[General consensus of opinion in favour of lunching.  As they adjourn, L.C.J. detains Chancery Judges to tell them a story about something that happened at Bodmin, and, to prevent mistakes, tells it in West Country dialect.  M.R. immediately repeats it in strong Yorkshire, and lays the venue at Bradford.  Result; that the whole of HER MAJESTY’s Courts in London were closed for one day.

* * * * *

THE LAY OF THE LITIGANT.

(AFTER HOOD.  ALSO AFTER COLERIDGE’S (C.J.) LETTER TO THE LORD CHANCELLOR ON THE DECAY OF LEGAL BUSINESS.)

  I remember, I remember
    The Law when I was born,
  The Serjeants, brothers of the coif,
    The Judges dead and gone. 
  The Judicature Acts to them
    Were utterly unknown;
  It was a fearful ignorance—­
    Oh, would it were my own!

  I remember, I remember
    The worthy “Proctor” race,
  The “Posteas,” and the “Elegits,”
    The “Actions on the Case.” 
  The “Error” each Attorney’s Clerk
    Did wilfully abet,
  The days of “Bills” in Equity—­
    Some bills are living yet!

  I remember, I remember
    The years of “Jarndyce” jaw,
  The lively game of shuttlecock
    ’Twixt Equity and Law. 
  Tribunals then were “Courts” indeed
    That are “Divisions” now,
  And Silken Gowns have feared the frowns
    Upon a “Baron’s” brow.

  We remember, we remember
    The flourishing of trumps,
  When Parliament took up our wrongs,
    And manned the legal pumps. 
  Those noble Acts (they said) would end
    Obstructions and delay,
  And ne’er again would litigants
    The piper have to pay.

  I remember, I remember
    Expenses, mountains high;
  I used to think, when duly “taxed,”
    They’d vanish by-and-by. 
  It was a foolish confidence,
    But now ’tis little joy
  To know that Law’s as slow and dear
    As when I was a boy!

* * * * *

THE HERO OF THE SUMMER SALE.

(BY OUR OWN PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL POETESS.)

[Illustration]

  I would I loved some belted Earl,
    Some Baronet, or K.C.B.,
  But I’m a most unhappy girl,
    And no such luck’s in store for me! 
  I would I loved some Soldier bold,
    Who leads his troops where cannons pop,
  But if the bitter truth be told—­
    I love a man who walks a shop! 
      For oh! a King of Men is he—­
        With princely strut and stiffened spine—­
      So his, and his alone, shall be,
        This fondly foolish heart of mine!

  On Remnant Days—­from morn till night,
    When blows fall fast, and words run high,
  When frenzied females fiercely fight
    For bargains that they long to buy—­
  From hot attack he does not flinch,