This species of ‘successful’ barristers, fortunate though they may be, and risen men, too, in one sense, must yet not be confounded with that other set of men who make up the real bonâ fide rising and risen ones. These latter are grand fellows, and constitute the most interesting group of the evening. In some respects they are like those others we have spoken of, who have had to fight; but unlike them, they have possessed and exercised the gifts of energy, tact, perseverance, a wider acquaintance with human nature; and they have also possessed the inestimable gifts of good physique and the capacity for unmitigated labour. Like the other successful ones, they have risen; but unlike them, they have achieved honours which appertain more closely to their profession. They are the men from whose ranks our judicial strength is recruited; men who in time may become statesmen too, and leave distinguished names behind them. They are, in short, gifted honourable men, whose promotion is a delight to their friends and a benefit to the community, because the promotion of such is always well deserved.
Observable also in the present assembly are several of what may be termed the purely ornamental limbs of the law, who are to be found in the Inns of Court, and elsewhere. This class comprises country squires, gentlemen at large generally, and so forth, who, although entitled to the designation of ‘barrister-at-law,’ make no pretensions—at anyrate, here—to any depth of legal learning. Yet, likely enough, many of them are administrators of the law as county magistrates. However, great lawyers are not always the best hands at discharging the often rough-and-ready duties of ‘justices out of sessions;’ and whatever may be the ability of our friends now in Hall, one thing concerning them is clear, that they are to-night amongst the jolliest of the jolly. Look at them greeting old friends, dodging about the Hall, replenishing here and there their stock of legal on dits and anecdotes for retailing to admiring audiences elsewhere, discussing the affairs of the Inn and of the nation generally!
Lastly, there are the youngsters, ranging from the shy students only recently ‘of’ the Inn, to the youthful barristers who have just assumed the wig and gown. Some of the latter are engaged in detailing to eager and ambitious listeners the glories surrounding the first brief, while all are brimful of mirth and hopefulness. To such, the business of Grand Day appears tame in comparison with the high and substantial honours which they all firmly believe to be in store for them in the future. Ah! the future; that alluring period, so surpassingly enchanting to us all in the days of youth!
Such is the assembly before us at Mansfield’s Inn on Grand Day of this Trinity Term.
‘Dinner!’ shouts the head-porter, who stands at the door with his great silver-headed baton in hand. We now see the use of this badge of office; for immediately after enunciating the above welcome word, he brings his baton heavily on to the floor three times. Then slowly advancing up the Hall, we see that he is a sort of vanguard, or rather avant-courier, of a host which is gradually following him, gentlemen who walk two and two in procession, almost with funereal precision and solemnity. As they proceed, the previous loud hum of conversation is considerably lulled, and everybody is standing at his place. These are the Benchers of the Inn and their guests. The proper designation of the former is ‘Masters of the Bench’ of the Inn to which they belong. Each is called ‘Master’ So-and-so; and the chief of their body is the Treasurer of the Inn, who holds office for one year. The guests are invariably persons of well-known position in the Army and Navy, the Church, Politics, Law, Science, Literature, and Art. Sometimes royal personages honour the Inns with their company on Grand Day; and it is well known that several members of the royal family are members of certain Inns. The Prince of Wales is a Bencher of the Middle Temple, and dined there on Grand Day of Trinity Term 1874, when an unusually brilliant gathering appeared. The Prince on that occasion delivered a humorous and genial speech, in which he reminded his learned friends of the circumstance of Chancellor Sir Christopher Hatton opening a ball in that very place with Queen Elizabeth. On the recent occasion of the Prince again dining there, no speeches were delivered in Hall.
The procession moves on; and as many of the various guests are recognised, the hum of conversation recommences. The Benchers wear silk gowns; and now we are actually brushed by a K.G., whose blue ribbon is unquestionably a distingué addition to evening dress; or by a G.C.B., whose red ribbon is so extremely becoming as to set some of the youngsters speculating which they would rather be, a Knight of the Garter or a Grand Cross of the Bath. Here we are, then, with peers, right honourables, generals, judges, orators, poets, painters, humorists, and so forth, around us; but, alas, in the midst of so much grandeur, we are troubled by a prosaic monitor whose demands are becoming imperative. In other words, we are getting hungry. Well, we have not much longer to wait. ‘Rap, rap, rap!’ goes the head-porter—this time with an auctioneer’s hammer on one of the tables. Immediately dead silence ensues, and then ‘grace’ is read by the Preacher of the Inn.
Now we fall to. There is soup, fish, joint, poultry, pastry, beer, champagne, and one bottle of any other wine for each mess; and all for half-a-crown! However, we know the Inn is rolling in wealth, and we feel no compunction as to assisting in the heartiest way to carry on the work of consumption going on in all directions.
Presently comes the rapping of Mr Head-porter again, who now proclaims ‘Silence!’ and having secured this, there comes another request to the assembly: ‘Gentlemen, charge your glasses, and drink to the health of Her Majesty the Queen.’ The Treasurer then rises and says: ‘Gentlemen, “The Queen;”’ whereupon a great and enthusiastic shout of ‘The Queen!’ bursts forth. There is no more conservative body of men than the Bar of England, nor has the Crown more staunch or more devoted supporters than the gentlemen of the Long Robe. At the same time, no body of men in this country has ever more firmly withstood any attempt to extend the royal prerogative to the injury of the subject. The toast, ‘The health of the Queen,’ is always drunk at these Bar gatherings with an amount of fervour which betokens strong attachment to the constitution; and on this particular occasion, the intensity and unanimity of the response forcibly reminds one of the discharge of a sixty-eight-pounder!
As a rule, there is no speechifying in Hall, and there is none this evening. The practice is for the Benchers to take dessert in one of their reception-rooms, called ‘The Parliament Chamber.’ There, all the speeches are made, and the speakers are refreshed by the choicest products of the vineyard which money and good judgment can procure. Who would not be a Bencher?
And now, so far as the ordinary portion of the assembly is concerned, dinner is over. Grace again is said; and the Benchers, with their guests, retire in the order in which they entered. But now there is not altogether that grave air of solemnity about the procession which distinguished it at its entrance; indeed, everybody looks and feels all the better for the good things which have been partaken of. Neither the distinguished guests nor those of the Benchers who are popular with the Inn are allowed to depart without a friendly cheer; and if some personage happens to be very popular indeed, his name is shouted out in a fashion often bordering on the obstreperous.