”—“Ah! ’twas a fortunate
circumstance indeed, doctor,” said Curran; “very fortunate indeed, that
you _frightened_ them so early!”
One of the most honourable and humane judges I ever saw upon the Irish
bench was the late Justice Kelly, of the Common Pleas. He acquired
professionally a very large fortune, and died at a great age, beloved
and regretted by every being who had known him. It was he who tried the
cause of Lady M—; and never did I see him chuckle with pleasure and a
proper sense of gallantry more than he did at the verdict in that case.
He was no common man. Numerous anecdotes have been told of him: many
singular ones I myself witnessed; but none which did not do credit to
some just or gentlemanly feeling. He had practised several years in the
West Indies; and studying at the Temple on his return, was in due season
admitted to the Irish bar, to the head of which he rose with universal
approbation.
At the time the Irish insisted on a declaration of their independence
Judge Kelly had attained the high dignity of prime sergeant; a law
office not known in England. In Ireland the prime sergeant was at the
head of his profession, having precedence of the attorney and
solicitor-general. On the government first opposing the declaration of
Irish independence Kelly, from his place in Parliament, declared “he
should consider it rather a disgrace than an honour to wear the prime
sergeant’s gown under a ministry which resisted the rights of his
country!” and immediately sent in his resignation, and retired to the
rank of a private barrister.
Among such a people, and in consequence of such conduct, it is useless
to attempt describing his popularity. Nobody was satisfied who had not
Tom Kelly for his advocate in the courts: no suitor was content who had
not Tom Kelly’s opinion as to title: all purchasers of property must
have Tom Kelly’s sanction for their speculations. In a word, he became
both an oracle and a fortune-teller: his court-bag grew too heavy for
his strength; but he got through every cause gallantly and cheerfully:
he was always prepared; his perseverance never yielded; his arguments
seldom failed; his spirits never flagged. This enviable old man lived
splendidly, yet saved a large fortune. At length, it was found so
unpopular to leave him at the bar, that he was first appointed
solicitor-general, and then mounted on the bench of the Common Pleas,
where having sat many years, he retired to his beautiful country
residence, near Stradbally, Queen’s County, and lived as a country
gentleman in hospitable magnificence. He married three of his daughters
well, pursued his field-sports to his death, and departed this world to
the unanimous regret of all who knew him.
Judge Kelly’s only son, while his father yet lived, turned methodist;
got infatuated among devotees and old women; became a sectarian
preacher! and has by these means contrived, as thoroughly as the
possession of a large fortune will permit him, to bury once more the
family name in that obscurity whence his father had raised it. After
Judge Kelly had assumed the bench the public began to find out that his
legal knowledge had been overrated! his opinions were overruled—his
advice thought scarce worth having—his deductions esteemed illogical:—in
short, he lost altogether the character of an infallible lawyer; but had
the happiness of thinking he had confirmed his reputation for honour,
justice, and integrity. He used to say, laughingly, “So they find out
now that I am not a very stanch lawyer. I am heartily glad they did not
find it out thirty years ago!”
He loved the world; and this was only gratitude, for the world loved
him; and nobody ever yet enjoyed existence with more cheerfulness and
composure. “Egad!” he used to say, “this world is wheeling round and
round quite too fast to please me. For my part, I’d rather be a _young_
shoe-boy than an _old_ judge.” He always most candidly admitted his
legal mistakes. I recollect my friend William Johnson once pressing him
very fiercely to a decision in his favour, and stating as an _argument_
(in his usual peremptory tone to judges he was not afraid of) that there
could be no doubt on the point—precedent was imperative in the matter,
as his lordship had decided the same points the same way _twice_ before.
“So, Mr. Johnson,” said the judge, looking archly—shifting his seat
somewhat, and shrugging up his right shoulder,—“so! because I decided
_wrong_ twice, Mr. Johnson, you’d have me do so a _third_ time? No, no,
Mr. Johnson! you must excuse me. I’ll decide _right_ this bout:”—and so
he did. Had he died previous to this circumstance, his two wrong
decisions would have been _precedents_ and _settled law_.
The anecdotes of his quaint humour are in fact innumerable, and some of
his _charges_ quite extraordinary. His profile was very like Edmund
Burke’s: he had that sharp kind of nose which gives a singular cast to
the general contour; but there was always an appearance of drollery
lurking in his countenance. No man could more justly boast of carrying
about him proofs of nationality, as few ever had the Irish dialect
stronger. It was in every word and every _motion_! Curran used to say he
had the _brogue_ in his _shoulders_! If Judge Kelly conceived he had no
grounds to be ashamed of his country, she had still less to be ashamed
of him. He was calculated to do credit to any land.
I also had the pleasure of being acquainted with Mr. Arthur Wolfe
intimately, afterward Baron Kilwarden, and chief justice of Ireland.
This gentleman had, previously to his advancement, acquired very high
eminence as an equity lawyer: he was many years my senior at the bar.
Wolfe had no natural genius, and but scanty _general_ information: his
talents were originally too feeble to raise him by their unassisted
efforts into any political importance. Though patronised by the Earl of
Tyrone, and supported by the Beresford aristocracy, his rise was slow
and gradual; and his promotion to the office of solicitor-general had
been long predicted, not from his ability, but in consequence of his
reputation as a good-hearted man and a sound lawyer.
On the elevation of Mr. John Fitzgibbon to the seals Mr. Wolfe succeeded
him as attorney-general; the parliamentary duties of which office were,
however, far beyond the reach of his oratory, and altogether too
important for his proportion of intellect; and hence he had to encounter
difficulties which he was unable, on some occasions, successfully to
surmount. The most gifted members of his own profession were, in fact,
then linked with the first-rate political talents of the Irish nation,
to bear down those measures which it had become Mr. Wolfe’s imperative
official duty to originate or support.
In the singular character of Mr. Wolfe there were strange diversities of
manner and of disposition. On first acquaintance, he seldom failed to
make an unfavourable impression: but his arrogance was only
superficial—his pride innoxious—his haughtiness theoretical. In society,
he so whimsically mixed and mingled solemn ostentation with playful
frivolity, that the man and the boy, the judge and the jester, were
generally alternate.
Still Kilwarden’s heart was right and his judgment sufficing. In feeling
he was quick—in apprehension slow. The union of these qualities
engendered a sort of spurious sensibility, which constantly led him to
apprehend offence where none was ever intended. He had a constant dread
of being thought petulant; and the excitement produced by this dread
became itself the author of that tetchy irritation which he so much
deprecated. Thus, like certain humorous characters on the stage, he
frequently worked himself into silly anger by endeavouring to show that
he was perfectly good-tempered.
Lord Kilwarden, not perceiving the true distinction between pride and
dignity, thought he was supporting the appearance of the one, when, in
fact, he was only practising the formality of the other; and, after a
long intercourse with the world, he every day evinced that he knew any
one’s else character better than his own. As attorney-general during a
most trying era, his humanity, moderation, justice, and discretion, were
no less evident than was his strict adherence to official duties; and
the peculiarities of his manner were merged in the excellence of his
sterling qualities.
In the celebrated cause of the King against Heavy (in the King’s Bench),
Mr. Curran and I were Heavy’s counsel; and afterwards moved to set aside
the verdict on grounds which we considered to form a most important
point, upon legal principles.
Curran had concluded his speech, and I was stating what I considered to
be the law of the case, when Lord Kilwarden, impatient and fidgety,
interrupted me:—“God forbid, Mr. Barrington,” said he, “that should be
the law!”
“God forbid, my lord,” answered I, “that it should _not_ be the law!”
“You are rough, sir!” exclaimed he.
“More than one of us have the same infirmity, my lord.”
“I was right, sir,” said he, colouring.
“So was I, my lord,” returned I, unbendingly.
He fidgeted again, and looked haughty and sour. I thought he would break
out, but he only said, “Go on, sir—go on, sir!” I proceeded; and, whilst
I was speaking, he wrote a note, which was handed to me by the officer.
I kept it, as affording a curious trait of human character. It ran
thus:—
“Barrington,
“You are the _most_ impudent fellow I ever met! Come and
dine with me this day at six. You will meet some strangers; so I
hope you will behave yourself, though I have no reason to expect
it!——