The Seven Lamps of Advocacy by Sir Edward Abbott Parry - HTML preview

VII
 THE LAMP OF FELLOWSHIP

AN advocate lacking in fellowship, careless of the sacred traditions of brotherhood which have kept the lamp of fellowship burning brightly for the English Bar through many centuries, a man who joins the Bar merely as a trade or business, and does not understand that it is also a professional community with public ideals, misses the heart of the thing, and he and his clients will suffer accordingly.

Fitzjames Stephen wisely said of the English Bar that it is “exactly like a great public school, the boys of which have grown older, and have exchanged boyish for manly objects. There is just the same rough familiarity, the general ardour of character, the same kind of unwritten code of morals and manners, the same kind of public opinion expressed in exactly the same blunt, unmistakable manner.”

The very title of Inns of Court is redolent of hospitality, fellowship, and even conviviality. How many glorious things have their beginnings at an inn! How pleasant it would be to investigate with the antiquarians the earliest origins of our Inns of Court! But to come to comparatively modern days, Sir John Fortescue, who was Chief Justice of the King’s Bench in the time of Henry VI., gives us a pleasant picture of their traditions of fellowship. These Inns of Court, or hostels, he says, anciently received the sons of noble men and the better sort of gentlemen, “who did there not only study the laws to serve the courts of justice and profit their country, but did further learn to dance, to sing, to play on instruments on the ferial days and to study divinity on the festival, using such exercises as they did who were brought up in the King’s Court.” There were Inns of Chancery, too, where the younger students learned the first elements of law before they were taken into the greater hostels, which were called Inns of Court. The expenses of the student were no less than twenty marks a year in Fortescue’s day, and if he was attended by his servant, as most were, that was an added charge, so that only the sons of gentlemen could afford so expensive an education.

At this time a young fellow would come from the university, or perhaps straight from the grammar-school, and would learn the first elements of law in one of the ten minor Inns of Chancery, and would then apply for admission to one of the four houses or Inns of Court: Inner or Middle Temple, Gray’s Inn or Lincoln’s Inn. There they continued for the space of seven years, attending readings, moots—where cases were put and discussed—and “boltings,” as the practice arguments were called, “whereby,” as Fortescue tells us, “growing ripe in the knowledge of the laws, and approved withal to be of honest conversation, they are either by the general consent of the benchers or readers (being of the most ancient, grave, and judicial men of every Inn of Court), or by the special privilege of the present reader there, selected and called to the degree of utter (outer) barristers, and so enabled to be common counsellers and to practise the law both in their chambers and at the bars.”

The whole social scheme of education and control in the exercise of professional rights and advancement was most carefully thought out. An utter barrister of not less than ten or twelve years’ standing and “of good profit in study” was chosen as reader to educate the students. At about fifteen years’ standing he became a bencher, after which he might be appointed a serjeant, and go away to Serjeants’ Inn, that important society “where none but serjeants and judges do converse,” and from which alone could judges be chosen.

It was for this reason that the judges always addressed a serjeant as “Brother.” I can well remember as a boy feeling a certain glow of satisfaction at hearing the judges in the Tichborne trial calling my father “Brother Parry,” and it seems a pity that this fraternal greeting, this courteous link of fellowship between Bench and Bar, necessarily disappeared with the abolition of Serjeants’ Inn. Yet, though the talisman is no longer spoken, the spirit of brotherhood will always be with us.

In the old days education in the law was undertaken very seriously, but in a fraternal spirit. The reader would propound a case, the utter barristers would declare their opinion, the reader would confute the objections laid against him, and the students would eagerly note the learned points of the seniors. These readings took four or five hours daily, and were held in the halls. The moots and the boltings took place after supper, and at other times among the students under the leadership of a barrister.

But the whole term was not taken up with the dry study of the law. There were feastings, grand nights, and, greatest of all, the Christmas Saturnalia, at one of which, after a costly dinner, a pack of hounds was brought into the hall, a fox and a cat were let loose, and a mad hunt took place. Isaac D’Israeli gives an excellent account of these wild doings, taken from a rare tract supposed to have been written in 1594. “Supper ended,” he writes, “the constable-marshal presented himself, with drums playing, mounted on a stage borne by four men, and carried round; at length he cries out, ‘A lord, a lord,’ &c., and then calls his mock court every one by name.

“‘Sir Francis Flatterer, of Fowls-hurt.

“‘Sir Randall Rackabite, of Rascal-hall, in the county of Rake-hell.

“‘Sir Morgan Mumchance, of Much Monkery, in the county of Mad Mopery.

“‘Sir Bartholomew Bald-breech, of Buttock-bury, in the county of Break-neck.’

“They had also their mock arraignments. The king’s-serjeant, after dinner or supper, ‘oratour-like,’ complained that the constable-marshal had suffered great disorders to prevail; the complaint was answered by the common-serjeant, who was to show his talent at defending the cause. The king’s-serjeant replies; they rejoin, &c.: till one at length is committed to the Tower, for being found most deficient. If any offender contrived to escape from the lieutenant of the Tower into the buttery, and brought into the hall a manchet (or small loaf) upon the point of a knife, he was pardoned; for the buttery in this jovial season was considered as a sanctuary. Then began the revels. Blount derives this term from the French reveiller, to awake from sleep. These were sports of dancing, masking comedies, &c. (for some were called solemn revels), used in great houses, and were so denominated because they were performed by night; and these various pastimes were regulated by a master of the revels.

“Amidst ‘the grand Christmass’ a personage of no small importance was ‘the Lord of Misrule.’ His lordship was abroad early in the morning, and if he lacked any of his officers, he entered their chambers to drag forth the loiterers; but after breakfast his lordship’s power ended, and it was in suspense till night, when his personal presence was paramount, or, as Dugdale expresses it, ‘and then his power is most potent.’

“Such were then the pastimes of the whole learned bench; and when once it happened that the under-barristers did not dance on Candlemas Day, according to the ancient order of the society, when the judges were present, the whole bar was offended, and at Lincoln’s Inn were by decimation put out of commons, for example-sake; and should the same omission be repeated, they were to be fined or disbarred; for these dancings were thought necessary, ‘as much conducing to the making of gentlemen more fit for their books at other times.’”

The details of the alliteration with which Sir Francis Flatterer and others are called into court have always interested me deeply, as on the Northern Circuit, when the crier at Grand Court calls in the absent ones, he has to do it in curious and measured phrases of alliterative abuse. When Fitzjames Stephen was made crier on account of his stentorian voice, his delicate mind revolted against the coarseness of his duties, and he sought to have the Circuit Court and its ancient, outspoken manners abolished, but fortunately he did not succeed.

For though some of this ancientry is better honoured in the breach than the observance, yet even the buffoonery, as Stephen called it, of Grand Court has its value as a link with the past.

It is an excellent thing for the profession that in the same way as the lessons of advocacy in the past were learned by the young students from their elders, who sat at meat with them and shared their lives in intimate and homely fashion, so to-day we enter a common Inn, dine at a common table, join a common mess upon circuit, all of which is evidence of the continuance of that right spirit of fellowship which, to my mind, is an essential of advocacy.

The fellowship of the Temple springs from its long traditions of brotherhood among the Templars. To turn out of the Strand into its quiet courts brings over your brooding spirit something of that sacred melancholy pleasure which one feels on entering the old school or dining once again in the college hall. But you are no longer actor, art and part, in the school and college life. Here in the Temple, though others are judges and benchers and fashionable leaders, you can still wander in shabby honesty in the gardens, pull down some of the old volumes in the library, and dine below the salt with your fellow-ancients.

Thackeray has a true insight into the pleasures of memory that the Temple possesses for those who have lived there, and pictures, as he alone can, its historic charm.

“Nevertheless,” he writes, “those venerable Inns which have the Lamb and Flag and the Winged Horse for their ensigns have attractions for persons who inhabit them, and a share of rough comforts and freedom which men always remember with pleasure. I don’t know whether the student of law permits himself the refreshment of enthusiasm, or indulges in poetical reminiscences as he passes by historical chambers and says, ‘Yonder Eldon lived—upon this site Coke mused upon Lyttelton—here Chitty toiled—here Barnwell and Alderson joined in their famous labours—here Byles composed his great work upon bills, and Smith compiled his immortal leading cases—here Gustavus still toils, with Solomon to aid him:’ but the man of letters can’t but love the place which has been inhabited by so many of his brethren, or peopled by their creations, as real to us at this day as the authors whose children they were—and Sir Roger de Coverley, walking in the Temple Garden and discoursing with Mr. Spectator about the beauties in hoops and patches who are sauntering over the grass, is just as lovely a figure to me as old Samuel Johnson rolling through the fog with the Scotch gentleman at his heels on their way to Dr. Goldsmith’s chambers in Brick Court; or Harry Fielding, with inked ruffles and a wet towel round his head, dashing off articles at midnight for the Covent Garden Journal while the printer’s boy is asleep in the passage.”

The Temple is full of ghosts—honest ghosts with whom it is a privilege to claim fellowship.

There are some who speak of the Bar sneeringly as a Trade Union—which it certainly is, and to my thinking one of the oldest and best unions. And if advocacy could be honestly described as a trade, then the phrase trade union might be accepted without demurrer. For the basic quality of a trade union, that which has made these institutions thrive against opposition, is the spirit of fellowship and unselfishness which is the ideal of its members.

We have seen how of old the senior members of the Bar trained up the juniors in the mystery of their craft, and throughout the practice of the profession it has always been a point of honour for the elders to assist the beginners in those difficult days of apprenticeship.

What could be more delightful and encouraging to a youngster than to be received by his genial, handsome leader in the presence of an admiring attorney after the fashion that Montagu Williams tells us of his first meeting with Serjeant Shee? “I shall never forget,” he writes, “my consultation with dear old Serjeant Shee. I knew very little about pleadings, and matters of that kind, and so the work naturally made me feel somewhat nervous. On going upstairs to the consulting-room to see Serjeant Shee, whom I already knew slightly, I had my briefs stuck under my arm, somewhat ostentatiously, I am afraid. The old serjeant patted me on the shoulder and said, ‘Lots of briefs flowing in, my boy; delighted to see it.’

“When we had taken our seats, and the consultation had begun, he said, turning to the solicitor who instructed us, ‘Winning case—pleadings all wrong. That young dog over there smelt it out long ago, as a terrier would a rat, I can see—eh, Montagu Williams? You’ve found it out; I can see it by your face.’

“Heaven knows I was as innocent of finding anything out as the man in the moon. I sniggered feebly; and then the serjeant proceeded to put into my mouth the vital blots in the case of our adversary, which he alone had discovered.

“That was the way leaders treated their juniors then. I must leave my successors at the Bar to decide whether or not things are the same now.”

With equal kindness that great man and honest advocate, Abraham Lincoln, stretched out the hand of welcome and encouragement to the younger men who came along.

James Haines tells us the story of his first brief, The People v. Gideon Hawley. “There were,” he says, “thirty-two indictments against my client for obstructing a public road, and as the authorities were inclined to make an example, the case was somewhat serious. I retained Mr. L. to conduct the defence, and after we had completed our preparations he said, ‘Of course, you will make the opening speech.’ I was surprised, for I had supposed that he would want to assume full control, and I said as much, adding that I would prefer him to take the lead. ‘No,’ he answered, and then, laying a hand on my shoulder, he continued: ‘I want you to open the case, and when you are doing it, talk to the jury as though your client’s fate depends on every word you utter. Forget that you have any one to fall back upon, and you will do justice to yourself and your client.’ I have never forgotten the kind, gentle, and tactful manner in which he spoke those words,” Mr. Haines continued, “and that is a fair sample of the way he treated the younger members of the Bar.”

No man ever attains a position at the Bar in which he can afford to despise the opinion of his fellow-men. The eulogies of public journals, even the praise and patronage of attorneys, are of no worth compared with the respect of the Bar. As a French advocate wrote: “A solid reputation proceeds only from the Court.”

Charles Russell, who stood on a somewhat lonely eminence at the head of his profession, and dealt with the affairs of his fellows in a very rough-handed and independent manner, was at heart very jealous of the good opinion of the Bar.

He had, during the course of a trial, cross-examined a lady with great severity, and afterwards received an anonymous letter of a very abusive character, in which he was charged with having been guilty of conduct in his cross-examination “which no gentleman should pursue towards any woman.” He thereupon sat down and wrote a letter to the counsel on the other side, in which he said, “I should be sorry to think this was true, but I am not the best judge of my own conduct,” and asked for his learned friend’s opinion on the charge.

The interesting point of the correspondence is that Russell felt that it might possibly be true. It reminds one of the celebrated line in a lively mid-Victorian comedy, where the servant-girl said, “Really, ma’am, I’m that flustered that I don’t know whether I am standing on my head or my heels.” To which Mrs. John Wood used to reply with stern emphasis, “No decent woman ought to have the slightest doubt on a subject of that kind.”

Russell’s learned friend cleverly evaded responsibility by telling him that the character of a gentleman was one “we all know you eminently possess,” with which certificate of character the great man was soothed and satisfied.

With the decay of circuits and the passing of old customs and the silence of ancient convivialities, some of the spirit of fellowship may be lost. But we must remember that even the good old days were not without evidence of professional malice and uncharitableness. As far back as the reign of François I. it was a rule of the French Bar that “advocates must not use contentious words or exclamations the one toward the other; or talk several at the same time, or interrupt each other.” These words might still be engraved in letters of gold on the walls of our own law-courts, for on occasion the lamp of fellowship burns so low that such things occur. Still, at the English Bar we may claim that we set a good example to other bodies of learned men by our real attachment to the precepts and practice of fellowship, and may, without hypocrisy, commend the rest of mankind to follow in our footsteps,

And do as adversaries do in law,

Strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends.

For it is by keeping the lamp of fellowship burning that we encourage each other to walk in the light of the seven lamps of advocacy.

End