Lord Manners, Lord Chancellor of Ireland, stopped several of the many counsels in a Chancery suit by saying he had made up his mind. He, in fact, lost his temper as each in succession rose, and he declined them in turn. At last O'Connell, one of the unheard counsel, began in his deepest and most emphatic tone: "Well then, my lord, since your lordship refuses to hear my learned friend, you will be pleased to hear ME"; and then he plunged into the case, without waiting for any expression, assent or dissent, or allowing any interruption. On he went, discussing and distinguishing, and commenting and quoting, till he secured the attention of, and evidently was making an impression on, the unwilling judge. Every few minutes O'Connell would say: "Now, my lord, my learned young friend beside me, had your lordship heard him, would have informed your lordship in a more impressive and lucid manner than I can hope to do," etcetera, until he finished a masterly address. The Lord Chancellor next morning gave judgment in favour of O'Connell's client.
He was engaged in a will case, the allegation being that the will was a forgery. The subscribing witness swore that the will had been signed by the deceased "while life was in him"—that being an expression derived from the Irish language, which peasants who have long ceased to speak Irish still retain. The evidence was strong in favour of the will, when O'Connell was struck by the persistency of the man, who always repeated the same words, "The life was in him." O'Connell asked: "On the virtue of your oath, was he alive?"—"By the virtue of my oath, the life was in him."—"Now I call upon you in the presence of your Maker, who will one day pass sentence on you for this evidence, I solemnly ask—and answer me at your peril—was there not a live fly in the dead man's mouth when his hand was placed on the will?" The witness was taken aback at this question; he trembled, turned pale, and faltered out an abject confession that the counsellor was right; a fly had been introduced into the mouth of the dead man, to allow the witness to swear that "life was in him."
O'Connell was defending John Connor on a charge of murder. The most incriminating evidence was the finding of the murderer's hat, left behind on the road. The all-important question was as to the identity of the hat as that of the accused man. A constable was prepared to swear to it. "You found this hat?" said O'Connell. "Yes."—"You examined it?"—"Yes."—"You know it to be the prisoner's property?"—"Yes."—"When you picked it up you saw it was damaged?"—"Yes."—"And looking inside you saw the prisoner's name, J-o-h-n C-o-n-n-o-r?" (here he spelt out the name slowly). "Yes," was the answer. "There is no name inside at all, my lord," said O'Connell, and the prisoner was saved.
Explaining to a judge his absence from the Civil Court at the time a case was heard, in which he should have appeared as counsel, O'Connell said he could not leave a client in the Criminal Court until the verdict was given. "What was it?" inquired the judge. "Acquitted," responded O'Connell. "Then you have got off a wretch who is not fit to live," said the judge. O'Connell, knowing his lordship to be a very religious man, at once replied: "I am sure you will agree with me that a man whom you regard as not fit to live would be still more unfit to die."
There was a young barrister—a contemporary of O'Connell—named Parsons, who had a good deal of humour, and who hated the whole tribe of attorneys. Perhaps they had not treated him very well, but his prejudice against them was very constant and conspicuous. One day, in the Hall of the Four Courts, an attorney came up to him to beg a subscription towards burying a brother attorney who had died in distressed circumstances. Parsons took out a one-pound note and tendered it. "Oh, Mr. Parsons," said the applicant, "I do not want so much—I only ask a shilling from each contributor. I have limited myself to that, and I cannot really take more."—"Oh, take it, take it," said Parsons; "for God's sake, my good sir, take the pound, and while you are at it bury twenty of them."
There is a terseness in the following which seems to be inimitable. Lord Norbury was travelling with Parsons; they passed a gibbet. "Parsons," said Norbury, with a chuckle, "where would you be now if every one had his due?"—"Alone in my carriage," replied Parsons.
Here is a young Irishman's first Bar-speech. "Your lordships perceive that we stand here as our grandmothers' administrators de bonis non; and really, my lords, it does strike me that it would be a monstrous thing to say that a party can now come in, in the very teeth of an Act of Parliament, and actually turn us round, under colour of hanging us up, on the foot of a contract made behind our backs."