called to pronounce
judgment in some of the most exciting ecclesiastical suits of modern
times. When the first prosecutions were directed against the Ritualistic
innovators, as they were then called, of St. Barnabas, both sides
congratulated themselves that the judgment would be given by so
venerable and experienced a judge; and perhaps the dissatisfaction of
both sides with the judgment proved its justice. In the prosecution of
the Rev. H.B. Wilson and Dr. Rowland Williams, Dr. Lushington again
pronounced a judgment which, contrary to popular expectation, was
reversed on appeal by the Judicial Committee of the Privy Council."

But how can we leave Doctors' Commons without remembering--as we see the
touters for licences, who look like half pie-men, half watermen--Sam
Weller's inimitable description of the trap into which his father fell?

"Paul's Churchyard, sir," says Sam to Jingle; "a low archway on the
carriage-side; bookseller's at one corner, hotel on the other, and two
porters in the middle as touts for licences."

"Touts for licences!" said the gentleman.

"Touts for licences," replied Sam. "Two coves in white aprons, touches
their hats when you walk in--'Licence, sir, licence?' Queer sort them,
and their mas'rs, too, sir--Old Bailey proctors--and no mistake."

"What do they do?" inquired the gentleman.

"Do! _you_, sir! That ain't the worst on't, neither. They puts things
into old gen'lm'n's heads as they never dreamed of. My father, sir, was
a coachman, a widower he wos, and fat enough for anything--uncommon fat,
to be sure. His missus dies, and leaves him four hundred pound. Down he
goes to the Commons to see the lawyer, and draw the blunt--very
smart--top-boots on--nosegay in his button-hole--broad-brimmed
tile--green shawl--quite the gen'lm'n. Goes through the archway,
thinking how he should inwest the money; up comes the touter, touches
his hat-'Licence, sir, licence?' 'What's that?' says my father.
'Licence, sir,' says he. 'What licence,' says my father. 'Marriage
licence,' says the touter. 'Dash my weskit,' says my father, 'I never
thought o' that.' 'I thinks you want one, sir,' says the touter. My
father pulls up and thinks a bit. 'No,' says he, 'damme, I'm too old,
b'sides I'm a many sizes too large,' says he. 'Not a bit on it, sir,'
says the touter. 'Think not?' says my father. 'I'm sure not,' says he;
'we married a gen'lm'n twice your size last Monday.' 'Did you, though?'
said my father. 'To be