If the walls of the Dublin ‘Four Courts’ could speak, how many a pleasant story and witty repartee and sparkling bon-mot they could tell! Let me recall and string together some of these pearls of anecdote and wit, some of which, though perhaps not altogether new to lovers of anecdote, may well bear repetition. The first Viscount Guillamore, when Chief Baron O’Grady, was remarkable for his dry humour and biting wit. The latter was so fine that its sarcasm was often unperceived by the object against whom the shaft was directed. A legal friend, extremely studious, but in conversation notoriously dull, was once shewing off to him his newly-built house. The bookworm prided himself especially on a sanctum he had contrived for his own use, so secluded from the rest of the building that he could pore over his books in private quite secure from disturbance. ‘Capital!’ exclaimed the Chief Baron. ‘You surely could, my dear fellow, read and study here from morning till night, and no human being be _one bit the wiser_.’ A young and somewhat dull tyro at the bar pleading before him commenced: ‘My lord, my unfortunate client’—— then stopped, hemmed, hawed, hesitated. Again he began: ‘My lord, my most unfortunate client’—— Another stop, more hemming and confusion. ‘Pray go on, sir,’ said the Chief Baron. ‘So far the court is with you.’ * * * * * In those days, before competitive examinations were known, men with more interest than brains got good appointments, for the duties of which they were wholly incompetent. Of such was the Honourable —— ——. He was telling Lord Guillamore of the summary way in which he disposed of matters in his court. ‘I say to the fellows that are bothering with foolish arguments, that there’s no use in wasting my time and their breath; for that all their talk only just goes in at one ear and out at the other.’ ‘No great wonder in that,’ said O’Grady, ‘seeing that there’s so little between to stop it.’ It was this worthy, who being at a public dinner shortly after he got his place, had his health proposed by a waggish guest. ‘I will give you a toast,’ he said: ‘The Honourable —— ——, and long may he continue indifferently to administer justice.’ The health was drunk with much merriment, the object of it never perceiving what caused the fun. * * * * * Lord Guillamore could tell a story with inimitable humour. He used to vary his voice according to the speakers, and act as it were the scene he was describing, in a way infinitely diverting. Very droll was his mimicry of a dialogue between the guard of the mail and a mincing old lady with whom he once travelled from Cork to Dublin, in the old coaching days. The coach had stopped to change horses, and the guard, a big red-faced jolly man, beaming with good-humour and civility, came bustling up to the window to see if the ‘insides’ wanted anything. ‘Guard!’ whispered the old lady.