little desks and tables,—covered with worn and faded green baize,—the uncommonly hard wooden benches, with conscientious upright backs, and the witness box of the size of a Dundee whaler's crow's nest, and of about as much comfort, which comprised the principal furniture of the old Admiralty Court. Some of us still remember the old place with affection; for within those homely walls were recorded, under oath and cross-examination, stories of the sea so vivid and picturesque, that, in dramatic effect and exciting interest, the inventive genius of the novelist has never excelled, and rarely equalled them.
A case was being tried there before Justice Stephen Lushington, D.C.L., one of the most celebrated among the many renowned jurists of Great Britain. Counsel was arguing concerning the alleged age of the vessel to which his brief referred, and was pursuing the even tenor of his discourse,—as counsel sometimes do when no jury is present,—when the judge remarked, from the bench, that about forty years before (1816) he was counsel in a case relating to the vessel that had brought over William of Orange to England.
As may be imagined, this gave decided interest to the case; without it, in all probability, it would never have been heard of again. His Honor's remark started some of the journalists of Great Britain in the wake of the Princess Mary, and they closely followed her, finding her in good shape for one hundred and thirty-nine years. A few, not content with this, and by beginning early, increased
