There is a species of gladiatorial exhibition in lawyers' society which is certainly very amusing. No one speaks without the foreknowledge that he is to be caught up, punned up, or ridiculed, as the case may be. The whole conversation is therefore a hailstorm of short stories, quips, and retorts, intermingled with details of successful bar-stratagems, and practical jokes played off upon juries. With less restraint than at a military mess, there is a strong professional feeling of deference for the seniors, and much more tact and knowledge of the world to unite them. While thus the whole conversation ran on topics of the circuit, I was amazed at Mrs. Rooney's perfect intimacy with all the niceties of a law joke, or the fun of a nisi prius story. She knew the chief peculiarities of the several persons alluded to, and laughed loud and long at the good things she listened to. The judge alone, above all others, had the lady's ear. His bold but handsome features, his rich commanding voice (nothing the worse that it was mellowed by a little brogue), his graceful action and manly presence, stamped him as one well suited to be successful wherever good looks, ready tact, and consummate conversational powers have a field for their display. His stories were few, but always pertinent and well told; and frequently the last joke at the table was capped by him, when no one else could have ventured to try it, while the rich roll of his laugh was a guarantee for mirth that never failed.

It was just when my attention was drawn off by Mrs. Booney to some circumstance of our former intimacy, that a hearty burst of laughing from the end of the table told that something unusually absurd was being related.

'Yes, sir,' said a shrewd-looking, thin old fellow in spectacles, 'we capitulated, on condition of leaving the garrison with all the honours of war; and, 'faith, the sheriff was only too glad to comply.'

'Bob Mahon is certainly a bold fellow, and never hard pushed, whatever you may do with him.'

'Bob Mahon!' said I: 'what of him?'

'Keatley has just been telling how he held the jail of Ennis for four weeks against the sheriff. The jailer was an old tenant of his, and readily came into his plans. They were victualled for a long siege, and as the place was strong they had nothing to fear. When the garrison was summoned to surrender, they put a charge of No. 4 into the sub-sheriff, that made him move to the rear; and as the prisoners were all coming from the assizes, they were obliged to let him have his own terms if he 'd only consent to come out. So they gave him twelve hours' law, and a clear run for it? and he's away.'

This was indeed a very quick realisation of Father Tom's prediction, and I joined in the mirth the story elicited—not the less readily that I was well acquainted with the principal actor in it.

While the laughter still continued, the door opened, and a young barrister stole into the room and whispered a few words into the ear of the counsel for the prisoners. He leaned back in his chair, and pushed his wine-glass hurriedly before him.

'What, Collinson!' cried the attorney-general, 'have they agreed?' 'Yes, sir—a verdict of guilty.'

'Of course; the evidence was too home for a doubt,' said he, filling his glass from the decanter.