From that popular gossiping establishment I heard a little story told by the son of Sydney Smith.  His father had been sent for to see an old lady who was one of his most troublesome parishioners.  She was dying.  Sad to say, she had always been querulous and quarrelsome.  It may have been constitutional, but whatever the cause, her husband had had an uncomfortable time with her.  When Sydney Smith reached the house the old lady was dead, and the bereaved widower, a religious man in his way, and acquainted with Scripture, said,—­

“Ah, sir, you are too late:  my poor dear wife has gone to Abraham’s bosom.”

“Poor Abraham!” exclaimed Sydney; “she’ll tear his inside out.”

As all these things pass through my memory, I recall another little incident with much satisfaction, because I was retained in the case.  It was a scandalous fraud in connection with the gaming-table.  An action was brought by a cheat against a gentleman who was said to have lost L20,000 on the cast of the dice.  I was the counsel opposed to plaintiff, who was said to have cheated by means of loaded dice.  I won the case, and it was generally believed that the action was the cause of the appointment of the “Gaming Committee,” at which tribunal all the rascality of the gaming-tables was called to give evidence, and the witnesses did so in such a manner as to shock the conscience of the civilized world, which is never conscious of anything until exposure takes place in a court of law or in some other legal inquiry.

Diabolical revelations were brought to light.  However, as I have said, Lord Palmerston effectually cleared Crockford’s, and it almost seemed, from the evidence of those who knew Crockford’s best, that they never played anything there but old-fashioned whist for threepenny points, patience, and beggar-my-neighbour.

His Royal Highness the then Prince of Wales came into court during the trial I refer to, and seemed interested in the proceedings.  I wonder if his Majesty now remembers it!

In those days Baron Martin and I met once a year, he on the Bench and I in court, with a hansom cab waiting outside ready to start for the Derby.  It is necessary for Judges to sit on Derby Day, to show that they do not go; but if by some accident the work of the court is finished in time to get down to Epsom, those who love an afternoon in the country sometimes go in the direction of the Downs.  There is usually a run on the list on that day.

There was another club to which I belonged in those old days, called “The Hooks and Eyes,” where I met for the last time poor Douglas Jerrold.  He was one of the Eyes, and always on the lookout for a good thing, or the opportunity of saying one.  He was certainly, in my opinion, the wittiest man of his day.  But at times his wit was more hurtful than amusing.  Wit should never leave a sting.