To my intense surprise--shared, as far as I can see, by all my friends
and relatives--I have managed to pass the "Bar Final"! I attribute
the portentous fact to the Examiners having discreetly avoided all
reference to the "Rule in SHELLEY's Case."
Find that the Students who are going to be "called within the Bar,"
have to be presented to the Benchers on one special evening, after
dinner, in Hall. Ceremony rather funereal, at _my_ Inn--but not the
same at all Inns. About twenty of us summoned one by one to the
High Table; several go up before me, and as there is a big screen I
can't see what happens to them. Only--most remarkable circumstance
this--_not one of them comes back_! Have the Benchers decided to
sternly limit the numbers of the Profession? Perhaps they are "putting
in an execution." Just thinking of escape, when my name called
out. March up to Table, determined not to perish without a spirited
resistance.
To complete the idea of its being an Execution, here is the Chaplain!
Will he say a "few last words" to the culprit--myself--prior to my
being pinioned?
As matter of fact, Bencher at head of Table (portly old gentleman, who
looks as if he might be described as a "bottle-a-day-of-port-ly" old
gentleman) shakes hands, coldly, and that's all. Not even a Queen's
Shilling given me, as I am conducted off to another table close by.
Mystery of disappearance of other candidates explained. Here they
are--all at this table--"all silent, and all called"! It seems that
this is the Barristers' part of the Hall, other the Students'.
Ceremony not over yet. After dinner we are invited, all twenty,
to dessert and wine with the Benchers--or rather, at the Benchers'
expense, because we don't really see and chat with these great men,
only a single representative, who presides at table in a long bare
room downstairs, resembling a cellar. Benchers' own Common-room above.
Why don't they invite us up there? Bencher, who has come down to
preside over this entertainment, has a rather forbidding air about
him. Seems to be thinking--"I don't care much for this sort of
function. Stupid old custom. But must keep it up, I suppose, for good
of Inn; and Benchers (hang them!) have deputed _me_ to take head of
the table to-night--probably because I look so desperately lively."
There _is_ a sort of "disinterred liveliness" (to quote Bishop
WILBERFORCE) about him, after all. Tries to joke. No doubt regards us
all as a pack of fools to join over-crowded profession--still, as we
_are_ here, he will try and forget that, in a few years, the majority
of us will probably be starving.
After an interval, Bored Bencher thinks it necessary to rise and
make little speech. Assures us (_Query_--hyprocrisy?) that we are
all extremely likely to attain to high positions at the Bar. Says
something feebly humorous about Woolsack. Bad taste, because we can't
_all_ sit on Woolsack at once; and mention of it excites feelings of
emulation, almost of animosity, towards other new-fledged Barristers.
I am conscious, for instance, of distinct repulsion towards man on my
right, who is cracking nuts, and who must be a son or nephew of our
Chairman, judging by the familiarity with which he treats latter.
Probably his uncle will flood him with briefs--and that will be called
"making his own way in the world." Pshaw!
Wine-and-dessert entertainment only lasts an hour. Forbidding Bencher
evidently feels that an hour is as much as he can possibly stand. So
we all depart, except the favoured nephew (or son), who, as I suspect,
"remains to prey" on his uncle (or father), and probably to be invited
in to the _real_ feast which no doubt the Inn worthies are enjoying
upstairs.
Next morning meet a legal friend, who asks, "When are you to be
presented at Court?"
"Presented at Court?"--I ask in surprise.
"Yes--Court of Queen's Bench--ha! ha! You'll have to go one of these
days in wig and gown to the Q.B.D., and inscribe your name in a big
book, and bow to the Judges, and come out."
"What's the good of doing that?" I want to know.
"None whatever. An old custom, that's all. A sort of legal fiction,
you know." (_Query_--If a Queen's Counsel writes a novel, isn't _that_
a real legal fiction?) "You'll feel rather like a little boy going
to a new school. Judges look at you with an air of 'I say, you new
feller, what's your name? Where do you come from? What House are
you in?--then a good kick. They can't kick you, so they glare at you
instead. Interesting ceremony. Ta, ta!"
It turns out as my friend says. But previously there is the
other little formality of purchasing the trailing garments of the
Profession. Go to a wig-and-gown-maker near the Law Courts. Ask to see
different kinds of wigs.
"We only make one kind," replies the wig-man, pityingly. "The Patent
Ventilating Anticalvitium. You'll find it as light as a feather,
almost. Made of superfine 'orse-'air." He says this as if he never
got his material from anything below the value of a Derby Winner.
"Why do you call it the Anticalvitium?" I ask.
"Because it don't make the 'air fall off, Sir, as all other wigs do."
Do they? Another objection to the profession. Wish I had known this
before I began to grind for the Bar Exam. Wig-man measures my head.
"Rather large size, Sir," he remarks. Says it as if I must have
water on the brain at the very least. "Middle Temple, I suppose?"--he
queries. Why? Somehow it would _sound_ more flattering if he had
supposed Inner Temple, instead of Middle. Wonder if I shall ever be
described as an "Outer barrister, of the Inner Temple, with Middling
abilities." Is there a special cut of face belonging to the Inner
Temple, another for the Middle (there _is_ a "middle cut" in salmon,
why not in the law?) and a third for Lincoln's Inn?
Find, while I am meditating these problems, that I have been "suited"
with a gown, also with a stock of ridiculous little linen flaps, which
are called "bands." Think about "forbidding the bands," but don't know
how to.
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