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Updated: May 12, 2025
I had had a word or two with Sir George Jeffreys, now a long time Lord Chief Justice, in Scroggs' old place; and found him a very brilliant kind of man, of an extraordinary handsomeness, and no less extraordinary power not at all brutal in manner, as I had thought, but liker to a very bright sword, at once sharp and heavy: and sharp and heavy indeed men found him when they looked at him from the dock.
Richard Rich who beyond Scroggs or Jeffreys deserves to be remembered as the arch-scoundrel of the legal profession was one of Thomas More's playmates and boon companions for several years of their boyhood and youth.
Alert for such crumbs as might fall from a bountiful table; keen of scent for scraps and bits, but capable of a mighty mouthful, he paid a courtier's price for it all; wheedling, pandering, ready for any service, ripe for any revelry. With an adulator's tact, he still strove strenuously to hold the thread of his companion's conversation, as Mauville said: "Too old, Scroggs; too old!"
Playing at feudal lord in modern times is a farce, Scroggs. I wish we had lived about four hundred years ago." "Yes, if four hundred years ago were now," assented the parasite, "I'd begin with Dick, the tollman! He's a regular Goliath and," his face becoming purple "when I threatened him with the law, threw me out of the barn on an obnoxious heap of refuse."
For a moment we had hopes that old Scroggs would explode. I think if he had had us there alone he would have tried to hang us. But every tyrant has his master, so before long we began to see the halter on old Scroggs. And his daughter held the leading rope. She let him rave about so long and then she retired into her pocket-handkerchief and turned on a regular equinoctial.
"Dancing eyes; a figure upright as a reed; the bearing of a nymph; the soul of a water lily before it has opened its leaves to the wooing moonlight!" "Lord! How you go on!" exclaimed Scroggs. "What with a sampling this and sampling that, my head's going round like a top. If there's anything in the cellar the old patroons put down we haven't tried, sir, I beg to defer the sampling.
And Scroggs, whose countenance lost a shade of its natural flush, going from flame-color to salmon hue, bent with sudden apprehension over a small hand which hung from the seat. "No; it's only a swoon," he continued, relieved, feeling her wrist with his knobby fingers. "How she struggled! If it hadn't been for smothering her with the cloak but the job's done and that's the end of it."
Scroggs, the agent of a rice-plantation, who had come on, bringing an order for a new relay of negroes to supply the deficit occasioned by fever, dysentery, and other causes, in their last year's stock. "The fact is," said Simeon, "this last ship-load wasn't as good a one as usual; we lost more than a third of it, so we can't afford to put them a penny lower."
Malachi Scroggs was a triple extract of grouch who lived on the north side two miles away from college in a big white house with one of those old-fashioned dog-house affairs on top of it. He was an acrimonious quarrel all by himself. Sunlight soured when it struck him.
The seats for my Lords were on the left, under a state, with their desks before them; the place for the prisoners on the right, facing the judges; and for the witnesses opposite to me. The jury was beneath; and the counsels in front of them with their backs to me. When the Court was full to bursting, my Lords came in, with the Chief Justice that is Sir William Scroggs in the midst.
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