Literary talents and habits are fortunately not always dissociated
from world-like conduct and skill in affairs. We have now become
familiar with a class of men who, while cultivating even the more
flowery fields of the Muses, are not on that account the less
distinguished in their professional walks, or by the active part they
take in the great practical movements of the age. The public, which
does not readily admit of two ideas respecting any one man, is apt to
lose sight of the literary in the worldly merit; but the former does
not the less exist, and perhaps in time it will be equally
acknowledged. We regard Mr Cox, author of the book under notice, as a
remarkable example of the union of the man of affairs with the author.
We learn, from a local record,[1] that he rose, about twenty years ago
as an attorney in a western town, and took an active part in the
fervid political doings of 1830-31. Ambitious of higher professional
honours, he removed to London, and entered at the bar. In the course
of eight or nine years, he has proceeded from one adventure to
another, till he is now one of the most multiform of men. Not merely
does he follow a strictly professional course as a barrister, but he
conducts several periodical works of a laborious nature--the _Law
Times_ (newspaper), the _Magistrate_, the _County Courts' Chronicle_,
and a series of Criminal Law Cases. For the preparation of these
works, he has a printing establishment, the management of which would
be a sufficient occupation for most men. It gives work to 250 persons,
and 10,000 business accounts are kept in it. As if all these
engagements were not enough, Mr Cox has established the well-known
literary periodical work (fortnightly) the _Critic_. The conducting of
a work designed to report upon the current literature of the day is
perhaps one of the most delicate of tasks, for the critics necessarily
are themselves authors, are the friends and enemies of authors, and
are of course liable to all the usual fallacies which beset human
judgment. Hence it is that we see one such work lose credit through
its universal benevolence, and another rush to the opposite extreme,
of asserting independence by an unvarying tone of rancour and
dissatisfaction--obviously a not less unjust course both to literary
men and the public, and in the long-run, equally sure to destroy the
credit of the men who adopt it. Amidst the difficulties proper to such
a task, we believe the _Critic_ has hitherto steered a comparatively
irreproachable course, keeping mainly in view a faithful and
painstaking _account_ of every book submitted to its notice, and
neither trading upon the smiles nor the groans of authors. Of a warm
and cordial nature, and with an intense love of literature, he seems
to have known how to encourage genius, even while pointing to its
errors; and, if we may judge by the internal evidence of the work
itself, he has succeeded in rallying round him many of the high and
generous spirits of the time. The _Critic_ is distinguished by a more
than usual proportion of thought, and by very little of the small
superficial cant of criticism.
It will excite some surprise that Mr Cox has found time, amidst his
numberless duties, to prepare a professional work of considerable
magnitude, and of solid merit and utility. Such, we take leave to say,
is the _Advocate_, of which the first volume is now before us.[2] It
is a book which, though intended primarily for young legal aspirants,
will also instruct, and indeed entertain the public. It is more than
this for those who can pursue the spirit of a work through its
details, and see the character of an individual or a class rising
palpably out of reasonings, maxims, and material circumstances. Such
readers will give a hero to the pages before us, and follow him in his
career with more than the interest that waits upon romance. They will
observe, in the first place, his natural advantages: 'Has he a healthy
frame, capable of enduring long-continued exertion of mind and body,
the confinement of the study, the excitement of practice, the crowded
court by day, the vigil of thought by night? Can he subsist with a
sleep of five hours? Can he, without dyspepsy, endure irregular
meals--hasty eatings and long fastings? If he be not blessed by nature
with the vigorous constitution that will bear all this, and more, let
him not dream of adventuring into the arena of advocacy.' Good lungs
and a strong voice are indispensable: strong rather than
agreeable--let him even scream or squeak, as some of his brethren do,
but scream or squeak with _power_. His mental qualifications are--keen
and rapid perception, sound judgment, power of concentration, and that
imagination which paints in words. Of these, the first is the
cornerstone of the mental character of the advocate. Of the moral
qualities, courage and self-confidence must be combined with caution,
and the whole elevated by honesty and truthfulness of nature. At this
point the philosophical reader will perhaps demur, and inquire whether
those clients who are in the wrong find any difficulty in obtaining
the most talented defenders--for a con-si-der-ation. But we will
postpone that issue.
In addition to his natural qualifications, the advocate must possess
what is called a small pecuniary independence: 'The practical
conclusion we would deduce from the review we have taken of the
expenses unavoidably attendant upon the profession of advocate, and
which amount at the least to L.650 previous to his call, and to L.250
per annum afterwards, is this:--Let no man who values his happiness,
or his ultimate success in life, make the bar his profession, unless
he has resources, other than his profession, upon which he can rely
for a clear income of L.150 per annum at the least. This will still
leave L.100 to be provided for by that profession; but that is a risk
he may not unreasonably run, if conscious that, in all other respects,
he is qualified for ultimate success. With less than that, it would be
unwise to incur the hazard. With no resources, as is sometimes seen,
it is madness.'
The aspirant to the bar must methodise his time. 'In mapping out the
day, make ample allowance for rest and for refreshment. Nothing is
gained in the end by unduly abbreviating these. Provided you work
without wasting a moment in your working-hours, you can afford to be
liberal in your apportionment of time to exercises of the body and
relaxations of the mind. Above all, and at whatever sacrifice, begin
your allotment by devoting two hours at the least in each day to
active bodily exercise, and give one of these to the early morning,
and the other to the evening. So with your meals. First consult
health, without which your studies will be unproductive, and your
hopes of future success blighted. Thus, then, would stand the account
for the day:--Exercise, two hours; meals and rest, three; sleep,
seven; for study, twelve.' Twelve hours for study would be too long,
if he did not make study itself a recreation by means of variety. 'The
profound should be exchanged for the more superficial; the grave for
the gay; such as engage the reasoning powers for those which appeal
rather to the perception or the memory. Natural science should take
its turn with law; languages with logic; rhetoric with mathematics,
and such like--an entire change in the faculties employed being in
fact a more perfect relief than entire rest.' An hour to the more
difficult law-books is enough at a time, but that hour should
alternate frequently with lighter studies. Educational and
professional studies--physical training--and exercise in the art of
speaking, are all of high importance; and it will be found that our
author's advice on the subject is worth attending to. The education of
the aspirant must be completed in the chambers--first, of a
conveyancer; second, of a special pleader (or, if aiming at the equity
bar, of an equity draughtsman); and third, of a general practitioner.
As for his formal and nominal studentship in the Inns of Court, that
merely serves prescriptively to qualify him for his call to the bar.
'If he purposes to practise as a conveyancer, or at the equity bar, he
should enter himself at Lincoln's Inn; but if he designs to practise
the common law, either as a special pleader, or immediately as an
advocate, his choice lies between the Inner and Middle Temple and
Gray's Inn,' The Inner Temple is the most select; the Middle Temple
the most varied in its society; and Gray's Inn the most liberal in its
table. Having chosen his Inn, 'he must obtain the certificate of two
barristers, members of the society, together with that of a bencher,
that he is a fit person to be received into it;' and he is admitted,
as a matter of course.
Many of our readers, on entering the City, through Temple Bar, have
seen a small open gateway on the right hand. It is a quiet,
retired-looking place, grave, and somewhat gloomy; and in contrast
with Fleet Street, and its torrent of population, is rather striking
and remarkable. Yet, hurried away by the living stream, they have
doubtless passed on, and perhaps have forgotten to inquire to what
that solemn avenue leads. Let them enter, the next opportunity they
have, and make use of their own eyes. 'A few paces, and you are beyond
the roar of wheels and the tramp of feet. Tall, gloomy,
smoke-embrowned buildings, whose uniformity of dulness is not
disturbed by windows incrusted with the accumulated dust of a century,
hem you in on either side, and oppress your breathing as with the
mildewy atmosphere of a vault. The dingy ranks of brick are broken by
very narrow alleys; and here and there, peeping under archways, you
may espy little paved court-yards, with great pumps scattering
continual damp in the midst of them, and enclosed with just such dusky
walls and dirty windows as you have already noticed. You are amazed at
the silence that prevails in these retreats, so near the living world,
and yet so entirely secluded from it. But not less will you be
interested by the peculiar appearance of the persons you meet in this
place. The majority of them carry packets of written papers tied about
with red tape, and folded after a fashion here invariably observed....
First, and most abundant, are certain short, thin-visaged,
spare-limbed, keen-featured, dapper-looking men, who appear as if they
had never been young and would never be old, clothed in habiliments of
sober hue, seemingly as unchangeable as themselves. They walk with a
hurried step, and a somewhat important swing of the unoccupied arm. A
smaller packet of the aforesaid tape-tied paper peeps from either
pocket; they look right on, and hasten forward as if the fortunes of
half the world rested upon their shoulders, and the wisdom in the
briefs at their elbow had all been distilled from the skull covered by
that napless hat. If you do not move out of the way, you will probably
be knocked down and trodden upon by them--unconsciously of course.
They are _attorneys' clerks_.
'The second species found in this region are more youthful in aspect,
carry themselves with more swagger, wear their hats jantily, with
greasy curls coaxed to project beyond the brim. They affect a sort of
secondhand gentility, cultivate great brooches, silver guard-chains,
and whiskers, and have the air of persons claiming vice-royalty in the
dominions in which they live and move and have their being. They are
_barristers' clerks_.
'The third class are gentlemanly but very shabbily dressed men, who
look as if they were thinking of something beside themselves. They are
of all ages, and statures, and complexions; of feature of all degrees
of ugliness _in form_ and beauty of _expression_. You cannot mistake
them; there is a family-likeness running through all of them. They are
_barristers_.
'The fourth species are composed of men of busy, bustling aspect,
arrayed for the most part in garments of formal cut, and of the
fashion of a bygone day. They _always_ look as ordinary men do when
told on some pressing emergency to "look sharp." Their countenances,
motions, and gait express thought and anxiety. They hurry onward,
noticing nothing and nobody. They are _attorneys_.
'Lastly, you discern a few wasted forms and haggard faces, on which
lines are traced by the icy finger of Disappointment, and garments,
growing ragged, ill protect from the keen draughts that play through
these passages hearts aching with the sickness of hope deferred. The
pockets, though tightly buttoned, are lank and light. They step
briskly and eagerly onward, if entering; they creep slowly, if passing
out toward the street. They are _clients._'
This is the Temple, and these are its denizens; but in pursuing your
way, as you emerge suddenly from the huge masses of building in which
you have been swallowed up, you see with new surprise an open area of
green turf, with beds of flowers, rows of trees, and leafy walks, and
shady seats; and hear the fit and natural accompaniments of such a
scene--the shrill voices of children, and the silvery laugh of ladies
as they stroll through the Temple Gardens. Groups of law-students,
too, 'are lounging there, laughing and talking; and a few solitary
youths, with pale faces and earnest eyes, are poring upon great books
in professional bindings, heedless of the attractions of tree or
flower, or child or woman.'
Beyond the garden is the great water highway of the metropolis, the
princely Thames, with its crowding barges, its flashing skiffs, and
sweeping steamers. Among the gloomy buildings there is _yet_ another
garden-plot, with a fountain in constant play; and yet another, a
smooth-shaven lawn, with paths and flower-beds, on the brink of the
river. 'Here, in this garden of the Middle Temple, there is no human
presence to disturb the profound quiet of the place, as in the more
spacious garden of the Inner Temple which you have lately quitted.
Seats are scattered about, and pretty summer-houses invite to study or
contemplation, but they are unoccupied by any visible presence. One is
inclined to imagine that the Benchers have dedicated this garden to
the exclusive occupation of the dead luminaries of the law, as the
garden on the other side is devoted to its living oracles. With such a
fancy, we always feel disposed to take off our hat to the invisibles,
as we pass the tranquil spot where we suppose them to be "doomed for a
certain time to walk."'
A red building on the right is the magnificent hall of the Middle
Temple, with the carved screen of oak taken from the Spanish Armada.
This is the hall in which the Templar eats his way to the bar; but if
he should have no appetite for such dinners, it is not necessary that
he should devour more than three, provided he pays for the whole
fourteen. 'Shortly before the hand on the dial over the doorway points
to five, crowds of gentlemen may be seen hurrying through the
labyrinthine paths that intersect the Temple in all directions, and
concentrating at the yard before the hall, for dinner there waits for
no man, and, better still, no man waits for dinner. Gowns are provided
for the student in the robing-room, for the use of which a small
term-fee is paid, and, thus habited, he is introduced into the Hall.
But it is now no longer hushed and sombre, but a scene of brightness
and bustle. The tables are spread for dinner in close and orderly
array; wax-lights in profusion blaze upon them; a multitude of gowned
men are lounging on the seats, or talking in groups, or busily looking
out for the most agreeable places, which are secured by simply placing
the spoon in the plate. Suddenly a single loud thump is heard at the
door. All rush to their seats: it is opened wide; the servants range
themselves on either side, and between their bowing ranks behold the
benchers enter in procession, and march to the dais allotted to them.
The steward strikes the table three times with his hammer to command
silence, says a grace before meat, and the feast begins.' Gradations
of rank are closely observed. 'The benchers' tables are ranged upon
the dais, across the hall. The tables in the body of the hall are
placed lengthwise, the barristers occupying those nearest to the dais,
and the students taking the others indiscriminately. They are laid so
as to form messes for four, each mess being provided with distinct
dishes, and making a party of itself. The persons who chance to be
seated at the same mess need no other introduction; he who sits at the
head is called "the captain;" he first carves for himself, and then
passes the dishes to the others in due order. The society presents
each mess with a bottle of wine--always port--a custom which might be
most advantageously violated.'
The Temple is not exactly a part of the United Kingdom: it is rather a
tributary state. It preserves its own peace, collects its own taxes,
and laughs at the City, with whose municipal burthens it has nothing
to do. The inhabitants may live in town or country, as they please,
for both are within the domain. They may occupy an attic, a first
floor, a parlour, an area, just as they like. The Templar seems in
constant sanctuary, where no one dares intrude upon him but his
laundress and his clerk. Both these, as figured by our author, are
admirable specimens of the natural history of the Temple; but we have
no room to give them entire, and must not spoil them by abridgment.
Besides, the aspirant waits: he is not yet called.
The call consists in his proposal by a bencher, the posting of his
name in the hall, his arraying himself in a gown and wig, his taking
the oath of abjuration, supremacy, and allegiance, his being bowed to
by the bench of benchers, and his treating his friends after dinner to
as much dessert and wine as they can hold. He is now an Advocate, and
selects his circuit. 'To every circuit there belongs a band of
gentlemen who were never known to hold a brief, to whom nobody ever
dreamed of offering a brief, and who, if it had been offered, would
probably have declined it. Yet they travel the entire circuit, are
punctual in bowing to the judge at the opening of the court in the
morning, sit there with heroic patience all the day through, nor leave
until his lordship announces that he will "take no other case after
_that_," when they look delighted, rise like school-boys released, and
rush from the court to enjoy half an hour's holiday before dinner.'
This is a sad companionship to get into; yet regularity in attending
even an unproductive circuit is necessary to eventual success. The Bar
must enter the assize town on the same day, that they may all start
fair; they must not live in a hotel, but take lodgings; and they must
not, while on the circuit--that is, in their professional
character--shake hands with an attorney.
We have now started our hero fairly in his profession, and we must
refer to the book itself for his adventures in practice. No less than
eleven chapters are devoted to this part of his life, and yet the
volume before us, although separately published, is only the _first_
volume. We have said and quoted enough to shew that Mr Cox possesses
in an eminent degree the versatility of talent so necessary in a
literary man of the present day; and we lay down the _Advocate_ with
the conviction, that it possesses much that is new, suggestive,
wholesome, and instructive, as well as much that is interesting and
entertaining.