We have sometimes been tempted to believe that all illustrious occasions, men, and things, in this Republic, must inevitably be profaned,—that, as a compensatory balance to the ‘greatest good of the greatest number,’ secured by democratic institutions, there must exist a sacrifice of the hallowed, aspiring, and consecrated elements of national feeling and achievement. If there is an anniversary which should compel respect, excite eternal gratitude, and win unhackneyed observance, it is that of the day when, for the first time in the world’s history, the select intelligences of a country proclaimed to the nations, with deliberate and resolved wisdom, the principles of human equality and the right of self-government, pledged thereto their lives, fortunes, and honour, and consistently redeemed the heroically prophetic pledge. Subsequent events have only deepened the significance of that act, and extended its agency; every succeeding year has increased its moral value and its material fruits; the career of other and less happy nations has given more and more relief to its isolated grandeur; and not a day fraught with more hope and glory lives in the calendar. Yet what is the actual observance, the average estimation, it boasts among us? In our large cities, especially in New York, ‘Independence’ is, by universal consent, a nuisance. It is most auspicious to the Chinese, from increasing the importation of fire-crackers. The municipal authorities provide for it as for a lawless saturnalia; the fire-department dread its approach as indicative of conflagrations; physicians, as hazardous to such unfortunate patients as cannot be removed into the country; quiet citizens, as insufferable from incessant detonation; the prudent, as fraught with reckless tomfoolery; and the respectable, as desecrated by rowdyism. John Adams, when he prophesied that the Fourth of July would be hailed, in all after-time, by the ringing of bells, the blaze of bonfires, and the roar of cannon, was far from intending, by this programme of Anglo-Saxon methods of popular rejoicing, to indicate the exclusive and ultimate style of our national holiday. On its earlier recurrence, when many of the actors in the scenes it commemorates still lived, there was an interest and a meaning in the ceremonies which time has lessened. Yet it is difficult to account for the absence of all that high civilization presupposes, in the celebration of our only holiday which can strictly be called national; and if the sympathies of the most intelligent of our citizens could be enlisted, so as to make the occasion a genuine patriotic jubilee—instead of a noisy carnival, or a time for political animosity to assert itself with special emphasis,—much would be gained on the score of rational enjoyment and American fraternity. As it is, although the ‘Hundred Boston Orators’ nobly vindicate the talent and good taste of one city in regard to this anniversary, and is a most pleasing historical memorial of the occasion, it cannot be denied that our usual synonyme for bombast and mere rhetorical patriotism is ‘a Fourth of July Oration,’ and that Pickwickian sentiment, pyrotechnic flashes, torpedoes, arrests, bursting cannon, draggled flags, crowded steamboats, the retiracy of the educated and the uproar of the multitude, make up the confused and wearisome details of what should and might be a sacred feast, a pious memory, a hallowed consecration, a ‘Sabbath day of Freedom.’ Perhaps the real zest of this holiday is felt only abroad, when, under some remote consular flag, at the board of private and munificent hospitality in London, or at an American réunion in the French capital, distance from home, the ties of common nativity in a foreign land, and the contrast of uneducated masses or despotic insignia around, with the prosperous, free, and enlightened population of our own favoured country, to say nothing of superior festal arrangements, render the occasion at once charming and memorable.

One of the most noticeable features of American life to a stranger’s eye is the prevalent habit of travel; and although the incessant and huge caravans that rush along the numerous railways which make an iron network over this Union are, for the most part, impelled by motives of enterprise and thrift, yet the common idea of recreation is associated with a ‘trip.’ Whether the facilities or the temperament of our country, or both, be the reason of this locomotive propensity, it is a characteristic which at once distinguishes the American from the home-tethered German, the Paris-bound Frenchman, and the locally-patriotic Italian. The schoolboy in vacation, the college graduate, the bridegroom, the overtasked professional man,—all Americans who give themselves a ‘holiday,’ are wont to dedicate it to a journey. But even this resource has lost much of its original charm from the catastrophes which have associated some of the most beautiful scenery of the land with the most agonizing of human tragedies. In the crystal waters of Lake George, by the picturesque banks of the Hudson, amid the fertile valleys of the Connecticut, on the teeming currents of Long Island Sound, have perished, often through reckless hardihood, always by more or less reprehensible negligence, some of the fairest and the noblest of our citizens. The statistics of these melancholy events, which have so often appalled the public, have yet to be written; but their moral effect may be divined by a mere glance at the mercenary hardihood and soulless haste that mark our civilization. ‘Les dangers personnels,’ says an acute writer; ‘quand ils attegnent une certaine limite, bouleversent tous les rapports et l’oublie de l’espérance changé presque notre nature.’ The zest, too, of a journey in America is much diminished by the monotonous character of the people, and by the gregarious habits, the rapid transits, and the business motives of the voyageurs, so that it is only at the terminus that we enjoy our pilgrimage; there the sight of a magnificent prairie or mountain range, cataract or mammoth cave, may, indeed, vindicate our locomotive taste, and the wonders of Nature make, for the imaginative and reverential, a glorious holiday.

A pleasing feature in the recreative aspect of American life is the literary festival. It is a beautiful custom of our scholars annually to meet amid the scenes of their academical education and renew youthful friendships, while they listen to the orator and poet, who dwell upon those problems of the times which challenge an intellectual solution and identify the duties of the citizen with the offices of learning. Within the memory of almost all, there is probably at least one of these occasions when the interest of the performances or the circumstances of the hour lent a memorable charm to the collegiate holiday; when, under the shade of venerable elms that witnessed the first outpouring of mental enthusiasm or the earliest honours of genius and attainment, they who parted as boys meet as men, and the classic dreamer felt himself a recognized and practical thinker for the people; when the language of eloquent wisdom or poetic beauty came warm from lips hallowed by the chalice of fame. Who that listened ever can forget the anniversary graced by the chaste eloquence of Buckminster, that on which Bryant recited The Ages, or Everett’s musical periods welcomed Lafayette to the oldest seat of American learning? What New England scholar, after years of professional labour in a distant State, ever found himself once more within the charmed precincts of his alma mater, and surrounded by the companions of his youthful studies, without a thrill of happy reminiscence? Yet even these rational opportunities for what should be a genuine holiday to mind and heart are but casually appreciated. The sultry period of their occurrence, the irregularity of attendance, and the precarious quality of the ‘feast of reason’ provided, have caused them gradually to lose a tenacious hold upon the affections, while there are few habitués, the majority, especially those who live at a distance from the scene, and whose presence is therefore especially desirable,—are not loyal pilgrims to the shrine where their virgin distinction was earned and their intellectual armour forged. To many, our literary festivals are but technical ceremonies; to not a few, wearisome forms; associated rather with fans, didactics, perspiration, and cold viands, than with any social or intellectual refreshment. The ‘lean annuitant’ who loved to visit ‘Oxford in vacation,’ and fancy himself a gownsman, and the ingenious ‘Opium Eater’ who has recorded the enduring claims of those venerable cloisters to the scholar’s gratitude, enjoyed speculatively more of the real luxury of academic repose and triumph than is often attained by those who ostensibly participate in our college festivals; and seldom do her children go up to the altars of wisdom consecrated by the pious zeal of our ancestors, with the faithful recognition of the venerable pastor, so long the statistical oracle of the surviving graduates, who, while his strength sufficed, cheerily walked from his rural parish to Old Harvard, to lead off the anniversary psalm, with genial pride and honest self-gratulation.

Of our purely social holidays, New Year’s day, as observed in the city of New York, bears the palm. Initiated by the hospitable instinct of the Dutch colonists, neither the heterogeneous population which has succeeded them, nor the annually enlarged circuit of the metropolis, has diminished the universality or the heartiness of its observance. When the snow is massed in the thoroughfares, and the sunshine tempers a clear, frosty atmosphere, a more cheerful scene, on a large scale, it is impossible to imagine. From morning to midnight, sleighs, freighted with gay companions and drawn by handsome steeds, dash merrily along,—the tinkling of their bells and the scarlet lining their buffalo-robes redolent of a fête; the sidewalks are alive with hurrying pedestrians who exchange cordial greetings as they pass one another; doors incessantly fly open; guests come and go; every one looks prosperous and happy; business is totally suspended; in warm parlours, radiant with comfort or splendid with luxury, sit the wives, daughters, sisters, or fair favourites of these innumerable visitors, the queens of the day; the neglects of the past are forgiven and forgotten in the welcome of the present; kindred, friends, and acquaintances all meet and begin the year with mutual good wishes; in every dwelling a little feast stands ready, encompassed with smiles; and all varieties of fortune, all degrees of intimacy, all tastes in dress, entertainment, and manners, on this one day, are consecrated by the liberal and kindly spirit of a social carnival.

Of associations expressly instituted for the observance of holidays there is no lack; of days technically devoted to festivity, in the aggregate, our proportion equals that of older communities; and the legitimate occasions for pastime and ceremony, social pleasure, or historical commemoration, are as numerous as is consistent with the industrious habits and the civic prosperity of the land. The traveller who should make it his specialty to discover and note the ostensible merrymakings and pageants of America would find the list neither brief nor monotonous. In the summer he would light upon many an excursion on our beautiful lakes, many a chowder-party to the seaside, and picnic in the grove; and in the winter would catch the shrill echo of the skating frolic. Here, through pillared trunks, he would behold the smoke-wreaths of the sugar-camp; there watch laughing groups clustered round the cider-mill or hop-field; and in woods radiant with autumnal tints, or prairies balmy with a million flowers, would sounds of merriment announce to him the cheerful bivouac. Nor have American holidays, even in their most primitive aspect, been devoid of use and beauty. The once-renowned ‘musters’ fostered military taste, and the cattle-shows encouraged agricultural science; with the increase of horticultural festivals, our fruits and flowers have constantly improved; regattas and yacht-clubs have indirectly promoted nautical architecture; school festivals attest the superiority of our system of popular education; family gatherings, on the large scale observed in several instances, have induced genealogical research; historical celebrations have led to the collection and preservation of local archives and memorials; the Cincinnati Society annually renews the noblest patriotic sympathies; and the genius for mechanical invention is proclaimed by the fairs which, every October, bring together so many trophies of skilful handiwork and husbandry, and recognize so emphatically the dignity and scientific amelioration of labour. Yet these facts do not invalidate the general truth that our festivals are too much tinctured with utilitarian aims to breathe earnestness and hilarity; that they are so specific as to represent the division rather than the social triumphs of human toil; that they are too partial in their scope, too sectional in their objects, and too isolated in their arrangements, to meet the claims of popular and permanent interests. Our harvests are songless. Reaping-machines have diminished the zest of autumn’s golden largess, as destructive inventions have lessened the miracles of chivalry. Here and there may yet convene a quilting-party, but locomotive facilities have deprived rural gatherings, in sparse neighbourhoods, of their marvel and their joy; and the hilarious huskings of old chiefly survive in Barlow’s neglected verse:—

Progress in taste and sentiment, however, is already obvious in our recreative arrangements. There is vastly more of intellectual dignity and permanent use in the fêtes of the Lyceum than in those of the training-days and election-jubilees which formerly were the chief holidays of our rural population; exhibitions of flowers mark a notable advance upon the coarse diversions of the ring and the race-ground; and, within a few years, statues by native artists, worthy of their illustrious subjects, have been inaugurated by public rites and noble eloquence.

A radical cause of the inefficiency, and therefore of the indifferent observance of our holidays, may be found in our national inadequacy of expression, in the want of those modes of popular rejoicing and ceremonial that win and triumph, from their intrinsic beauty. As a general truth, it may be asserted that but two methods of representing holiday sentiment are native to the average taste of our people,—military display and oral discourse. These exhaust our festal resources. Our citizens have an extraordinary facility in making occasional speeches; and the love of soldiership is so prevalent that it is the favourite sport of children, and all classes indulge in costly uniforms and volunteer parades. But the language of art, which in the Old World lends such a permanent attraction to holidays, with us hardly finds voice. Had we requiems conceived with the eternal pathos of Mozart; harmonious embodiments of rural pastime, like that which Beethoven caught while sitting on a style amid the subdued murmurs of a summer evening; melodious invocations to freedom, such as Bellini’s thrilling duo; were a symphony as readily composed in America as an oration; tableaux, costumes, and processions as artistically invented here as in France; were dance and song as spontaneously expressive as among the European peasantry; had we vast, open, magnificent temples, free gardens, statues to crown, shrines to frequent, palatial balconies, fields Elysian for both rich and poor, a sensibility to music, and a sense of the appropriate and beautiful, as wide and as instinctive as our appreciation of the useful, the practical, and the comfortable,—it would no longer be requisite to resort exclusively to drums, fifes, powder, substantial viands, and speechifying, to give utterance to the common sentiment, which would find vent in tones, forms, hues, combinations, and sympathies, that respond to the heart, through the imagination, and conform ‘the show of things to the desires of the mind.’

Other causes of our deficient holidays are obvious. The primary are to be found in the absorption in business and the dominion of practical habits, both of thought and action. Enterprise holds Carnival while Poetry keeps Lent. The facts of to-day shut out of view the perspective of time, or, at best, lure the gaze forward with boundless expectancy. To rehearse the fortunate achievements of the past gratifies our national egotism; but the sensibility and meditation which consecrate historical associations find no room amid the rush and eagerness of the passing hour. Content to point to the heroic episode of the Revolution, to the wisdom and justice of our Constitution, to the caravans that sweep on iron tracks over leagues of what a few years ago was a pathless forest, to the swiftest keels and most graceful models that traverse the ocean, to the aërial viaducts that span dizzy heights and impetuous torrents, to the exquisite vignettes of a limitless paper currency, to the dignified and consistent maintenance of usurped law in younger States of the Union, and to the continually increasing resources of its older members; we are disposed to sneer at the childish love of amusement which beguiles the inhabitants of European capitals, and to pity the superstition and idleness which retain, in this enlightened age, the melodramatic church shows of Romanism. In all this there is doubtless a certain manly intelligence; but there is also an inauspicious moral hardihood. If, as a people, we cultivated more heartily the social instincts and humane sentiments expressed in holiday rites, life would be more valued, the whole nature would find congenial play, and our taskwork and duty, our citizenship and our natural advantages, would be adorned by gracefulness, alacrity, and repose. Quantity would not be so grossly estimated above quality, speed above security, routine above enjoyment. We need to win from time what is denied to us in material. Other nations have in art a permanent and accessible refreshment, which prevents life from being wholly prosaic; the humblest dweller on English soil can enter a time-hallowed and beautiful cathedral; the poorest rustic in Italy can feel the honest pride of a distinctive festal attire; the veriest clod-hopper in Germany can soften the rigours of poverty by music; the London apprentice may wander once a week amid the venerable beauties of Hampton Court; and the Parisian shopkeeper may kindle pride of country by reading the pictorial history of France at Versailles. It is not the expensive arrangements, but the national provision, and, above all, the personal sentiment, which makes the holiday. There was more holy rapture in the low cadence of the hymn stealing from the Roman catacombs, where the hunted Christians of old kept holy the Sabbath day, than there is in the gorgeous display and complex melody under the magnificent dome of St. Peter’s. There was more of the grace of festivity in such a dance as poor Goldsmith’s flute enlivened on the banks of the Loire, than there is in the grand ball which marks the season’s climax at an American watering-place. In public not less than private banquets, the scriptural maxim holds true: ‘Better is a dinner of herbs where love is.’ Our national life is too diffusive to yield the best social fruits. The extent of territory, the nomadic habits of our people, the alternations of climate, the vicissitudes of trade, the prevalence of spasmodic and superficial excitements, the boundless passion for gain, the local changes, the family separations, and the incessant fevers of opinion, scatter the holy fire of love, reverence, self-respect, contemplation, and faith. What a senseless boast, that the United States has thirty-five thousand miles of railroad,[19] while England claims but ninety-two hundred, France forty-eight hundred, if against the American overplus are to be arrayed countless hecatombs of murdered fellow-citizens, and desolating frauds unparalleled in the history of finance! What a mockery the distinction of having accumulated a fortune in a few years, by sagacity and toil, if, to complete the record, it is added that mercenary ambition risked and lost it in as many months, or the want of self-control and mental resources made its possession a life-long curse from ennui or tasteless extravagance! It is as a check to the whirl of inconsiderate speculation, an antidote to the bane of material luxury, an interval in the hurried march of executive life, that holidays should ‘give us pause,’ and might prove a means of refinement and of disinterestedness. We could thus infuse a better spirit into our work-day experience, refresh and warm the nation’s heart, and gradually concentrate what of higher taste and more genial sympathy underlies the restless and cold tide that hurries us onward, unmindful of the beauty and indifferent to the sanctities with which God and Nature have invested our existence.

Of natal anniversaries we have in our national calendar one which it would augur well for the Republic to observe as a universal holiday. Every sentiment of gratitude, veneration, and patriotism has already consecrated it to the private heart; and every consideration of unity, good faith, and American feeling designates its celebration as the most sacred civic fête of the land. Recent demonstrations in literature, art, and oratory, indicate that the obligation and importance of keeping before the eyes, minds, and affections of the people the memory of Washington, are emphatically recognized by genius and popular sentiment. Within a few years, the pen of our most endeared author, the eloquence of our most finished orator, and the chisel of our best sculptors, have combined to exhibit, in the most authentic and impressive forms of literary and plastic art, the character and image of the Father of his Country. Copies of Stuart’s masterly portrait have multiplied. A monument bearing the revered name is slowly rising at the Capital, the materials of which are gathered from every part of the globe. One of the last and most noble efforts to renew the waning national sentiment, ere its lapse brought on civil war, was that of a New England scholar, patriot, and orator who, despite the allurements of prosperity and the claims of age and long service, traversed the length and breadth of the Republic, eloquently expatiating on the character of Washington, retracing his spotless and great career, and evoking his sacred memory as a talisman to quicken and combine a people’s love. With the large contributions thus secured, and those gathered by the daughters of the Republic, the home and grave of Washington has been redeemed as national property. Let the first homage of a free people be paid at that shrine; and alienated fellow-citizens gather there as at a common altar: his tomb is thus doubly hallowed. In Virginia is a sculptured memorial of enduring beauty and historical significance. A new and admirable biography, with all the elements of standard popularity, makes his peerless career familiar to every citizen from the woods of Maine to the shores of the Pacific. One effective statue already ornaments the commercial emporium, and another is about to be erected in the city of Boston. These, and many other signs of the times, prove that the fanaticism of party strife has awakened the wise and loyal to a consciousness of the inestimable value of that great example and canonized name, as a bond of union, a conciliating memory, and a glorious watchword. Desecrated as has been his native State by rebels against the government he founded and the nation he inaugurated, profaned as has been his memory, now that Peace smiles upon the land his august image will reappear to every true, loyal, and patriotic heart with renewed authority, and hallowed by a deeper love. The present, therefore, is a favourable moment to institute the birthday of Washington—hitherto but partially and ineffectually honoured—as a solemn National Festival. Around his tomb let us annually gather; let eloquence and song, leisure and remembrance, trophies of art, ceremonies of piety, and sentiments of gratitude and admiration, consecrate that day with an unanimity of feeling and of rites, which shall fuse and mould into one pervasive emotion the divided hearts of the country, until the discordant cries of faction are lost in the anthems of benediction and of love; and, before the august spirit of a people’s homage, sectional animosity is awed into universal reverence.

LAWYERS.

From the Mosaic code, enrolled on tables of stone, to the convention which inaugurated that of the modern conqueror of Europe, law has been a field for the noblest triumphs and most gross perversions of the human intellect. No profession offers such extremes of glory and shame. From the most wretched sophistry to the grandest inference, from a quibble to a principle, from the august minister of justice to the low pettifogger, how great the distance; yet all are included within a common pale.

In every social circle and family group there is an oracle—some individual whose age, wit, or force of character, gives an intellectual ascendency,—and there are always Bunsbys, to ‘give an opinion’ among the ignorant, to which the others spontaneously defer; and thus instinctively arises the lawgiver, sometimes ruling with the rude dogmatism of Dr. Johnson, and at others, through the humorous good sense of Sydney Smith, or the endearing tact of Madame Recamier. These authorities, in the sphere of opinion and companionship, indicate how natural to human society is a recognized head, whence emanates that controlling influence to which we give the name of law. Like every other element of life, this loses somewhat of its native beauty, when organized and made professional. To every vocation there belong master-spirits who have established precedents, and there are natural lawgivers; as in art, Michael Angelo and Raphael; in oratory, Demosthenes; in philosophy, Bacon. The endowments of each not only justify, but originate their authority; they interpret truth through their superior insight and wisdom in their respective departments of action and of thought; but of the vast number who undertake to illustrate, maintain, or apply the laws which govern states, a small minority are gifted for the task, or aspire to its higher functions; hence the proverbial abuse of the profession, its few glorious ornaments, and its herd of perverted slaves.

From this primary condition, it is impossible for any human being to escape; if he goes into the desert, he is still subject to the laws of Nature, and, however retired he may live amid his race, the laws of society press upon him at some point; if his own opinion is his law in matters of fancy or politics, he must still obey the law of the road: in one country the law of primogeniture; in another, that of conscription; in one circle, a law of taste; in another, of custom; and in a third, of privilege, reacts upon his free agency; at his club is sumptuary law; over his game of whist, Hoyle; in his drawing-room, Chesterfield; now l’esprit du corps; and, again, the claims of rank; in Maine, the liquor law; in California, lynch law; in Paris, a gens d’armes; at Rome, a permission of residence; on an English domain, the game laws; in the fields of Connecticut, a pound; everywhere, turnpikes, sheriffs’ sales, marriage certificates, prisons, courts, passports, and policemen, thrust before the eyes of the most peaceable and reserved cosmopolite—insignia that assure him that law is everywhere unavoidable. His physician discourses to him of the laws of health; his military friends, of tactics; the beaux, of etiquette; the belles, of la mode; the authors, of tasteful precedents; the reformer, of social systems; and thus all recognize and yield to some code.

If he have nothing to bequeath, no tax to pay, no creditor to sue, or libeller to prosecute, he yet must walk the streets, and thereby realize the influence or neglect of municipal law in the enjoyment of ‘right of way,’ or the nausea from some neglected offal; the accidents incident to travel in this country assure him of the slight tenure of corporate responsibility under republican law; and the facility of divorce, the removal of old landmarks, the incessant subdivision and dispersion of estates, indicate that devotion to the immediate which a French philosopher ascribes to free institutions, and which affects legal as well as social phenomena. In a tour abroad, he discovers new majesty in the ruins of the Forum, from their association with the ancient Roman law, upon which modern jurisprudence is founded; and a curious interest attaches to the picturesque beauty of Amalfi, because the Pandects were there discovered. Westminster revives the tragic memories of the State trials, and seems yet to echo the Oriental rhetoric that made the trial of Hastings a Parliamentary romance. At Bologna, amid the old drooping towers, under the pensive arcades, in the radiant silence of the picture-gallery, comes back the traditionary beauty of the fair lecturer, who taught the students juridical lore from behind a curtain, that her loveliness might not bewilder the minds her words informed; and at Venice, every dark-robed, graceful figure that glides by the porticoes of San Marco’s moonlit square, revives the noble Portia’s image, and that ‘same scrubbed boy, the doctor’s clerk.’

No inconsiderable legal knowledge has been traced in Shakspeare. His Justice Shallow and Dogberry are types of imbecile magistracy; in the historical plays, the law of legitimacy is defined; and not a little judicial lore is embodied in the Merchant of Venice and Taming the Shrew. Lord Campbell wrote a book to prove that Shakspeare, in his youth, must have been, at least, an attorney’s clerk. One of the characters in a popular novel is made to say that he is never in company with a lawyer but he fancies himself in a witness-box. This hit at the interrogative propensity of the class is by no means an exaggerated view of a use to which they are specially inclined to put conversation; and if we compare the ordeal of inquiry to which we are thus subjected, it will be found more thorough and better fitted to test our knowledge than that of any other social catechism; so that, perhaps, we gain in discipline what we lose in patience. It is to be acknowledged, also, that few men are better stocked with ideas, or more fluent in imparting them, than well-educated lawyers. There is often a singular zest in their anecdotes, a precision in their statement of facts, and a dramatic style of narrative, which render them the pleasantest of companions. In all clever coteries of which we have any genial record, there usually figures a lawyer, as a wit, a boon companion, an entertaining dogmatist, or an intellectual champion. In literature, the claims and demerits of the profession are emphatically recognized; and it is curious to note the varied inferences of philosophers and authors. Thus, Dr. Johnson says to Boswell: ‘Sir, a lawyer has no business with the justice or injustice of the cause he undertakes;’ and ‘everybody knows you are paid for affecting a warmth for your client.’ ‘Justice,’ observes Sydney Smith, ‘is found, experimentally, to be best promoted by the opposite efforts of practised and ingenious men, presenting to an impartial judge the best argument for the establishment and explanation of truth.’ ‘Some are allured to the trade of law,’ says Milton, ‘by litigiousness and fat fees;’ one authoritative writer describes a lawyer as a man whose understanding is on the town; another declares no man departs more from justice; Sancho Panza said his master would prattle more than three attorneys; and Coleridge thought that, ‘upon the whole, the advocate is placed in a position unfavourable to his moral being, and indeed to his intellect also, in its higher powers;’ while it was a maxim of Wilkes, that scoundrel and lawyer are synonymous terms. Our pioneer littérateur, Brockden Brown, whose imaginative mind revolted at the dry formalities of the law, for which he was originally intended, defined it as ‘a tissue of shreds and remnants of a barbarous antiquity, patched by the stupidity of modern workmen into new deformity.’ ‘In the study of law,’ remarks the poet Gray, ‘the labour is long, and the elements dry and uninteresting, nor was there ever any one not disgusted at the beginning.’ Foote, the comic writer and actor, feigned surprise to a farmer that attorneys were buried in the country like other men; in town, he declared, it was the custom to place the body in a chamber, with an open window, and it was sure to disappear during the night, leaving a smell of brimstone. A portrait-painter assures us he is never mistaken in a lawyer’s face; the avocation is betrayed to his observant eye by a certain inscrutable expression; and Dickens has given this not exaggerated picture of a class in the profession: ‘Smoke-dried and faded, dwelling among mankind, but not consorting with them, aged without experience of genial youth, and so long used to make his cramped nest in holes and corners of human nature, that he has forgotten its broader and better range.’

A French writer defines a lawyer as ‘un marchand de phrases, un fabricant de paradoxes, qui ment pour l’argent et vend ses paroles;’ and another remarks of the profession that it is a ‘vaste champ, ouvert aux ambitions des honnêtes; une tribune offerte aux subtilités de la pensée et l’abus de la parole;’ while Arthur Helps declares that ‘law affords a notable example of loss of time, of heart, of love, of leisure. I observe,’ he adds, ‘that the first Spanish colonists in America wrote home to Government, begging them not to allow lawyers to come to the colony.’[20] On the other hand, what an eloquent tribute to the possible actual beneficence of law is the close of Lord Brougham’s memorable speech in its defence:—

‘Why may not this be a lawyer’s skull?’ muses Hamlet, in the graveyard; ‘where be his quiddets now, his quillets, his cases, his tenures, and his tricks? Humph! this fellow might be in ’s time a greater buyer of land, with his statutes, his recognizances, his fines, his double-vouchers, his recoveries; and this, the fine of his fines, and the recovery of his recoveries, to have his fine poll full of dirt! The very conveyances of his lands will hardly lie in this box; and must the inheritor himself have no more?’

The diversities of the profession in England and America are curious and suggestive. Already is the obligation mutual; for if in the old country there are more profound, and elaborate resources, in the new the science has received brilliant elucidations, and its forms and processes been simplified. There routine is apt to dwarf, and here variety to dissipate the lawyer’s ability; there he is too often a mere drudge, and here his vocation regarded as the vestibule only of political life. In England, the advocate’s knowledge is frequently limited to his special department; and in America, while it is less complete and accurate, he is versed in many other subjects, and apt at many vocations. ‘The Americans,’ says Sydney Smith, ‘are the first persons who have discarded, in the administration of justice, the tailor, and his auxiliary the barber,—two persons of endless importance in the codes and pandects of Europe. A judge administers justice without a calorific wig and parti-coloured gown—in a coat and pantaloons; he is obeyed, however; and life and property are not badly protected in the United States.’

There can be no more striking contrast than that between the lives of the English chancellors and the American chief justices: in the former, regal splendour, the vicissitudes of kingcraft and succession, of religious transition, of courts, war, the people and the nobility, lend a kind of feudal splendour, or tragic interest, or deep intrigue, to the career of the minister of justice; he is surrounded with the insignia of his office; big wigs, scarlet robes, ermine mantles, the great seal, interviews with royalty, the trappings and the awe of power invest his person; his career is identified with the national annals; the lapse of time and historic associations lend a mysterious interest to his name; in the background, there is the martyrdom of Thomas à Becket, the speech of the fallen Wolsey, the scaffold of Sir Thomas More, the inductive system and low ambition of Bacon, and the literary fame of Clarendon. Yet, in intellectual dignity, our young republic need not shrink from the comparison. The Virginia stripling, who drilled regulars in a hunting-shirt, is a high legal authority in both hemispheres. ‘Where,’ says one of Marshall’s intelligent eulogists, ‘in English history, is the judge whose mind was at once so enlarged and so systematic; who had so thoroughly reduced professional science to general reason; in whose disciplined intellect technical learning had so completely passed into native sense?’ And now that Kent’s Commentaries have become the indispensable guide and reference of the entire profession, who remembers, except with pride, that, on his first circuit, the Court was often held in a barn, with the hayloft for a bench, a stall for a bar, and the shade of a neighbouring apple-tree for a jury-room? The majesty of justice, the intellectual superiority of law as a pursuit, is herein most evident; disrobed of all external magnificence, with no lofty and venerable halls, imposing costume, or array of officials, the law yet borrows from the learning, the fidelity, and the genius of its votaries, essential dignity and memorable triumphs. ‘Of law, no less can be said,’ grandly observes Hooker, ‘than that her seat is the bosom of God, her voice the harmony of the world.’

The most celebrated English lawyers have their American prototypes; thus, Marshall has been compared to Lord Mansfield, Pinkney to Erskine, and Wirt to Sheridan (who was a student of the Middle Temple, though not called to the bar); imperfect as are such analogies, they yet indicate, with truth, a similarity of endowment, or style of advocacy. The diverse influence of the respective institutions of the two countries is, however, none the less apparent because of an occasional resemblance in the genius of eminent barristers. The genuine British lawyer is recognized, by the technical cast of his expression and habit of mind, to a degree seldom obvious in this country. Indeed, no small portion of the graduates of our colleges who select the law as a pursuit, do so without any strong bias for the profession, but with a view to the facilities it affords for entrance into public life. Some of these aspirants thus become useful servants of the State; a few, statesmen; but the majority, mere politicians; and from the predominance of the latter class originate half the errors of American legislation; for, however much profound legal training may fit a man of ability for the higher functions of representative government, a superficial knowledge and practice of law renders him only an adept in chicanery and the ‘gift of the gab;’ and it is easy to imagine how a mob of such adroit and ambitious partisans—especially when brought together from the narrow sphere of village life—may pervert the great ends of legislative action. They make the laws according to their own interests; and there is no prospect of the reformation demanded in juridical practice, while such a corps form the speaking and voting majority, and act on what has been justly called the one great principle of English law,—‘to make business for itself.’[21]

Two names appear on the roll of English lawyers which are identified with the worst characteristics of the race—impious, wild, and browbeating arrogance,—that of Jeffreys, whose ferocious persecution of those suspected of complicity with Monmouth’s Rebellion forms one of the most scandalous chapters in the history of British courts; and Lord Thurlow, who, in a more refined age, won the alias of Tiger, for his rudeness, inflexibility, oaths, and ill-manners, his black brows, and audible growls. In beautiful contrast shine forth the Law Reformers of England, whose benign eloquence and unwearied labour mitigated the sanguinary rigours of the criminal code, and pressed the Common Law into the service of humanity. Romilly and Erskine have gained a renown more enduring than that of learned and gifted advocates; their professional glory is heightened and mellowed by the sacred cause it illustrates.

The trial by jury and habeas corpus are the grand privileges of England and our own country; the integrity of the former has been invaded among us, by the abuse incident to making judgeships elective, and by the lawless spirit of the western communities; while the conviction of such eminent criminals as Earl Ferrers, Dr. Dodd, and Fauntleroy, prove how it has been, and is, respected by the public sentiment of England.

‘The great expense of the simplest lawsuit,’ writes an English lawyer, in a popular magazine, ‘and the droll laws which force all English subjects into a court of equity for their sole redress, in an immense number of cases, lead, at this present day, to a very entertaining class of practical jokes. I mean that ludicrous class, in which the joke consists of a man’s taking and keeping possession of money or other property to which he even pretends to have no shadow of right, but which he seizes because he knows that the whole will be swallowed up if the rightful owner should seek to assert his claim.’ The instances which are cited are rather fitted to excite a sense of humiliation than of fun, at the cruel injustice of a legal system which expressly organizes and protects robbery.

The legal treatises produced in England, in modern times, are wonderful monuments of erudition, research, and analytical power. The intelligent lawyer who examines Spence’s two volumes on equity, does not wonder his brain gave way when thus far advanced on his gigantic task. It is this patient study, this complete learning, which distinguishes the English lawyer; in point of eloquence, he is confessedly inferior to his Irish and American brethren, as they are to him in profundity; in the careful and persistent application of common sense to the hoarded legal acquisitions of centuries, the great minds of the English bar stand unrivalled. It is, indeed, the most certain professional avenue to official power. ‘Rely upon it,’ says a brilliant novelist, ‘the barrister’s gown is the wedding-garment to the British feast of fat things;’ and Veron declares that ‘en France, mais en France seulement, un avocat est propre à tout, tandis qu’un mèdecin n’est jugé propre à rien qu’ à hanter les hôpitaux.’

In this country, the lawyers of each State have a characteristic reputation; the Bar of Boston, as a whole, is more English, that of the South more Irish, in its general merits. Marshall was an exception to the eloquent fame of American lawyers born and bred south of the Potomac; his superiority was logical: ‘aim exclusively at strength,’ was his maxim; and ‘close, compact, simple, but irresistible logic,’ his great distinction. Wheaton’s labours in behalf of International, and Hamilton’s in that of Constitutional law, have laid the civilized world, as well as their native country, under high and lasting obligations.

The popular estimate of a profession is dependent on circumstances; and this, like every other human pursuit, takes its range and tone from the character of its votary, and the existent relation it holds to public sentiment; not so much from what it technically demands, but from the spirit in which it is followed, come the dignity and the shame of the law. The erudite generalizations of Savigny belong to the most difficult and enlarged sphere of thought, while the cunning tergiversations of the legal adventurer identify him with sharpers and roguery. How characteristic of Aaron Burr, that he should sarcastically define law as ‘whatever is boldly asserted and plausibly maintained.’ In the first cycle of our Republic, when a liberal education was rare, the best lawyers were ornaments of society, and the intellectual benefactors of the country. In that study were disciplined the chivalrous minds of Marshall, Hamilton, Adams, Morris, and other statesmen of the Revolution. A trial, which afforded the least scope for their remarkable powers, was attended by the intelligent citizens with very much the same kind of interest as filled the Athenian theatre—a mental banquet was confidently expected and deeply enjoyed. To have a great legal reputation, then, implied all that is noble in intellect, graceful in manner, and courteous in spirit—it bespoke the scholar, the gentleman, and the wit, as well as the advocate. When Emmet came hither with the prestige of inherited patriotism and talents, as well as the claims of an exile, he found men at the bar whose eloquence rivalled the fame of Curran and Grattan.

In Scotland, lawyers are eminently identified with social distinction and arrangements. ‘The fact of the substitution of the legal profession for the old Scottish aristocracy,’ says a late review, ‘in the chief place in Edinburgh society, is typified by the circumstance that the so-called Parliament House, which is on the site of the ancient hall where the Estates of the Kingdom sat when the nation made its own laws, is now the seat of the Scottish law-courts, and the daily resort of the interpreters of the land. The general hour of breakfast in Edinburgh is determined by the time when the Courts open in the morning; and, dispersed through their homes or at dinner-parties in the evening, it is the members of the legal profession that lead the social talk.’

The equality of free institutions was never more aptly illustrated than by a scene which occurred in a courthouse we used to frequent, in boyhood, in order to hear the impassioned rhetoric of a gifted criminal lawyer. A trial of peculiar interest was to come on; the room was crowded with spectators and officials; the judge, a venerable specimen of the stern and dignified magistrate, took his seat; the sheriff announced the opening of the court, and the clerk called over the names of those summoned to act as jurors. We were startled to hear, among those of grocers, draymen, and mechanics, the well-known name of an aristocratic millionaire. It was thrice repeated, and no answer given. ‘Has that juror been duly summoned?’ inquired the judge. ‘Yes, your honour,’ was the reply. ‘Let two constables instantly bring him before us,’ said the magistrate. One can imagine the vexation of the rich gentleman of leisure, when dawdling, in a flowered robe de chambre, over his sumptuous breakfast, to be disturbed by those rude minions of the law; however, there was no alternative, and he was obliged to despatch his meal and accompany the distasteful escort. He entered the court, where a deep silence prevailed, with a supercilious smile and complacent air of well-bred annoyance. ‘How dare you keep the court waiting, sir?’ was the indignant salutation of the judge, who, perhaps, when last in the gentleman’s company, had sipped a glass delectable of old Madeira to his health. ‘I intended to pay my fine and not serve,’ stammered the millionaire. ‘And do you suppose, sir, that wealth exonerates you from the duties of a citizen, and is any apology for your gross incivility in thus detaining the court for over an hour? No excuse will be accepted; either take your seat in the jury-box or stand committed.’ Through the silent crowd the luxurious man of fortune threaded his way, and sat down between a currier and wood-merchant, with whom he had to listen to the law and the evidence for a fortnight.

The author of the Lives of the English Chancellors refers to the usual explanation of the origin of the term ‘wool-sack,’ as intended in compliment to the staple product of the realm; and adds his own belief that, in ‘the rude simplicity of early times, a sack of wool was frequently used as a sofa.’ In the colonial era of our history, when ceremony and etiquette ruled the public hall as well as the private drawing-room, American judges wore the robe and wig still used in the Old Country. These insignia of authority inspired an awe, before the era of legal reform and of philosophical jurisprudence, which comported with the tyrannous exercise of juridical power, when it was little more than the medium of despotism, and when the calm reproach of Stafford was a literal truth: ‘It is better to be without laws altogether, than to persuade ourselves that we have laws by which to regulate our conduct, and to find that they consist only in the enmity and arbitrary will of our accusers.’

The Conveyancer, Writer to the Signet, Attorney, Barrister, and other divisions of the legal profession, indicate how, in this, as in other vocations, the division of labour operates in England; while on this side of the water, the contrary principle not only assigns to the lawyer a degree of knowledge and aptitude in each branch of his calling, but lays him under contribution in every political and social exigency, as an interpreter or advocate of public sentiment; hence his remarkable versatility and comparatively superficial attainments. In the history of English law, the early struggles and profound acquirements of her disciples form the salient points; while in that of America, they are to be found rather in the primitive resources of justice and the varied career of her ministers. With regard to the former, our many racy descriptions of the process of Western colonization abound in remarkable anecdotes of the unlicensed administration of justice. After the Pioneer comes the Ranger, a kind of border police, then the Regulator, and finally the Justice of the Peace. In the primitive communities, when a flagrant wrong is committed, a public meeting is called, perhaps under an oak-clump, or in a green hollow, the oldest settler is invited to the chair, which is probably the trunk of a fallen tree; the offence is discussed; the offender identified; volunteers scour the woods, he is arraigned, and, if found guilty, hung, banished, or reprimanded, as the case may be, with a despatch which is not less remarkable than the fair hearing he is allowed, and the cool decision with which he is condemned.

There is a peculiar kind of impudence exhibited by the lawyer—it is sometimes called ‘badgering a witness,’—and consists essentially of a mean abuse of that power which is legally vested in judge and advocate, whereby they can, at pleasure, insult and torment each other, and all exposed to their queries, with impunity. It is easy to imagine the relish with which unprofessional victims behold the mutual exercise of this legal tyranny. A venerable Justice, in one of our cities, was remarkable for the frequent reproofs he administered to young practitioners in his court, and the formal harangues with which he wore out the patience of those so unfortunate as to give testimony in his presence. On one occasion, it happened that he was summoned as a witness, in a case to be defended by one of the juvenile members of the bar, whom he had often called to order with needless severity. This hopeful limb of the law was gifted with more than a common share of the cool assurance so requisite in the profession, and determined to improve the opportunity, to make his ‘learned friend’ of the bench feel the sting he had so often inflicted. Accordingly, when his Honour took the stand, the counsel gravely inquired his name, occupation, place of residence, and sundry other facts of his personal history—though all were as familiar to himself and every one present as the old church, or main street of their native town. The queries were put in a voice and with a manner so exactly imitated from that of the judge himself, as to convulse the audience with laughter; every unnecessary word the hampered witness used was reprimanded as ‘beyond the question;’ he was continually adjured to ‘tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth;’ his expressions were captiously objected to; he was tantalized with repetitions and cross-questioning about the veriest trifles; and, finally, his tormentor, with a face of the utmost gravity, pretended to discover in the witness a levity of bearing, and equivocal replies, which called for a lecture on ‘the responsibility of an oath;’ this was delivered with a pedantic solemnity, in words, accent, and gesture so like one of his own addresses from the bench, that judge, jury, and spectators burst forth into irresistible peals of laughter; and the subject of this clever retaliation lost all self-possession, grew red and pale by turns, fumed, and at last protested, until his young adversary wound up the farce by a threat to commit him for contempt of court.

When Chief Justice Coleridge retired from the bench, his farewell address deeply affected the members of the bar present: ‘These are not your severest trials,’ said he, referring to the more familiar difficulties of the profession; ‘they are those which are most insidious; which beset you in the ordinary path of your daily duty; those which spring from the excitement of contest, from the love of intellectual display, and even from an exaggerated sense of duty to your clients. Gentlemen—especially my younger friends,—suffer me, without offence, to put you on your guard against these. We can well afford to bear traditional pleasantries upon us from without, but we cannot afford that, underlying these, there should exist among thoughtful persons a feeling that our professional standard of honour is questionable—that we, as advocates, will say and do in court what we, as gentlemen, would scorn to do in the common walks of life. Sometimes, I confess, it seems to me that we lend support to such a feeling by the lightness with which we impute ungenerous conduct or practices to each other. Surely no case is so sacred, no client so dear, that ever an advocate should be called upon to barter his own self-respect. If that be our duty, our great and glorious profession is no calling for a gentleman.’

The relation of law to poetry is proverbially antagonistic; and the attempt to bind imagination to technicalities has usually proved a hopeless experiment; and yet it is curious to note how many of the brotherhood of song were originally destined for this profession, and how similar their confessions are, of a struggle, a compromise, and, finally, an abandonment of jurisprudence for the sake of the Muses. Ovid, Petrarch, Tasso, Milton, Cowper, Ariosto, and others, are examples; Scott was faithful awhile to a branch of the law; Blackstone’s only known poem is a Farewell to the Muse; Marshall and Story wooed the Nine, in their youth; Talfourd deemed it requisite to declare, in the preface to Ion, that he ‘left no duty for this idle trade,’ and Proctor only weaves a song in the intervals of his stern task as a Commissioner of Lunacy. With philosophy the law is more congenial: Bacon and Mackintosh are illustrious examples of their united pursuit. Sir Thomas More wrote verses on the wall of his prison with a coal, and Addison compliments Somers on his poetry in his dedication of the Campaign. Lord Mansfield’s name appears in history a successful competitor for the Oxford prize poem. Lyndhurst and Denham were given to rhyme, and Sir William Jones is popularly known by his nervous lines on What constitutes a State? Lord Jeffrey is one of the most characteristic modern examples of the union of legal and literary success,—his taste of the latter kind having, with the aid of a felicitous style, made him the most famous reviewer of his day, while the mental traits of the advocate unfitted him to appreciate the ideal, as they rendered him expert and brilliant in the discussion of rhetoric, facts, and philosophy.

Its connection with the most adventurous and tragic realities of life often brings law into the sphere of the dramatic and imaginative. Popular fiction has found in its annals all the material for profound human interest and artistic effect. Scott’s most pathetic tale, the Heart of Mid-Lothian, Ten Thousand a Year, and Bleak House, are memorable examples. The trials of Russell, Strafford, Vane, and other noble prisoners charged with high treason, have furnished both plot and incidents for popular novelists. Uriah Heep, Oily Gammon, and Gilbert Glossin, are familiar types of legal villany. Thackeray’s best work, artistically speaking—Henry Esmond—is largely indebted to the State Trials of Queen Anne’s time for its material. Have you ever seen Portia enacted by a woman of genius? Then has the romance of law been impersonated for ever to your mind. That demoniac plaintiff, so memorably represented by Kean, with his haunting expression and voice,—the noble wife of Bassanio, uttering, in tones of musical entreaty, her immortal plea for Mercy, and, when it failed to touch the Jew’s heart of adamant, cleaving his hope of vengeance by a subtle evasion,—the joy of Antonio, the fiat of the judge, the merry reunion and gay bridal talk at Belmont that night, whose moonlit gladness lives for ever in the page of Shakspeare,—Queen Katherine’s defence, and Othello’s argument before their judges, equally show how effective is a tribunal under the hand of the poet of Nature; and every barrister of long experience can relate episodes in his career ‘stranger than fiction.’

Although one would naturally turn to the State Trials, Causes Célèbres, Memoirs of Vidocq, and similar works, for the dramatic materials developed by process of law, yet, to the initiated, there is an equal fund of interest in those researches of the profession which appear to deal only with technicalities. How many effective situations have playwrights, and such observers of human nature as Hogarth, drawn from, or grouped around the formal act of making or reading a Will! There is positive romance in the task of the Conveyancer, when he traces the title of an estate far back through the ramifications of family history, often bringing to light the most curious historical facts and remarkable personal incidents. Questions of property, of heirship, of fraud, and of divorce, involve manifold relative facts, that only require the sequence and arrangement of literary art, to make them dramas. Perhaps no field of character has yielded types as memorable to the writers of modern fiction as that of the Law. Think of Balzac’s diagnosis of the French statutes regulating burial and marriage settlements, in his psychological Tales; of Brass, Tulkinghorn, and Peyton. Libel cases vie with police reports in unveiling the tragedy and comedy of life. That a trial involves scope for the broadest humour, or the most facetious invention, is evident from the Moot Court having become a permanent form of public entertainment in London.

No profession affords better opportunities for the study of human nature; indeed, an acute insight of motives is a prerequisite of success; but unfortunately it is the dark side of character, the selfish instincts, that are most frequently displayed in litigation, and hence the exclusive recognition of these which many a practised lawyer manifests. In its ideal phase, among the noblest—in its possible actuality, among the lowest—of human pursuits, we can scarcely wonder that popular sentiment and literature exhibit such apparently irreconcilable estimates of its value and tendencies. English lawyers of the first class are scholars and gentlemen. Classical knowledge and familiarity with standard modern literature are indispensable to their equipment; and such attainments are usually conducive to a humane and refined character. In the programme suggested by eminent lawyers for a general training for the Bar, there is, however, an amusing diversity of opinion as to the best literary culture; one writer recommends the Bible, another Shakspeare, one English history, and another Joe Miller, as the best resource for apt quotation and discipline in the art of efficient rhetoric. Coke was remarkable for his citations from Virgil. But there is no doubt that general knowledge is an essential advantage to the lawyer, if he understand the rare art of using it with tact. The mere fact that the highest political distinction and official duty are open to the lawyer, ought to incline him to liberal studies and comprehensive acquaintance with literature, science, and philosophy.

How distinctly in social life the phases of the legal mind have become, is evident from such allusion as that of a Quarterly Reviewer, who, in a political discussion, remarks that ‘Mr. Percival was only a poorish nisi prius lawyer, and there is no kind of human being so disagreeable to the gross Tory nation;’ while De Quincey, with that philosophic benignity which sometimes inspires his weird pen, observes that ‘he had often thought that the influence of a portion of the acrid humours, which seem an element in the human mental constitution, being drained off, as it were, in forensic disputation, raised the lawyer above the average of mankind, in the qualities that give enjoyment to society.’

The trial of Aaron Burr elicited the most characteristic eloquence of Clay and Wirt; that of Knapp, the tragic force of statement in which Webster excelled. Emmet’s address to his judges has become a charter to his countrymen. Patrick Henry’s remarkable powers of argument and appeal, which fanned the embers of Revolutionary zeal into a flame, originally exhibited themselves in a Virginia courthouse. And if eloquence has been justly described as existing ‘in the man, in the subject, and in the occasion,’ we can easily imagine why the legal profession affords it such frequent and extensive scope.

The intellectual process by which the advocate seeks his ends is observable in the best conversation and writing. Almost all good talkers are essentially pleaders; they espouse, defend, illustrate, or maintain a question. Many of Lord Jeffrey’s reviews are little else but special pleadings, and Macaulay’s most brilliant articles are digests executed with taste and eloquence; the subject is first thoroughly explored, then its presentation systematized, and afterwards stated, argued, and summed up, after the manner of a charge or plea, with the addition of rhetorical graces inadmissible in a legal case. There is nothing, therefore, in the peculiar exercise of the faculties which renders law a profession apt to pervert second-rate minds; the evil lies in the predetermined side, the logic aforethought—if we may so say,—the interested choice and dogmatical assumption of a certain view undertaken ‘for a consideration.’ ‘I know some barristers,’ observes Thackeray, ‘who mistake you and I for jury-boxes when they address us; but these are not your modest barristers, not your true gentlemen.’