The judge then said, in a sudden, grating voice: "Get a new soul.
That thing's not fit for a dog. Get a new soul." All this, of
course, in the eyes of the sagacious, was premonitory of that
melancholy and farcical day when his wits actually deserted him
in open court. It was a libel case between two very eminent and
powerful financiers, against both of whom charges of considerable
defalcation were brought. The case was long and complex; the
advocates were long and eloquent; but at last, after weeks of
work and rhetoric, the time came for the great judge to give a
summing-up; and one of his celebrated masterpieces of lucidity
and pulverizing logic was eagerly looked for. He had spoken very
little during the prolonged affair, and he looked sad and lowering
at the end of it. He was silent for a few moments, and then burst
into a stentorian song. His remarks (as reported) were as follows:

"O Rowty-owty tiddly-owty Tiddly-owty tiddly-owty Highty-ighty
tiddly-ighty Tiddly-ighty ow."

He then retired from public life and took the garret in Lambeth.

I was sitting there one evening, about six o'clock, over a glass of
that gorgeous Burgundy which he kept behind a pile of black-letter
folios; he was striding about the room, fingering, after a habit of
his, one of the great swords in his collection; the red glare of
the strong fire struck his square features and his fierce grey
hair; his blue eyes were even unusually full of dreams, and he had
opened his mouth to speak dreamily, when the door was flung open,
and a pale, fiery man, with red hair and a huge furred overcoat,
swung himself panting into the room.