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.