SOLOMON PELL IN ALL HIS GLORY.

A Dickensian Dream at Plymouth.

"Boy!" cried Mr. SOLOMON PELL, in the tones of a severe Stentor. The small Boy with the Big Blue Bag responded promptly with a deferential "Yussir."

"Listen!" pursued Mr. PELL, with dignity. And he read with emphatic elocution from some closely-printed columns in the Times, interjecting exclamatory comments from time to time.

"'When we remember the importance of the work daily intrusted to Solicitors (Important, indeed!), and the amount of industry (Quite so!), judgment (Exactly!), learning (I believe you!), and integrity (Why, cert'n'ly!), it involves, and the responsibility which is necessarily incurred by them in advising, not only in public and political matters, but in all the details of private transactions, the dealings with property, and matters affecting not only the purses, but the honour and reputation (Ah!!!), of the members of the community (Well, and pointedly put, Boy!), and when we remember, in addition, what a powerful and (on the whole) respected body they are (I should think so!)—a body, too, consisting not merely of a "fortuitous concourse of atoms" (I should say not, indeed! Fancy me being a mere "atom," or fortuitous!) ("Please, Sir, I can't;" interjected the Boy with the Bag)—each going his own way, and seeking his own interest, but bound together, as the great bulk of its members are, and organised by means of this great Society, and of the kindred societies scattered over the country, and acting in harmony with it—it seems most surprising (Surprising? Astounding, Sir!) that so little in the way of dignity and reward can be looked forward to by the Solicitor, however honestly, ably, and conscientiously he may perform the arduous and responsible duties of his profession.'"

Mr. PELL here paused, and panted, like one who comes to the surface after a deep-sea dive. Then he pursued:—

"There, Boy! That is from the opening speech of the President of the Incorporated Law Society at Plymouth! And excellent it is,—though perhaps a little long-winded. As a mere sentence, a sinuous sequence of words, a 'breather' in syllables, an exercise in adjectives, it cuts the record and takes the cake. But look, Boy, at the sound common-sense of it! Since the famous, if flattering, remarks—concerning Me!—of my late friend, the ex-Lord-Chancellor, who said—nay, swore, that 'the country ought to be proud of me,' I have met with no observations concerning our Profession which so commend themselves to my judgment."

"Oh, please Sir, yussir, right you are, Sir!" jerked out the Boy with the Bag.

"Right Mr. MELMOTH WALTERS is," corrected Mr. PELL, severely. "I knew it would come, Boy, and it has. Though it has taken time, it has taken time. Listen yet further, and don't fidget with that Bag!

"'I contend (He contends!) that it is the duty of the State to provide due recognition of merit in the ranks of a Profession which has been set apart (Dedicated, as it were, like a—like a—sort of a scapegoat—ahem! no, not that, exactly, either, but—a—you know, Boy, you know!), and regulated (Just a leetle too much, perhaps) by it, from which so much is expected, and to which so much is confided.'

"Splendid! My sentiments to a touch! Sir, that Blue Bag is a Temple of Sacred Secrets, and should be a shrine of Open Honour. (Must make a note of that for my next speech at the Forum!) 'Sir SOLOMON PELL' would not sound badly, eh, Boy?"

"Oh, please Sir, yussir—I mean, no, Sir, fur from it, Sir—fur from it!"

"And yet the Bar gets all the honours, and most of the emoluments, whilst the Blue Bag, too often, is sent empty away. Is it just? Is it judicious? What says once again the Plymouth oracle?

"'I ask whether it is wise or prudent on the part of the State to leave unnoticed and disregarded the higher aspirations and ambitions of a large and useful and powerful class of the community?'

"No, Sir—a thousand times no! Let our 'higher aspirations' be considered. Some of us have souls above six-and-eightpence, and yearnings beyond bills of costs. Let 'em be gratified, Boy!"

"Oh, please Sir, yussir: let 'em! Immediately—if not sooner, Sir!"

"By the State—with a capital S! If a soldier may carry a Field Marshal's bâton in his knapsack, why, why should not a Solicitor carry a Baronetcy in his Blue Bag?"

"And Ekker answers, 'Why?' Sir."

"I beg your pardon, Boy, it is the Times, not the Echo, which so answers. The Times says:—

"'They (Solicitors) are the guardians of our dearest (yes, our dearest) interests, the confidants of family secrets, the arbiters in family controversies, and not infrequently the custodians of the honour and the good name of their clients.'

"Quite so. Why, Boy, did we let out the Secrets of the Blue Bag, the contents of Old Nick's Sack, which that 'stupid old snuff-colour'd son of a gun,' Saint Medard 'cut into slits on the Red Sea shore' would be nothing to 'em!"

"Nothink at all, Sir; nothink, wotsomedever!"

"No matter—a time will come, Boy! In Mr. WILLIAM MELMOTH WALTERS's speech I see the dawn of it.

"'The Profession, it is true, does not receive in any great measure those official dignities and rewards which the President claims on its behalf, nor are we quite confident that, if it did, the fact would increase the confidence or the respect of its clients.'

"Well, the Times may not be 'quite confident.' I am! And so would the clients be, I'm sure. Remove that Blue Bag, Boy! Wonder what Mr. Pickwick's opinion of Mr. WALTERS's speech would have been, and that of the Wellers, father and son! [Sings.

[Left considering it.

FROM DARKEST AFRICA.

MOTTO FOR THE OPPONENTS OF CAPITAL PUNISHMENT.—No noose is good news! (But what will grim Lord GRIMTHORPE say?)

The Cheapest Insurance Office must be the Fee-nix.

STORICULES.

II.—THE BACK-VIEW.

The boy had gone out to get change.

I was waiting in the studio, listening to the photographer. He was in quite a small way of business, and no one would have expected him to have any change for anything. I was sitting on a rustic stile, with a Greek temple and some wilted Spiræas in the background. He was in the dark room, busy, splashing liquids about, and reminiscent. I still believe that he thought the time of waiting would seem shorter to me if he talked. The whole place seemed to suggest financial difficulties, and smelt of chemicals.

"You remember the Punyer case?" he asked. His voice sounded thin and far-off through the closed door of the dark room.

I did. PUNYER had been a cashier, and had absconded with rather more than the usual amount.

"Well, I had some dealings with PUNYER. As a cashier he was certainly dishonest, but as a man he was absolutely reliable, and nothing would induce him to break his word. I know that to be a fact from my personal experience of the man; indeed, it was through me that he was identified—or, rather, through one of my photographs."

"Really?"

"Yes. On the day that he absconded, a four-wheeler drove up to this house. The driver got off, and sent a message up to the studio that a gentleman in a cab outside wished to speak to me. So, of course, I went out. Inside the cab I found a man wearing a thick green veil. He explained to me that his face had been injured in a railway accident, and that he could not allow it to be seen by any one. He wanted me to photograph the back of his head. He knew that the request was unusual. 'But,' he said, pathetically, 'my few friends have got to know the back of my head, just as they know the faces of others who are—who are less unfortunate than myself. The doctors tell me that I have not long to live, and my friends are eager to have some slight memento of me.' I was much moved, and I agreed to photograph him at once."

"The man was PUNYER?"

"Of course. The photograph of the back of his head turned out admirably—clear and full of character."

"But why did he get photographed at all?"

"You shall hear; it all came out afterwards. I have already told you that PUNYER, in his private capacity, was a man of his word. It appears that he was engaged to a Miss MIRANDA BUDE. Indeed, it was to her that I was to send the photographs when they were finished. He had promised her that he would have his photograph taken for her on his birthday; and the day on which he absconded happened to be his birthday. He could not break his promise. What was he to do? At first he disguised himself as far as he could; he shaved off his luxurious beard and moustache; he had his long fair hair closely cropped and stained black. But there was on his face one certain mark of identification which he could not alter nor remove. It was a slight scar, extending diagonally across his forehead; when he was a child he once fell into the fender, and the mark had remained ever since. At last the bright idea occurred to him that he might have the back of his head photographed instead of his face, and so keep his promise to MIRANDA. It was really a brilliant idea. For there was absolutely nothing in the view of the back of his head by which he could be identified."

"But you told me just now that he actually was identified by your photograph."

"So he was;—I was just going to explain. I was sitting in my studio one day, touching up the photographs of the back-view of PUNYER, when in came a detective from Scotland Yard. From his appearance, a detective was the last thing on earth that you would have taken him to be."

"They generally say that in the detective stories," I said, meditatively.

"If you think I'm making this up—"

"No, no,—not at all. Go on."

"Well, he told me his business, and I at once showed him one of the photographs, telling him under what circumstances they were taken. He examined it carefully. 'Ah!' he said, 'if I only could prove that this was PUNYER, I should be able to complete my case, and my advancement would be certain. In my own mind I am convinced of it, but at present I cannot prove it. PUNYER had a scar on his face. It was like his devilish cunning to have only the back of his head photographed!' He was just leaving, when suddenly a new idea seemed to flash across him. He seized the photograph, and rushed across to the mirror. You know that if anything is written backwards, you can read it by holding it up to a looking-glass. So, of course, the detective, by holding up the photograph of the back-view, saw the full-face reflected. The scar showed just above the green veil, and consequently—"

At this point the boy returned with my change. The photographer had locked himself into the dark room, and I could not get at him; the law gives a man no redress under such circumstances, and so I came away.

I might have got over the story, perhaps; but my change, I found afterwards, was sixpence short, and that is not so easy to forgive.

"ENTERTAINMENT."

["People of this high class (Royal Highnesses, &c.) are said to 'entertain' visitors, but that is an inversion of the actual fact; their object is to be entertained. And quite right too. Nothing can surely be more delightful than to have one's house full of friends at will, and then be able to turn them out at a moment's notice (as a life-boat gets rid of superfluous water) by that simple mechanism of a Chamberlain. When the Social System attains its acmé, all of us will have a Chamberlain and be entertained."—JAMES PAYN.]

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