'"Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague!"' said Bannister, when Foote bantered Smith on the subject. The latter was not proof against the sally, and acknowledged the marriage. 'Well,' said Bannister, 'I rejoice that you have got a Sandwich from the family; but if ever you get a dinner from them, I'll be hanged.' The prophecy proved true.
Michael Kelly was an English opera-singer, a musical composer, and at one time Sheridan's manager at Drury Lane. He then went into the wine trade, when Sheridan advised him to put over his door: 'Michael Kelly, composer of wine, and importer of music.'
VI.
OLD JUDGES AND SOME OF THEIR SAYINGS.
When I was a little boy I drew most of my notions of life and mankind from the picture-books for my use and instruction. I thought that Kings and Queens wore their crowns and sceptres all day long, and took them to bed with them, for I had thus seen them in the pictures in the books. One engraving, I remember, I saw of a severe-looking gentleman, who had thrown a gray doormat over his head, and sat behind a little desk everlastingly writing away with an enormous quill pen. It was this quill pen which specially riveted my attention. I was always given a steel pen in my writing-lessons. Why not a quill? I asked my mother who the man was, and was told he was a judge, and that what I took for a door-mat was a wig which he wore to look dignified, and the great weight of which was, moreover, intended to prevent his great legal learning from evaporating through the pores of his skull, which was bald, but compelled it to come out through his mouth only.
He used a quill pen to take notes of what was said by the parties contending before him, because that, being a natural production, could not possibly tell lies, whereas a steel pen, as an artificial contrivance, could not be depended on for veracity; wherefore, in all law proceedings, even at the lowest police court, quill pens only could be used, for the law on morality and public policy grounds strongly objects to lies; it is itself so truthful! Of course, I believed all my mother told me; children are so easy of belief if you only look serious when you tell them crammers. But I know better now, and crowns no longer represent to me sovereignty, nor wigs wisdom. Of another delusion, too, I have been cured. When I was a young man I was told that English law was the perfection of human wisdom. I believed this then, for I was only a bigger child without experience. But when I arrived at years of discretion—that is, when I began to observe and reflect—I could come to no other conclusion than that the axiom of the law's wisdom was a delusion. There are many ways of proving this, but one argument presents itself, which renders all further proofs unnecessary. Can a code which comprises a number of laws, the interpretation of whose import is liable to be declared by one judge to mean 'Yes,' whilst another as positively maintains it means 'No,' be called the perfection of human wisdom? The ever-growing frequency of appeals alone is sufficient to show that the existing laws are ambiguous in expression, and lend themselves to the idiosyncrasies of every individual judge, which is very far from perfection. Laws should be as precise in their definitions as mathematical formulæ. To substantiate my reasoning, let me quote an actual case: Some twelve or thirteen years ago, the captain of a cargo steamer belonging to a London firm, while loading maize at Odessa, signed bills of lading which were ante-dated. Between the false date and the real one, a few days after, of loading, there was a considerable fall in the price of maize, and the consignees, who were the sufferers by it, brought an action against the owners of the steamer, they—the consignees—having discovered the ante-dating, and recovered £437 damages, which the shipowners paid. On the captain's return to England, he made a claim of £190 for wages, which claim was admitted by the firm, but they set up a counter-claim for the damages they had had to pay to the consignees, through the captain's negligence and breach of duty in signing the ante-dated bills. The case went to trial before Mr. Justice Field and a jury, and was decided in the captain's favour, both as to his wages and the counter-claim. The owners appealed, and the Divisional Court, consisting of Grove, Denman, and Wills, ordered the judgment to be set aside, and a new trial granted. The Appeal Court ordered the original judgment in favour of the captain to be restored. The owners then took the cause into the House of Lords, where Lords Watson, Blackburn, and Fitzgerald restored the order of the Divisional Court in favour of the owners, with all the costs they had incurred. Now, here was a case of breach of duty as plain as it could be, yet it took four trials, the costs amounting to about £4,000, to decide the question. This is but one of a hundred similar cases which might be cited. With what wisdom can laws be framed which can give rise to so many judicial contradictory decisions? And the fault of this lies not with the judges, but with the legislators, whose only wisdom seems to consist in surrounding plain matter-of-fact with a network of sophistry, chicanery, and hair-splitting subtleties—a system which is constantly regretted by the judges themselves, who are ever ready to warn the public against indulgence in litigation, for English judges, as a rule, are straightforward, honourable men, who are inclined to take common-sense and impartial views, except when a political or theological bias gives a twist to their judgment. Nor can it be left out of our consideration that men educated in the legal schools of the Inns of Court, and by teachers strongly impressed with the dignity and importance of their pursuit, should adhere to it with cast-iron rigidity, thus opposing, as much as possible, the introduction of new, and in their estimation, revolutionary and destructive opinions. It is due to this adherence to, and maintenance of, the principles of a barbarous and an arbitrary regime that the judges still possess the tremendous power of committing for contempt of court any person who may make a remark displeasing to them, however innocently that remark may have been made. Years ago I defended an action brought against me by a tradesman for certain goods he alleged he had supplied me with. The action was tried in a County Court. The plaintiff made his statement, which introduced several particulars which were as new to me as they were false. But my solicitor whom I had brought with me could not know they were so. I turned towards the judge, and stated that I could prove in two minutes that there was not a word of truth in the plaintiff's statements. But the judge turned quite savagely towards me, saying:
'You must not speak to me. You have your solicitor here.'
'But,' I replied, 'my solicitor cannot know that these assertions are false!'
'Be silent!' thundered the judge. 'If you say another word I shall commit you for contempt.'
Of course I said no more, but, like the parrot, thought a lot. I knew that a judge, a mere County Court judge, who passes his life amidst the most sordid and depressing scenes of wretchedness, had the power of sending me to prison, and to keep me there till I made the most abject apology for a speech which was never intended to be offensive. Persons have been kept in prison for twenty years by the mere order of a judge, who was plaintiff, jury, and judge in every such case. This is scarcely in accordance with our ideas of justice. But this relic of a barbarous age will be abolished in time, as the Courts of Doctors' Commons, or the Palace Court, where a number of sleepy old gentlemen