The Judges live so entirely in their own narrow and rather technical circle that their social abilities are lost to the world.  It is a pity, for several of them are men well fitted by their talents and accomplishments to take a leading part in society.  The late Lord Coleridge was pre-eminently a case in point.  Personally, I had an almost fanatical admiration for his genius, and in many of the qualities which make an agreeable talker he was unsurpassed.  Every one who ever heard him at the Bar or on the Bench must recall that silvery voice and that perfect elocution which prompted a competent judge of such matters to say:  “I should enjoy listening to Coleridge even if he only read out a page of Bradshaw.”  To these gifts were added an immense store of varied knowledge, a genuine enthusiasm for whatever is beautiful in literature or art, an inexhaustible copiousness of anecdote, and a happy knack of exact yet not offensive mimicry.  It is always pleasant to see a man in great station, who, in the intercourse of society, is perfectly untrammelled by pomp and form, can make a joke and enjoy it, and is not too cautious to garnish his conversation with personalities or to season it with sarcasm.  Perhaps Lord Coleridge’s gibes were a little out of place on “The Royal Bench of British Themis,” but at a dinner-table they were delightful, and they derived a double zest from the exquisite precision and finish of the English in which they were conveyed.

Another judge who excelled in conversation was the late Lord Bowen.  Those who knew him intimately would say that he was the best talker in London.  In spite of the burden of learning which he carried and his marvellous rapidity and grasp of mind, his social demeanour was quiet and unobtrusive almost to the point of affectation.  His manner was singularly suave and winning, and his smile resembled that of the much-quoted Chinaman who played but did not understand the game of euchre.  This singular gentleness of speech gave a special piquancy to his keen and delicate satire, his readiness in repartee, and his subtle irony.  No one ever met Lord Bowen without wishing to meet him again; no one ever made his acquaintance without desiring his friendship.  Sir Henry Cunningham’s memoir of him only illustrated afresh the impossibility of transplanting to the printed page the rarefied humour of so delicate a spirit.  Let me make just one attempt.  Of a brother judge he said:  “To go to the Court of Appeal with a judgment of ——­’s in your favour, is like going to sea on a Friday.  It is not necessarily fatal; but one would rather it had not happened.”  Had Bowen been more widely known, the traditions of his table-talk would probably have taken their place with the best recollections of English conversation.  His admirers can only regret that gifts so rich and so rare should have been buried in judicial dining-rooms or squandered on the dismal orgies of the Cosmopolitan Club, where dull men sit round a meagre fire, in a large, draughty, and half-lit room, drinking lemon-squash and talking for talking’s sake—­the most melancholy of occupations.