SOLOMON PELL IN ALL HIS GLORY.
A Dickensian Dream at Plymouth.
"Boy!" cried Mr. SOLOMON PELL, in the tones of a severe Stentor. The small Boy with the Big Blue Bag responded promptly with a deferential "Yussir."
"Listen!" pursued Mr. PELL, with dignity. And he read with emphatic elocution from some closely-printed columns in the Times, interjecting exclamatory comments from time to time.
"'When we remember the importance of the work daily intrusted to Solicitors (Important, indeed!), and the amount of industry (Quite so!), judgment (Exactly!), learning (I believe you!), and integrity (Why, cert'n'ly!), it involves, and the responsibility which is necessarily incurred by them in advising, not only in public and political matters, but in all the details of private transactions, the dealings with property, and matters affecting not only the purses, but the honour and reputation (Ah!!!), of the members of the community (Well, and pointedly put, Boy!), and when we remember, in addition, what a powerful and (on the whole) respected body they are (I should think so!)—a body, too, consisting not merely of a "fortuitous concourse of atoms" (I should say not, indeed! Fancy me being a mere "atom," or fortuitous!) ("Please, Sir, I can't;" interjected the Boy with the Bag)—each going his own way, and seeking his own interest, but bound together, as the great bulk of its members are, and organised by means of this great Society, and of the kindred societies scattered over the country, and acting in harmony with it—it seems most surprising (Surprising? Astounding, Sir!) that so little in the way of dignity and reward can be looked forward to by the Solicitor, however honestly, ably, and conscientiously he may perform the arduous and responsible duties of his profession.'"
Mr. PELL here paused, and panted, like one who comes to the surface after a deep-sea dive. Then he pursued:—
"There, Boy! That is from the opening speech of the President of the Incorporated Law Society at Plymouth! And excellent it is,—though perhaps a little long-winded. As a mere sentence, a sinuous sequence of words, a 'breather' in syllables, an exercise in adjectives, it cuts the record and takes the cake. But look, Boy, at the sound common-sense of it! Since the famous, if flattering, remarks—concerning Me!—of my late friend, the ex-Lord-Chancellor, who said—nay, swore, that 'the country ought to be proud of me,' I have met with no observations concerning our Profession which so commend themselves to my judgment."
"Oh, please Sir, yussir, right you are, Sir!" jerked out the Boy with the Bag.
"Right Mr. MELMOTH WALTERS is," corrected Mr. PELL, severely. "I knew it would come, Boy, and it has. Though it has taken time, it has taken time. Listen yet further, and don't fidget with that Bag!
"'I contend (He contends!) that it is the duty of the State to provide due recognition of merit in the ranks of a Profession which has been set apart (Dedicated, as it were, like a—like a—sort of a scapegoat—ahem! no, not that, exactly, either, but—a—you know, Boy, you know!), and regulated (Just a leetle too much, perhaps) by it, from which so much is expected, and to which so much is confided.'
"Splendid! My sentiments to a touch! Sir, that Blue Bag is a Temple of Sacred Secrets, and should be a shrine of Open Honour. (Must make a note of that for my next speech at the Forum!) 'Sir SOLOMON PELL' would not sound badly, eh, Boy?"
"Oh, please Sir, yussir—I mean, no, Sir, fur from it, Sir—fur from it!"
"And yet the Bar gets all the honours, and most of the emoluments, whilst the Blue Bag, too often, is sent empty away. Is it just? Is it judicious? What says once again the Plymouth oracle?
"'I ask whether it is wise or prudent on the part of the State to leave unnoticed and disregarded the higher aspirations and ambitions of a large and useful and powerful class of the community?'
"No, Sir—a thousand times no! Let our 'higher aspirations' be considered. Some of us have souls above six-and-eightpence, and yearnings beyond bills of costs. Let 'em be gratified, Boy!"
"Oh, please Sir, yussir: let 'em! Immediately—if not sooner, Sir!"
"By the State—with a capital S! If a soldier may carry a Field Marshal's bâton in his knapsack, why, why should not a Solicitor carry a Baronetcy in his Blue Bag?"
"And Ekker answers, 'Why?' Sir."
"I beg your pardon, Boy, it is the Times, not the Echo, which so answers. The Times says:—
"'They (Solicitors) are the guardians of our dearest (yes, our dearest) interests, the confidants of family secrets, the arbiters in family controversies, and not infrequently the custodians of the honour and the good name of their clients.'
"Quite so. Why, Boy, did we let out the Secrets of the Blue Bag, the contents of Old Nick's Sack, which that 'stupid old snuff-colour'd son of a gun,' Saint Medard 'cut into slits on the Red Sea shore' would be nothing to 'em!"
"Nothink at all, Sir; nothink, wotsomedever!"
"No matter—a time will come, Boy! In Mr. WILLIAM MELMOTH WALTERS's speech I see the dawn of it.
"'The Profession, it is true, does not receive in any great measure those official dignities and rewards which the President claims on its behalf, nor are we quite confident that, if it did, the fact would increase the confidence or the respect of its clients.'
"Well, the Times may not be 'quite confident.' I am! And so would the clients be, I'm sure. Remove that Blue Bag, Boy! Wonder what Mr. Pickwick's opinion of Mr. WALTERS's speech would have been, and that of the Wellers, father and son! [Sings.
"I'll place it in the hand of my Solicitors;
I'll have this thing put right.
We may make money,
But—isn't it funny!—
Few 'dignities' Solicitors delight!"
[Left considering it.