THE BAR—THE MASTER OF THE ROLLS.
It must be admitted (talking of the late Vice) that he really was enough to annoy any sober staid master, by his frolics and gambols since he has been made a judge. I remember him a quiet good sort of man enough: with a bed-room and kitchen in the area of No. 11, New-square; and his dining-room above, serving also for consultations: and his going, now and then, only to have a game of whist and glass of negus at Serle's;—but, now, he is a perfect Monsieur Tonson to all continental travellers. Never can you take up the police-book at the hotels, on the road to Italy, without Sir John Leach staring you in the face. The other day at the Cloche at Dijon (I will never go there again, and beg Sir John to do me the favour to withdraw his patronage also,—the Parc is worth twenty of it), yawning over my bottle of Cote d'Or, I inquired of the waiter who of my "land's language" had lately been there. "Vy, Sare, ve have de Milor Leash." "Lord Leash?"—"Oui, Monsieur;—mais, Fanchette, apportez le livre ici pour Monsieur—le voila."—"Ah, ha! Sir John Leach; I see."—"Ah qu'il est bon enfant! qu'il est gai!" exclaimed the garcon. "Ah! qu'il est aimable!" sighed Fanchette—Enter De Molin the banker's little bureau at Lausanne—(by the way, it is the favourite chamber of Gibbon the historian, and if you pay the house a visit from motives of curiosity respecting its former occupant, you will be happy to be allowed to remain and converse with the actual owner, for a more honourable, liberal, and better-informed man, does not exist)—there, I say, in the glass over the mantlepiece, will you see the card of Sir John Leach. Milan—Florence—the same. At Torlogna's the same. Then at Naples: go to San Carlos'; and if you get behind the scenes, ask for Braccini, the poetá of the theatre, who has been long in England; "Cospetto di Bacco!" he will exclaim: "il degn uomo, quel Vice Cancelliere: il Cavaliere Licci!—Gran Dio! quale talento per la musica!-Cappari! egli ha guadagnato i cuori di tutte le donne Napolitane."[3] I certainly expect to hear him some day astonish the bar, by unwittingly striking up "O Pescator delle onde," or "Sul margine del Rio," in the Rolls Court; and, as in ancient Greece ('tis said) pleadings were chanted, let us yet hope to hear an argument preferred to the tune of "They are a' noddin, noddin, noddin;" an answer stated andante; a reply given in a bravura, and judgment pronounced presto. With all his faults (if they be such, which I do not admit), the present Master of the Rolls is a good judge, and an able man;—"un peu vif, peut-etre," as Fanchette might say; and it is more agreeable than otherwise, to see one who has devoted his life to the study of the law, enjoying himself in lighter pursuits, after having attained rank and dignity in the profession; and after having punctually and satisfactorily executed the important duties of the day, seeking at its close, and participating in the gaiety which society offers. It speaks a good heart and cheerful temper; whereas, when we hear a distaste declared for music, and that of the highest character, we cannot but call to mind "He who has not the concord of sweet sounds" within himself;—but I will not pursue the quotation. Besides, were there persons fools enough to blame Sir John for his social propensities, he might answer them as the Parisian coachman did.—"What was that?"—"Why, a French Jehu was tried in 1818, for some accident caused by his cabriolet, before the Criminal Court of Paris; when, having heard the evidence, the President of the Tribunal declared that he stood acquitted, but that the court felt it its duty to blame him, and that he was blamed accordingly." "Blamed!" exclaimed Jehu; "Blamed!—I don't quite understand your Honor;—but—but—will it prevent my handling the ribands, and driving the wehicle?"—"No!" said the judge. "Then, with all respect for your Honor, I just laugh at it," said coachee, bowing. "And so do I," said the president also, in rising to leave the court.—New Monthly Magazine.