RECOLLECTIONS OF THE WORCESTER BAR
The Worcester Bar, when I came to it, was much like a class
of boys in college. There was rivalry and sharp practice
in some cases, and roughness of speech toward each other and
toward witnesses and parties. But in the main, the lawyers
stood by one another and were ready to help each other in
trouble, and the lawyer's best and most trustworthy friends
were his associates. The Judge and the jurymen, and the lawyers
from out of town used to come into Worcester and stay at the
old Sykes or Thomas Tavern, opposite the court-house, and
at another one known as the United States Hotel, further south.
The former was kept for a good many years by an old fellow
named Sykes. He was a singular-looking person--a large head,
stout body, rather protuberant belly, and short curved legs
and very long arms. He had large heavy eyebrows, a wide mouth
and a curved nose and sallow complexion looking a good deal
like the caricatures of the Jewish countenance in the comic
newspapers. He had two sons who looked very much like him
and seemed about as old as their father. One day the three
were standing in front of his tavern when a countryman came
along who undertook to stop with his load at the front door
of the tavern. Sykes was standing there with his two sons,
one on each side of him. He did not like to have the countryman
stop his load in that spot and called out to him rather roughly,
"Move along." The fellow surveyed the group for a moment
with an amused look and complied with the order, but shouted
out to the old man: "Wal, this is the fust time I ever saw
three Jacks of Spades in one pack."
The Court sat till six o'clock and often far into the evening,
and began at half-past eight or nine. So there was no chance
for the country lawyers to go home at night. There was great
fun at these old taverns in the evening and at meal times.
They insisted generally, like Mrs. Battles in whist, on the
rigor of the game, and the lawyer had to look sharp after
his pleadings or he found himself tripped up. The parties
could not be witnesses, nor could any person interested in
the result of the trial. So many a good case, and many a
good defence failed for want of the legal evidence to make
it out. But the whole Bar and the public seemed to take an
interest in important trials. People came in from the country
round with their covered wagons, simply for the pleasure of
attending Court and seeing the champions contend with each
other. The lawyers who were not engaged in the case were
always ready to help those who were with advice and suggestion.
It used to be expected that members of the Bar would be in
the court-house hearing the trials even if they were not engaged
in them. That was always an excuse for being absent from
the office, and their clients sought them at the court-house
for consultation. I cannot but think that the listening to
the trial and argument of causes by skilful advocates was
a better law school than any we have now, and that our young
men, especially in the large cities, fail to become good advocates
and to learn the art of putting in a case, and of examining
and cross-examining witnesses, for want of a constant and
faithful attendance on the courts.
In those old times, our old lawyers, if Charles Lamb had
known them and should paint them, would make a set of portraits
as interesting as his old Benchers of the Inner Temple. Old
Calvin Willard, many years sheriff of Worcester, would have
delighted Elia. He did not keep the wig or the queue or the
small-clothes of our great-grandfathers, but he had their
formal and ceremonial manners in perfection. It was like
a great State ceremonial to meet him and shake hands with
him. He paused for a moment, surveyed you carefully to be
sure of the person, took a little time for reflection to be
sure there was nothing in the act to compromise his dignity,
and then slowly held out his hand. But the grasp was a warm
one, and the ceremony and the hand-shake conveyed his cordial
respect and warmth of regard. He always reminded me of the
Englishman in Crabbe's "Tales" who, I think, may have been
his kinsman.
The wish that Roman necks in one were found
That he who formed the wish might deal the wound,
This man had never heard. But of the kind
Is the desire which rises in his mind.
He'd have all English hands, for further he
Cannot conceive extends our charity,
All but his own, in one right hand to grow;
And then what hearty shake would he bestow.
Mr. Willard was once counsel before a magistrate in a case
in which he took much interest. A rough, coarse country
lawyer was on the other side. When Willard stated some legal
proposition, his adversary said: "I will bet you five dollars
that ain't law." "Sir," said Mr. Willard, drawing himself
up to his full height, with the great solemnity of tone of
which he was master: "Sir, I do not permit myself to make
the laws of my country the subject of a bet."
Another of the old characters who came down to my time from
the older generation was Samuel M. Burnside. He was a man
of considerable wealth and lived in a generous fashion, dispensing
an ample hospitality at his handsome mansion, still standing
in Worcester. He was a good black-letter lawyer, though without
much gift of influencing juries or arguing questions of law
to the Court. He was a good Latin scholar, very fond of Horace
and Virgil, and used to be on the committees to examine the
students at Harvard, rather disturbing the boys with his somewhat
pedantic questioning. He was very nearsighted, and, it is
said, once seized the tail of a cow which passed near him
in the street and hurried forward, supposing some woman had
gone by and said, "Madam, you are dropping your tippet."
One of the most interesting characters among the elders of
the Worcester Bar was old Rejoice Newton. He was a man of
excellent judgment, wisdom, integrity and law learning enough
to make him a safe guide to his clients in their important
transactions. He was a most prosaic person, without sentiment,
without much knowledge of literature, and absolutely without
humor. He was born in Northfield near the banks of the Connecticut
River and preserved to the time of his death his love of rural
scenes and of farming. He had an excellent farm a mile or
two out of town, where he spent all the time he could get
from his professional duties. He was associated with Chief
Justice Shaw in some important cases, and always thought that
it was due to his recommendation that Governor Lincoln appointed
the Chief Justice--a suggestion which Governor Lincoln used
to repel with great indignation. The Governor was also a
good farmer, especially proud of his cattle. Each of them
liked to brag of their crops and especially of the produce
of their respective dairies. Governor Lincoln was once discoursing
to Devens and me, in our office, of a wonderful cow of his
which, beside raising an enormous calf, had produced the cream
for a great quantity of butter. Mr. Devens said: "Why, that
beats Major Newton's cow, that gave for months at a time some
fifteen or eighteen quarts at a milking." "If Brother Newton
hears of my cow," said Governor Lincoln, "he will at once
double the number of quarts." The old Major was quite fond
of telling stories, of which the strong points were not apt
to suffer in his narration. One Fourth of July, when he had
got to be an old man, he came down street and met a brother
member of the Bar, who took him up into the room of the Worcester
Light Infantry, a Company of which the Major's deceased son
had long ago been the Captain. The members of the Company
were spending the Fourth with a bowl of punch and other refreshments.
The Major was introduced and was received with great cordiality,
and my friend left him there. The next day my friend was
going down street and met the Captain of the Light Infantry,
who said: "That was a very remarkable old gentleman you brought
into our room yesterday. He stayed there all the forenoon,
drinking punch and telling stories. He distinctly remembered
General Washington. He went home to dinner, came back after
dinner, drank some more punch, and remembered Christopher
Columbus."
The old Major was once addressing the Supreme Court and maintained
a doctrine which did not commend itself to Chief Justice Shaw.
The Chief Justice interposed: "Brother Newton, what is the
use of arguing that? We have held otherwise in such a case
(citing it) and again and again since." The Major paused,
drew his spectacles slowly off his nose, and said to the Court
with great seriousness: "May it please your Honors, I have
a great respect for the opinions of this Court, except in
some very gross cases."
A man by the name of Lysander Spooner, whose misfortune it
was to be a good deal in advance of his age, the author of
a very clever pamphlet maintaining the unconstitutionality
of slavery, also published some papers attacking the authenticity
of Christian miracles. In these days of Bob Ingersoll such
views would be met with entire toleration, but they shocked
Major Newton exceedingly, as they did most persons of his
time. Spooner studied for the Bar and applied to be admitted.
He was able to pass an examination. But the Major, as _amicus
curiae,_ addressed the Court and insisted that Spooner was
not a man of proper character, and affirmed in support of
his assertion that he was the author of some blasphemous attacks
on Christianity. The result was that Spooner's application
was denied. The Court adjourned for dinner. It was the day
of the calling of the docket, and just before the Judge came
in in the afternoon, the whole Bar of Worcester County were
assembled, filling the room. The Major sat in a seat near
one of the doors. He had dined pretty heavily, the day was
hot and the Major was sleepy. He tipped back a little in
his chair, his head fell back between his shoulders and his
mouth opened, with his nose pointed toward the zenith. Just
then Spooner came in. As he passed by the Major, the temptation
was irresistible. He seized the venerable nose of the old
patriarch between his thumb and finger, and gave it a vigorous
twist. The Major was awakened and sprang to his feet, and
in a moment realized what had happened. He was, as may be
well supposed, intensely indignant. No Major in the militia
could submit to such an insult. He seized his chair and hurled
it at the head of the offender, but missed, and the bystanders
interposed before he was able to inflict the deserved punishment.
The Major lived to a good old age. His mental faculties
became somewhat impaired before he died. He had great respect
for his excellent son-in-law, Colonel Wetherell, who was on
Governor Andrew's staff during the War, and thought that anything
which ought to be accomplished could be accomplished by the
influence of the Colonel. Somebody told him during the hardest
part of the war that we ought to bend all our energies to
the capture of Richmond. If Richmond were to fall the rebellion
would be easily put down. "You are quite right, sir," said
the Major. "It ought to be done, and I will speak to Colonel
Wetherell about it." But everybody who knew the worthy Major,
unless it were some offender against justice, or some person
against whose wrong-doing he had been the shield and protector
to a client, liked the kindly, honest and sturdy old man.
He was District Attorney for the district which included Worcester
County--an office then and ever since held by admirable lawyers.
He prided himself on the fact that he never drew an indictment
which was not sustained by the Court, if it were questioned.
He liked to recite his old triumphs. He especially plumed
himself on his sagacity in dealing with one case which came
before him. A complaint was made of a book well known at
that time, the memoirs of a dissolute woman, which was full
of indecency, but in which there could not be found a single,
separate indecent sentence or word. The Major was at a loss
for some time what to do in indicting it. If he set forth
the whole book, it would give it an immortality on the records
of the court which perhaps would be worse for the public morals
than the original publication. Finally he averred in the
indictment that the defendant had published a book so indecent
that it was unfit to be spread on the records of the court.
The question went up to the Supreme Court and the indictment
was held good. It was difficult for the Court or the jury
to find that such a book was fit to be spread on the records
of the Court, and the Major secured his victory and convicted
his criminal.
One of the bright young lawyers who came to the Bar a few
years after I did, was Appleton Dadmun. He died of consumption
after a brief but very successful career. He was the very
type and embodiment of the Yankee countryman in his excellencies
and his defects and in his fashion of speech and behavior.
He was a graduate of Amherst College. The only evidence I
ever discovered of his classical education was his habit of
using the Greek double negative in ordinary English speech.
He used to employ me almost always as senior when he had a
case to argue to a jury, or an important law argument in Court.
He would put off the engagement until just as the case was
coming on. He used to intend to try his cases himself. But
his heart, at the last moment, would fail him. He was as
anxious about his clients' cases as if they were his own.
He was exceedingly negligent about his pleadings and negligent
in the matter of being prepared with the necessary formal
proofs of facts which were really not doubtful but which
were put in issue by the pleadings. When I was retained
my first duty was to prepare an amendment of the declaration
or the answer or plea, or, perhaps, to see whether he had
got the attesting witness to prove some signature. But when
we had got past all that I used to find that he had prepared
his evidence with reference to what was the pinch of the
case of what was likely to be finally the doubtful point in
the mind of court or jury with infinite sagacity and skill.
I have rarely known a better judge of the effect of evidence
on the mind of ordinary juries. He took his clients into his
affection as if they had been his own brethren or children,
and seemed always to hate to be compelled to make any charge
for his services, however successful.
He had a pleasant wit. On one occasion a member of the bar
named Holbrook, who was not a bad fellow, but had, like the
rest of the world, some peccadilloes to repent of, came into
the Court-house one morning just as the Court was coming in
where the lawyers were gathered. Much excited, he said he
was riding into Worcester in a chaise from the neighboring
town where he spent his nights in the summer. His horse had
run away and tore at a terrible rate down Main Street, swinging
the chaise from one side to the other as he ran, and breaking
some part of the harness and perhaps one of the shafts. But
at last he had contrived to crawl out through the window behind
in the chaise top and hold on to the cross-bar. Letting himself
down just as the chaise had got to the extremity of its sway
from one side to another, he let go and escaped without injury.
But, he said, it was a terrible five minutes. Every action
of his life seemed to rush through his memory with the swiftness
of a torrent. "You ought to have very heavy damages, sir,"
said Mr. Dadmun.
Another of the brightest of the young lawyers when I came
to the Bar was H. He had, however, had rather an unfortunate
introduction to life. His father, who was a very wealthy
and prosperous manufacturer, sent him to Yale College and
supplied him liberally with money, not only for his support,
but for the indulgence of every extravagant taste. Beside
spending what his father allowed him, he incurred a good many
debts, expecting to find no difficulty in their payment. His
father failed in business with a great crash about the end
of his junior year and died suddenly. He kept on, however,
on credit, until he graduated and then came out with a heavy
load of debt, and no resources for studying his profession.
He got thorough, however, by dint of plausible manners. He
was a very honest fellow in other respects, but he got the
habit of incurring debts which he could not pay. Then he
took to drinking hard, and finally went to New York, and died
after a career of dissipation. But everybody liked him. Drunk
or sober, he was the best company in the world, full of anecdote
flavored with a shrewd and not ill-natured wit. There was a
manufacturer in a village near Worcester who had failed in
business owing large debts all about. He was a man of enormous
bulk, the fattest man in the whole region round-about, weighing
considerably over three hundred. He left the State to avoid
his creditors, and dwelt in New York, keeping himself out
of their reach. At last it was discovered by a creditor that
he used to come to Worcester in the train which arrived from
New York on the Western Railroad shortly before midnight Saturday,
go over to his old home, which was not far off, stay there
Sunday, when he was exempt from arrest, and take the cars
Sunday night at about the same hour for New York. Accordingly
old Jonathan Day, a veteran deputy-sheriff, armed with an
execution, lay in wait for him one dark and stormy Saturday
night at the little old wooden depot of the Western Railroad,
some hundred or two feet from Grafton Street. The train
came in, and the debtor got out. The old General laid his
hands on him, and told him he was his prisoner. He protested
and demurred and begged, making all manner of promises to
pay the debt if the officer would not take him to jail. But
Day was inexorable. Meantime the train had gone on, and the
keeper of the depot had put out the lights and gone off. There
was nobody left in the darkness but the officer and the debtor.
"Well," said the fellow, "if you are going to take me to jail
you must carry me. I won't walk." So he sat himself down
on the platform. Day tried to persuade him to walk, and then
tugged and tugged at his collar, but without the slightest
effect. He might as well have tried to move a mountain. He
waited in a good deal of perplexity, and at last he heard
the rattle of wheels on Grafton Street, and gave a loud yell
for assistance. The owner of the wagon came to the scene.
General Day demanded his help as one of the posse comitatus.
But it was as hard to the two to move the obstruction as it
had been for the old General alone. So the General put the
debtor in charge of his new recruit, and went off up street
to see what counsel he could get in the matter. All the lights
in the lawyers' offices and places of business were out except
a solitary gleam which came from the office of my friend
H. He was sitting up alone, soaking himself with the contents
of a bottle of brandy. General Day found him sitting there
and stated his case. My friend heard it through, took it
into consideration, and took down and consulted the Revised
Statutes and the Digest. At last he shook his head with an
air of drunken gravity and said: "I don't find any express
provision anywhere for such a case. So I think we must be
governed by the rule of law for the case nearest like it we
can find. That seems to be the case of the attachment of
personal property, such as lumber, which is too bulky to be
removed. My advice to you is to put a placard on him saying
he is attached, and go off and leave him till Monday morning."
When I was a young man, one summer a few years after my admission
to the Bar, I took a journey on foot with Horace Gray through
Berkshire County. We started from Greenfield and walked over
the Hoosac Mountain to Adams and Williamstown, then over the
old road to Pittsfield, then to Stockbridge, Great Barrington,
and the summit of Mt. Washington, now better known as Mt.
Everett or Taghsomi; thence to Bashpish Falls in New York,
and to the Salisbury Lakes in Connecticut. We visited many
interesting places and enjoyed what has always seemed to me
the most beautiful scenery on earth.
There were one or two quite ludicrous adventures. I went
alone to the top of Bald Mountain in Lenox one day. Gray
had been there and preferred to visit a neighboring hilltop.
As I approached the summit, which was a bare pasture, I came
upon a powerful bull with a herd of cattle near him. He began
to bellow and paw the ground and move toward me in angry fashion.
There was no chance for any place of refuge which I could
hope to gain. I looked around for some rock or instrument
of defence. It was, I think, the most imminent danger to
which I have ever been exposed. I was calculating my capacity
for dodging the creature when suddenly a sound like a small
clap of thunder was heard. The rest of the herd, which seemed
quite wild, seeing the approach of a stranger, had taken alarm
and started off down the hillside on a full run, their rushing
and trampling causing the earth to reverberate beneath their
tread and produce the sound of which I have just spoken.
The old bull hearing the sound and seeing his companions
departing concluded he would follow their example. He turned
tail too, and retreated down the mountain side, much to my
relief.
On our walk through Lanesboro we stopped at a plain country
tavern to get lunch. There were several codgers such as in
those days used to haunt country bar-rooms about eleven o'clock
in the morning and four o'clock in the afternoon. Sitting
in an old wooden chair tilted back against the wall of the
room was one of them curled up with his knees sticking up
higher than his head. He looked at Gray's stately proportions
and called out: "How tall are you?" Gray, who was always
rather careful of his dignity, made some brief answer not
intended to encourage familiarity. But the fellow persisted:
"I would like to measure with you." Gray concluded it was
best to enter into the humor of the occasion. So he stood
up against the wall. The other man proceeded to draw himself
up out of the chair, and unroll, and unroll, and unroll until
at last his gigantic stature reached up almost as high as
Gray's. But he fell short a little. I learned, later, that
it was a man named Shaw who afterward became famous as a writer
and humorist under the pseudonym of Josh Billings. He was
the son of Henry Shaw, formerly of Lanesboro; at that time
a millionaire dwelling in New York, and known to fame as
one of the two Massachusetts Representatives who voted for
the Missouri Compromise in 1820. Henry Shaw was, I believe,
a native of Lanesboro, and had represented the Berkshire district
in Congress.
The person whom the Worcester lawyers of this time like best
to remember was Peter C. Bacon. He was the Dominie Sampson
of the Worcester Bar. I suppose he was the most learned man
we ever had in Worcester, and probably, in Massachusetts.
He was simple and guileless as a child; of a most inflexible
honesty, devoted to the interest of his clients, and an enthusiastic
lover of the science of the law. When, in rare cases, he
thoroughly believed in the righteousness of his case, he was
irresistible. But in general he was full of doubts and hesitation.
He was, until he was compelled to make his arguments more
compact by the rules of court limiting the time of arguments,
rather tedious. He liked to go out into side-paths and to
discourse of matters not material to the issue but suggested
to him as he went along. He had a curious fashion of using
the ancient nomenclature of the Common law where it had passed
out of the knowledge even of most lawyers and the comprehension
of common men. He would begin his appeal to the jury in some
case where a fraud had been attempted on his client, by saying,
"Gentlemen, the law abhorreth covin." He was a lawyer everywhere.
His world was the Court-house and his office. I met him in
the street, of a Sunday noon, one summer and said to him,
"Why, Brother Bacon, you must have had a long sermon to-day."
"Oh," Mr. Bacon said, "I stayed to the Sunday-school. I have
a class of young girls. It's very interesting. I've got
'em as far as the Roman Civil Law."
Mr. Bacon could seldom be made angry by any incivility to
himself. But he resented any attempt to deprive a client,
however much of a n'er-do-well he might be, of all the rights
and forms of a legal trial. He was also much disturbed if
any lawyer opposed to him misstated a principle of law, who
ought, in his judgment, to know better. I was once trying
a case against him and his partner, Judge Aldrich, where General
Devens was my associate. Devens was summing up the case,
and complaining of the conduct of some parties interested
in the estate of a deceased person. One of them was a son
of a deceased niece. There being no children, under our law,
the nephews and nieces inherit, but not the children of deceased
nephews or nieces, when there are living nephews or nieces.
General Devens, not having in his mind the legal provision
at the moment, said to the jury: "The sound of the earth on
the coffin of the old lady had scarcely ceased when one of
these heirs hurried to the probate office to get administration."
Mr. Bacon rose and interrupted him with great emotion. "He
is not an heir."
"I said," Mr. Devens repeated, "one of these heirs, Mr.
A. F."
Bacon burst into tears and said again, with a broken voice:
"He is not an heir, I say, he is not an heir."
I saw the point and whispered to Devens: "An assumed heir."
"Very well," Devens said, "an assumed heir, if my friend likes
it better." Bacon replied with a "Humph" of contentment and
satisfaction, and the matter subsided. As I was walking home
from the court-house with Mr. Bacon afterward I expressed
my regret at the occurrence and told him that General Devens
had the greatest respect for him. Mr. Bacon replied: "He
had no business to say it. Aldrich told me to tell him he
had not read the 'Revised Statutes.' But I would not say such
a thing as that, sir, about any man."
But Brother Bacon had the kindliest of hearts. It was impossible
for him to bear malice or retain resentment against anybody.
When I was a youngster I was once in a case where Bacon was
on the other side. Charles Allen was my associate. It was
a case which excited great public feeling. There were throngs
of witnesses. It was tried in the middle of the terrific
heats of one of the hottest summers ever known in Worcester.
Allen, who had a power of stinging sarcasm which he much delighted
to use, kept Bacon nervous and angry through the whole trial.
At last, one afternoon, Bacon lost his patience. When the
Court adjourned, he stood up on a little flight of steps on
the outside of the Court-house and addressed the crowd, who
were going out. He said: "Charles Allen has abused me all
through this trial. He is always abusing me. He has abused
me ever since I came to this Bar. I have said it before and
I will say it again--_he is a curious kind of a man."_ This
utterance relieved Brother Bacon's wounded feelings and he
never probably thought of the matter again.
One of the great events in Bacon's life was his receiving
the degree of Doctor of Laws from Brown University, where
he was graduated. This gave infinite satisfaction to his
brethren of the Bar, who were all very fond of him. It was
at once proposed, after the old Yankee fashion in the country
when a man got a new hat or a new suit of clothes, that we
should all go down to T.'s to "wet" it. T. was the proprietor
of a house a few miles from Worcester, famous for cooking
game and trout in the season, and not famous for a strict
observance of the laws against the sale of liquor. There
was a good deal of feeling about that among the temperance
people of the town, although it was a most excellent, properly
kept house in all other respects. But the prejudice against
it of the strict teetotalers had occasioned some entirely
unfounded scandal about its management in other matters. Mr.
Bacon, when invited by the Bar to go as a guest, accepted
the invitation, but stipulated that he should have provided
for him a pint bottle of English ale. He said he was opposed,
on principle, to drinking intoxicating liquors, but his doctors
had ordered that he should drink a pint of ale every day with
his dinner. That was provided. The Bar sat down to dinner
at an early hour and the fun and frolic were kept up far into
the small hours of the night. Brother Bacon was the subject
of every speech and of every toast. He seemed to think it
was necessary for him to reply to every speaker and toast.
So he was kept on his legs a great part of the night. As
he sipped his modest tumbler of ale, Brother Dewey, who sat
next to him, would replenish it, when Mr. Bacon was not looking,
from a bottle of champagne. So at least two quart bottles
of champagne were passed into the unsuspecting Brother Bacon
through that single pint of beer. When we broke up, the host
came to ask us how we had enjoyed ourselves, and Mr. Bacon
told him he would like to know where he got his English ale,
which he thought was the best he had ever tasted in his life.
It is the only instance that I know of in modern times of
the repetition of the miracle of the widow's cruse.
Judge Thomas, then holding the Supreme Court at Worcester,
wanted very much indeed to go down with the Bar, but he thought
it would not quite do. The next morning, Mr. Bacon had to
try a libel for adultery between two parties living in the
town where the Bar had had their supper. He had had no chance
to see his witnesses, who got into town just as the Court
opened. So he had to put them on and examine them at a venture.
The first one he called was a grave-looking citizen. Mr.
Bacon asked him a good many questions, but could get no answer
which tended to help his case, and at last he said, with some
impatience: "Mr. Witness, can you tell me any single fact
which tends to show that his man has committed adultery?"
"Well, all I know about it, Squire Bacon," replied the witness,
"is that he's been seen at Charlie T.'s"--the inn where Bacon
had had his supper the night before. There was an immense
roar of laughter from the Bar, led by Judge Thomas, the ring
of whose laugh could have been heard half way across the square.
Brother Bacon, though a modest and most kindly man, used to
think he had a monopoly of the abstruser knowledge in regard
to real property and real actions. It used sometimes to provoke
him when he found a competent antagonist in cases involving
such questions. There was a suit in which Bacon was for the
demandant where a creditor had undertaken to levy an execution
of property standing in a wife's name but claimed to have
been conveyed to her in trust for the husband on consideration
paid by him. In such cases, under the Massachusetts law,
the land may be levied upon as the property of the debtor,
notwithstanding the ostensible title is in another. The wife
contested the facts. But after the bringing of the suit,
the wife died, and the husband by her death became tenant
by the courtesy. Of course his title as tenant by the courtesy
was unaffected by the previous levy, and his wife's right
to contest the demand devolved upon him. The husband and
wife had both been made parties defendant to the suit under
the Massachusetts practice. It would not do to let the creditor
get judgment. Under the advice of Mr. Nelson, afterward
Judge, one of the most learned and careful lawyers, the defendant
pleaded a special non-tenure, and the case was reported to
the full bench of the Supreme Court, where Mr. Bacon was
employed for the plaintiff. The report inaccurately said
that the defendant filed a disclaimer. Mr. Bacon made a
very learned argument to show that upon the facts the disclaimer
could not be supported, and was going on swimmingly, under
full sail. Mr. Bacon said in his argument: "If he had pleaded
non-tenure, I admit, your Honors, he would have been pretty
well off." Whereupon Judge Hoar sent for the original papers,
and looking at them read the plea, and said: "Isn't that a
plea of non-tenure?" Mr. Bacon was obliged to admit that
it was. The Chief Justice said: "Well, then, the tenant
is in the condition which you describe as being pretty well
off, isn't he, Brother Bacon?" Bacon answered with an angry
and impatient "Humph." The Chief Justice said: "Are there
any other objections to the plea, Brother Bacon?" "More than
forty, your Honor," replied Bacon indignantly, "which I should
state to you at a proper time." The Chief Justice said that
that seemed to be the proper time. But Mr. Bacon sat down
in high dudgeon, without further remark.
He was the kindliest of men, both to man and beast. I once
was at a country tavern where Bacon and I were to dine. It
was about the time of the session of the Supreme Court. I
was sitting on the veranda of the hotel waiting for dinner
to be ready, in the summer afternoon. Mr. Bacon took a little
walk, and as he came along and was passing the porch, a puppy
ran after him, came up behind, and seized his pantaloons in
his teeth, making quite a rent in them. Bacon looked round
and saw the mischief, and shook his finger at the poor dog.
I am sure he had no idea that anybody of the human species
was within hearing. The animal crouched down in great terror,
expecting a beating. Mr. Bacon paused a moment with his
uplifted finger, and addressed the cur. "Why do you try to
bite me? Why do you tear my pantaloons? Do you think I can
go through the Supreme Court without pantaloons?" With that
he left the poor dog to the reproaches of his own conscience
and took no further notice of the transaction.
I ought perhaps, as I have told this story at Brother Bacon's
expense, to tell one at my own where he came out decidedly
ahead. We were opposed in a real estate case where the other
evidence of the title was pretty strong Bacon's way, but the
ancient bounds seemed to agree with my client's theory. I
addressed the jury with all the earnestness in my power in
favor of the importance of maintaining the ancient landmarks,
quoting the curse of the Scripture on him that removed them,
and endeavored to make them see how much of the safety and
security of property depended on sticking to them in spite
of any amount of fallible human testimony. I thought I had
made a good impression. When Brother Bacon came to reply,
he told the jury about the Roman god Terminus who watched
over boundaries, and after quite an eloquent description,
he told the jury: "Brother Hoar always seems to me when he
makes this argument, which I have heard a good many times
before, to think he is the god Terminus, and that the protection
of all our modern landmarks is in his exclusive province."
The jury were very much amused. I have forgotten how the
case was decided. But I should doubtless remember if it had
been decided in my favor.
Quite late in life some of Mr. Bacon's clients, seeing that
he was out of health, and grateful for his long, faithful and
poorly paid service, made an arrangement to send him on a
journey to Europe. He was gone a little more than a year,
visiting England, France, Italy and Spain, and returning
with new vigor for another ten years of hard work. His interest
in Europe had come chiefly from the literature which he had
read in his younger days. He was not very familiar with much
English prose or poetry later than the time of Addison. In
one of his first letters in London he announced with great
satisfaction, "I have a room not far from the celebrated Westminster
Abbey mentioned in the _Spectator."_
But Brother Bacon ought not to be remembered alone, or chiefly,
for his eccentricities. He was a profound, accurate and able
jurist. The great interests of clients were safe with him.
To him the profession of the lawyer was a sacred office. I
never think of him without recalling Cicero's beautiful description
in the "De Oratore" of the old age of the great lawyer:
Quit est enim praeclarius quam honoribus et republicae muneribus
perfunctum senem posee suo jure dicere id quot apud Enium
dicit ille Pythias Apollo, se esse eum, unde sibi, si no populi
et reges, at onmnes sui cives consilium expetant;
suarum rerum incerti quos ego ope mea ex
incertis certos compotesque consili dimitto
ut ne res temere tractent turbidas.
Est enim sine dubio domus jurisconsulti totius oraculum civitatis.
Mr. Bacon lived to celebrate his golden wedding, and ended
a stainless and honored life in a ripe old age, mourned by
the whole community, of which he had been a pillar and an
ornament. His portrait hangs in the Court House where he
would have loved best to be remembered.
In my early days at the Worcester Bar there were a good many
bright men, young and old, who had their offices in the country
towns, but who tried a good many cases before juries. All
the courts for the county in those days were held in Worcester.
Among these country lawyers was old Nat Wood of Fitchburg,
now a fine city; then a thriving country town. Mr. Wood
had a great gift of story-telling, and he understood very
well the character and ways of country farmers. He used to
come down from Fitchburg at the beginning of the week, stop
at the old Sykes Tavern where the jurymen and witnesses put
up, spend the evening in the bar-room getting acquainted with
the jurymen and telling them stories. So when he had a case
to try, he was apt to have a very friendly tribunal. His
enemies used to say that he always contrived to sleep with
one juryman himself, and have his client sleep with another,
when he had a case coming on. He was quite irritable and
hasty, and would sometimes break out with great indignation
at some fancied impropriety of the other side, without fully
understanding what was going on. I was once examining a witness
who had led rather a roving and vagabond life. I asked him
where he had lived and he named seven different towns in
each of which he had dwelt within a very short time. I observed:
"Seven mighty cities claimed great Homer dead." Wood instantly
sprang to his feet with great indignation. "Brother Hoar,
I wish you would not put words into the witness's mouth."
Wood was a native of Stirling, a thinly settled country town
near the foot of Mount Wachusett. The people of that town
were nearly equally divided between the Unitarian and Universalist
congregations. Each had its meeting house fronting on the
public common or Green, as it was called. In the summer the
farmers would come to meeting from distant parts of the town,
bringing luncheon with them; have a short intermission after
the morning service, and then have a second service in the
afternoon. During the recess, in pleasant summer weather,
the men of the two congregations would gather together on
the Green, discussing the news of the town, and very often
getting into theological controversies. In the winter, they
gathered in the tavern or post-office in the same way. There
was one Universalist champion who told the gathering that he
would make any man admit the truth of Universalism in five
minutes. He was a well known and doughty champion, and the
Unitarians were rather loth to tackle him. But, one Sunday,
Lawyer Wood came home to spend the day at his birthplace,
and the Unitarians thought it was a good chance to encounter
the Universalist champion. So they accepted his challenge
and put Wood forward to meet him.
The Universalist theologian began: "You'll admit there is
a God?"
"No, I'll be damned if I do," replied Wood.
The fellow was completely non-plussed. He had got to take
up his five minutes in compelling Wood to admit the existence
of a Creator. So he was obliged to retire from the field
discomfited.
Another of our leaders at the Bar was Henry Chapin. He had
made his way from a rather humble place in life to be one
of the leaders of a very able Bar, Mayor of Worcester, and
to hold a place of large influence in the various business,
social, charitable and religious activities of the community.
He was not specially learned, specially profound or specially
eloquent. But he had a rare gift of seizing upon the thought
which was uppermost in the minds of excellent and sensible
men, country farmers, skilled workmen in the shops, business
men, expressing it in a clear and vigorous way, always agreeing
with the best sentiment of the people. This, with an unfailing
courtesy and pleasant humor and integrity of character and
life gave him great popularity. He was exceedingly happy
in short speeches at dinners or at political meetings. He
had a fund of entertaining anecdote which never seemed to
fail. He was very careful not to seem dogmatic, or to assert
himself too strongly. He would put forward his opinion with
saying, "It strikes my mind," or "It has occurred to me,"
or "I thought perhaps it was possible," or "It is my impression."
I remember once protesting before old Judge Byington against
some objection which the counsel on the other side had made
to a witness testifying to his impressions. I told the Judge
that Brother Chapin never in his life stated anything more
strongly. If you asked him if he were married, he would
say it was his impression he was. The Judge said: "Well,
we have a lawyer in Berkshire County who has the same habit.
Only if you ask him if he is married it is his impression
he isn't."
It is said that when he went to see the Siamese Twins, he
observed to the exhibitor, "Brothers, I suppose." But I
believe that story had been told before of one of the Royal
Dukes.
Mr. Chapin was nominated by the Republicans for Congress and
accepted and would have had a useful and distinguished public
life. But he became alarmed by the opposition of the Know-
Nothings and withdrew from the canvass much to the dissatisfaction
of his political friends. That ended his political aspirations.
But he was soon after appointed to the more congenial office
of Judge of Probate, which he discharged to great public satisfaction
until his lamented death.