Punch: Punch (101.1891)

156

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[September 26, 1891.

JOURNAL OF A ROLLING STONE.

Eighth Entry.

Since my call to the Bar, have been treating myself to rather a
long roll abroad. Now, however, the time has come to devote
myself to the work of the profession, which seems to mean studying
practical law with some discreet and learned Barrister.

Met a few nights ago, at dinner, a very entertaining fellow. Full
of legal anecdotes. Told that it was "Dick Fibbins, a Barrister,

"and rather a rising one." Dick (why
not Richard ?) talked about County
Courts with condescending tolerance ;
even the High Court Judges seemed
(according to his own account) to
habitually quail before his forensic
acumen.

Mentioned to Fibbins that I had just
been " called," and was "thinking of
reading in a Barrister's chambers ; "
and he seemed to take the most friendly
and generous interest in me at once—
asked me, indeed, to call on him any
day I liked at his chambers in Waste
Paper Buildings, which I thought
extremely kind, as I was a complete
stranger.

Go next day. Clerk, with impressive
manner, receives me with due regard
to his principal's legal standing.
{Query—has a rising Barrister any
standing ?) Ushered into large room,
surrounded with shelves containing, I
imagine, the Law Reports from the
Flood downwards. Just thinking
what an excellent " oldest inhabitant"
Methuselah would have made
in a "Right of Way" case, when
Dick Fibbins rises from the wooden
arm-chair on which he has been sitting
U ^' i ' at a table crowded with papers, and
Dick Fibbins. bundles tied up in dirty red. tape, and

shakes hands heartily.
" What's your line of country ?" he asks—"Equity or Common
Law?" _

I admit that it's Common Law. Have momentary feeling that
Equity sounds better, Why Common Law ?

1 Quite right," he says, encouragingly; " much the best branch.
Jam a Common-Law man too." Refers to it as if it were a moral
virtue on his—and my—part to have avoided Equity. Wonder if
Equity men talk in this way about "Common" Lawyers? If so,
oughtn't there to be more esprit de corps in the Profession ?

"Been before old Proser, Queen's Bench Division, to-day," he
proceeds. " Do you ever sit in Court ? "

I reluctantly confess that I have not made an habitual point of
doing so.

"Ah," he says, finding that I can't contradict him as to what
did really happen in old Prober's Court to-day ; "you should have
been there just now. Had Blowhard, the great Q.C., opposed to
me. But, bless you, he couldn't do anything to speak of against
my arguments. Proser really hardly would listen to him once or
twice. Made Blowhard quite lose his temper, I assure you."

" So he lost his case, too, I suppose ? " I remark, humorously.

" Um," replies Fibbins, sinking into despondency, "not exactly.
Proser didn't quite like to decide against Blowhard, you know;
so he—so he—er—decided for him, in fact. Of course we appeal.
It won't," goes on Fibbins, more cheerfully, "do Blowhard's
clients a bit of good. Only run their bill up. I 'in safe to win
before the Court of Appeal. Lord Justice Grill a first-rate lawyer
—sure to reverse old Proser. I can," he ends with conscious pride,
" twist Grill round my finger, so to speak."

The idea of twisting a Lord Justice round one's finger impresses
me still more with Dick Fibbins's legal genius. How lucky I am
to have made his acquaintance! Feel impelled to ask, as I do
rather nervously, not knowing if a bitter disappointment does not
await me.

" Do j^ou—er—take legal pupils ever ? "

I feel that I've put it in a way that sounds like asking him if he
indulges in drink. But Fibbins evidently not offended. He
answers briskly, with engaging candour.

" Well, to tell you the truth, though I've often been asked to—
quite pestered about jt, in fact—I've never done so hitherto. The
Solicitors don't like it quite—makes 'em think one is wasting the
time which ought to be given to their briefs on one's own pups—I
mean pupils."

Perhaps, after all, Fibbins will dash my hopes (of becoming his

"pup!" Query, isn't the word infra dig.—or merely pleasantly
colloquial ? ") to the ground.

" I was," I say boldly, " going to ask you if you would let me read
with you."

"Were you?" replies Dick, apparently intensely astonished at
the idea; "By Jove! I should be really sorry to disappoint you.
Yes," he goes on in a burst of generosity, " I will make room for
you—there ! "

This is really kind of Dick Fibbins. We finally arrange that I
am to come in two days' time—at the usual, and rather pretentious,
fee of one hundred guineas for a year's "coaching"—and begin
work.

" You'll see some good cases with me—good fighting cases," Fib-
bins remarks, as I take my leave. " When there are no briefs, why,
you can read up the Law Reports, you know. My books are quite at
your disposal."

" But," I remark, a little surprised at that hint about no briefs—
I thought Dick Fibbins had more than he knew what to do with—
"I suppose—er—there's plenty of business going on here? "

" Oh, heaps," replies Fibbins, hastily. Then, as if to do away
with any bad impression which his thoughtless observation about no
briefs might have occasioned in my mind, he says, heartily,—■

" And, when I take old Proser up to the Court of Appeal, you
shall come too, and hear me argue ! "

I express suitable gratitude—but isn't it rather "contempt of
Court " on Fibbins's part to talk about " taking up " a Judge ?—and
feel, as I depart, that I shall soon see something of the real inner life
of the Profession.

ON THE MARLOWE MEMORIAL.

(Unveiled by Mr. Henry Irving at Canterbury, Sepitember 16, 1891.)

Marlowe, your "mighty line"

Though worthy of a darling of the Nine,
Has—in quotation—many a reader riled.

Like Shakspeare's " wood-notes wild,"
And Pope's " lisped numbers," it becomes a bore

When hackneyed o'er and o'er
By every petty scribe and criticaster.

Yet we must own you master
Of the magnificent and magniloquent,
And modern playwrights might be well content
Were they but dowered with passion, fancv, wit,

Like ?reat ill-fated " Kit." .

THE LAST OF THE CANTERBURY TALES.

Before the Unveiling.

She. What do you know about Marlowe ?
He. Isn't it somewhere near Taplow ?

She. I think not, because Mr. Irving went to unveil Marlowe,
and I don't think he is a rowing-man.

He. But he may be doing it for Sir Morell Mackenzie, who has
a place at Wargrave.

She. Yes, but then the papers would have said something about
it—wouldn't they ?

He. Very likely; they would say anything in the silly season.

After the Unveiling.

She. Well, I know aU about Marlowe now. He was a great poet
—greater than Shakspeare, or thereabouts.

He. Always thought that they would find some fellow greater
than Shakspeare. Shakspeare always bores me awfully. But
what did this fellow write ?

She. Oh, lots of things ! Faust, amongst the rest.

He. Come, that must be wrong, for Faust was written bv Gounod.
Wasn't it?

She. Nowll come to think of it, I suppose it was—or Berlioz.
He. Yes,"they did it together. But where does Marlowe
come in ?

She. Well, I am not quite sure.

He. You had better write to Mr. Irving about it: he will tell you.
He's awfully well up in the subject. As for me, I'm still under the
impression that Marlow is somewhere on the river.

Honours Divided.

Writers can't speak in public. So says Walter.
They mumble, stumble, hammer, stammer, falter !
Besant, why grumble at fate's distribution?
To writers, sense; to speakers, elocution!
Some books are bosh, but all experience teaches
"Rot's " native realm is—After-dinner Speeches !

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