know how they should solve. Lushington is about fifty or fifty-five; a tall, thin man, with an intelligent, open, smiling countenance. I have already mentioned in this letter that Lord Denman calls the wig the silliest thing in England. I took the liberty of telling this to Justice Allan Park, who at once exclaimed that it was all a piece of Denman's coxcombry; that he wished to show his person. A few years ago, when an invention came out by means of which wigs were made, with the appearance of being powdered, and yet without powder and the consequent dirt, Park resisted the change as an innovation on the Constitution; and he actually refused to recognize his own son at the bar, when he had appeared in one of the new-fangled wigs! I have alluded to the familiarity between the bench and the bar. I am assured that the judges always address barristers, even on a first introduction, without the prefix of ‘Mr.’; and that a junior would feel aggrieved by the formality, if his senior should address him as ‘Mr.’ This same freedom I have observed between members of the House of Commons, and Peers. Indeed, wherever I meet persons who are at all acquainted, I never hear any title,—which is not a little singular in this country of titles. And now, good-by again.
C. S.P. S. I have forgotten to say that Lord Langdale has as much disappointed the profession as the Chancellor has gratified them.1 This is, however, partly attributed to the extravagant expectations formed with regard to him; being such that it was next to impossible for any man to fulfil them.
To Judge Story.
Boston——think of that!my dear Judge,—I have just written Boston, and would not alter it, because I preferred to leave it, that you may see how 1 think of home,—how present it is in my mind, and how unbidden it rises. I write these lines as a supplement to the volume I have already written by this same steam-packet; but some matters have occurred to my mind that I have failed to mention, I believe. You will, doubtless, be pleased to hear about Lord Abinger. I have written you that I have met him in society, and was not particularly pleased with him: he was cold and indifferent, and did not take to me, evidently; and so I did not take to him. Neither did I hear him, during a long evening, say any thing that was particularly remarkable; but all the bar bear testimony to his transcendency as an advocate. Indeed, James Smith—the famous author of ‘Rejected Addresses’—told me, last evening, that Erskine was the most eloquent man he remembered at the bar, but Scarlett2 by far the most successful advocate. You will perceive that this stretches