Volume 101 — JOURNAL OF A ROLLING STONE.
Reading edition
NINTH ENTRY.
Curious thing, now that I am installed as a pupil in FIBBINS'S Chambers in Waste Paper Buildings, Temple, how few new briefs I am given to read. Usual routine is for DICK FIBBINS to hand me a brief on which the dust of ages has collected, and to leave me to "get up the law about it"; but when he (FIBBINS) comes back from his day's business in Court, about 4·30 P.M., he doesn't seem to care a bit to know what the law is. Seems tired, and prefers to gossip and smoke; so I do the same, or "follow on the same side," as he expresses it.
"It strikes me forcibly," I begin, "that the Plaintiff, SMITHERS, in that running-down case you asked me to read to-day, hasn't got the ghost of a chance. Why, in Blatherson v. Snipe, the Court ruled—"
"Tried the lawn-tennis in the gardens yet?" FIBBINS interrupts, in the rudest possible manner.
"No," I reply, "I was speaking of the Court, not lawn-tennis courts." (One for FIBBINS, I think.) "All the Judges held in Blatherson v. Snipe, that—"
"Oh, did they?" he interrupts again: "doosid interesting. Was I for plaintiff or defendant?"
"Plaintiff, SMITHERS. A running-down case."
"Wish it had been a running-up case—a case of running-up the fees," he laughs. Then, resuming a more professional style, "You see, I've had such multitudes of cases since then, that I've forgotten the precise details. But you write out your own Opinion—not to-day; tomorrow will do. Then I'll see what it's like. Now let's go a trot down the Strand."
Another circumstance that strikes me as remarkable, is the frequency with which I hear the Impressive Clerk (in the little room next to mine) requesting persons who have called to "settle up that other little matter." Then the strange voice laughs, and says—"Oh, your Governor can wait." "No, he can't,"—it's the Clerk who says this—"it's been going on for three years, now." "Well," chimes in the unknown, "let it go a bit longer. When'll your Governor have settled those pleadings?" "When your people settle about the five guineas, and not before," replies the Impressive Clerk in his best Parliamentary debating style. Then follows a long wrangle, not on law, but on finance, which never—as far as I can judge—ends in the Clerk getting his way, and his money.
"Looks like a Prime Minister in reduced circumstances."
Astonishing event happens. A real live new brief comes in! Impressive Clerk—who looks like a Prime Minister in reduced circumstances—brings it to FIBBINS when I am in the room. More impressive than ever. "From ROGERS, in Chancery Lane—an excellent firm, Sir," he says. Poor FIBBINS tries, ineffectually, to conceal his delight, and his eye turns instinctively to the place where the fee is marked.
"Six guas" (legal slang for guineas) "for an Opinion, not bad," he comments, rubbing his hands. FIBBINS dusts a corner of his desk, and lays it down there.
I am given this precious brief, and am asked to write a "draft Opinion" about it! "Just to try your hand," says FIBBINS, who does not wish me to be conceited. "Then I'll write my own afterwards," he adds.
I make a very elaborate commentary, quoting from innumerable parallel cases in English, American, and Roman law, and, after giving it to DICK FIBBINS to read, I don't see it again.
But, a few afternoons later, when Impressive Clerk happens to be out, a knock comes. Nobody in. At last, go myself (Query—infra dig.?) and open door.
"Here!" says a juvenile, who apparently mistakes me for the Clerk, and rudely chucks some papers to me, which hit me in the chest, "give these to your Governor. What a time you take answering a knock! Having a nap, hay? Take care old FIBBINS don't catch you at it, that's all!" Juvenile disappears downstairs, whistling, before I can think of a suitable rejoinder.
Open the papers. The same brief returned with request to "draw up a Statement of Claim,"—and my "Opinion" inside! It looks as if DICK sent these clients of his my valuable advice, pretending that it was his own!
My learned "leader," when he comes in, treats affair very coolly.
"Oh, did I send your 'Opinion' to them as well as mine? What an ass I am! I wonder what they thought of it?"
I also wonder. In looking over the returned brief just now, however, I certainly did not come across the "Opinion," manufactured by FIBBINS himself, of which that learned Counsel spoke. And I have no second chance of examining it, as he is careful to take "all the documents in the case" (a phrase of the Impressive Clerk's) home with him, for what he calls re-perusal.
The conviction that it was my Opinion, and mine alone, which FIBBINS dispatched, probably out of sheer laziness, to ROGERS & CO., Solicitors, Chancery Lane, is one that I still retain. But it is FIBBINS who retains the fee!
AT THE CLOSE OF THE SUMMER.
(By one who idled. To his Lady-help.)
I am back at my work, which is far from exciting After nothing to do for a month at a time, So I am not astonished to find myself writing To you, dear MELENDA, and writing in rhyme. In my rooms very often the scent of the heather Brings back with it sweet recollections, and so I think of the days when we idled together, Far away in the country a fortnight ago. Yes, the two afternoons when, although we were sorry That it rained, we went out as to do we had vowed, And the wonderful echo we found in a quarry That took what we whispered and said it aloud. Whilst we wandered through fern-laden hedges and talked, it So happened a dragon-fly flew by your side. You remember, I'm sure, how you laughed as I stalked it, And how it seemed hurt, as it finally died. Then I think of our pic-nic. The sunshine came glinting, And we thought that the summer had come—come to stay. We did not walk too fast, you were constantly hinting You were really afraid we were losing our way. I seemed to be catching two glimpses of heaven, As I gazed at the sky and kept looking at you; For the party that started by being just seven Had a curious habit of shrinking to two. Why, that's quite sentimental. It isn't the fashion To write of such things in so high flown a style. Yet maybe I'm entitled to so much of passion As to say that you won me outright with your smile. Though a merciless fate may not let it befall so, For we know not at all what there may be in store, Yet next year, if you're down there—and I am there also, Shall we do what we did in the summer before?
"TO ERR IS HUMAN."—"Even I am not always infallible," observed Mr. P., on noticing that, in the dialogue under a picture, last week, the spelling of "cover-coat" for "covert-coat" had escaped his eagle eye. Just as he was wondering to himself how such things could be, his other and eagler eye caught this line in the correspondence, per "Dalziel," from Chicago, in the Times for Sept. 23:—"Great Britain has chosen a sight for her buildings at the World's Fair." If "taken" had been substituted for "chosen," the mistake might have borne a satirical meaning. No doubt Great Britain has not made any error as to the site she has selected, from any point of view.
MEM. IN COLOURS.
Man's life is in two colours, simply told: Green while you're young, and grey when you are old.
DOMESTIC COOKERY.—(For a future New Edition of "Mrs. Glasse-with-care")—It will contain suggestions for new dishes, to be arranged according to grammatical divisions of gender and number, as "case" already exists. A specimen of the first will be Une Femme-lette, a female companion dish to Un 'Ommelet. Another example proposed is La Petite Marmite and Le Petit Pa'mite, two dishes most suitable for a very small family party; say of dwarf Troglodytes. "Number" of dishes must always be "a party question;" though at the same time politics will be rigidly excluded from the new publication.
NOTICE.—Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printer Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.