Wishing to be instructive as well as amusing, we cannot overlook the present opportunity of a digression in favor of eloquence. It is a great pity that our barristers cannot plead in Greek, for then Demosthenes might be very useful to them; and it would be, in all probability, quite as intelligible to the jury as much of that eloquence which is now spouted in English. To use Greek is quite out of the question, and therefore all they can do is to make their English as much like Greek to the jury as they possibly can. This they often do with wonderful success. Eloquence is in our days most grievously neglected, being almost solely confined to provincial newspapers, in which we may still enjoy the fine metaphorical language of the olden time. It is in those choice repositories that we can even yet revel in that fine figure of speech called “circumbendibus;” and were it not for these and a few eloquent barristers, and divers aggrieved parishioners in divers little city parishes which become immortalized by vestry squabbles, we should have scarcely any eloquence at all. This is such a favorite topic with us that we dare not trust ourselves to give way to our feelings; we will therefore content ourselves with giving a valuable hint to eloquent barristers. We advise them, if they wish to keep their eloquence and their countenance too, never to look at the judge, or at the opposing counsel, or at any attorney, or at any one of the jury who has the least look of understanding, but to direct their eyes, if they must keep them open, to any one who looks prodigiously serious and has his mouth wide open.
CHAPTER VII.
“I have liv’d long enough: my way of life
Is fall’n into the sear and yellow leaf.”
Shakspeare.
It might be supposed that, now Mr. Tippetson had very clearly relinquished all intention of offering his hand to Clara, and Miss Henderson had appointed Dr. Crack successor to Mr. Markham, no objection or impediment lay in the way of the last-named gentleman to prevent a regular and formal offer of his heart to Clara Rivolta. So for a moment he thought, and but for a moment. Most curiously do actual events seem to amuse themselves by opposing and contradicting human anticipations.
One morning when there was no business in Westminster Hall, and when Markham, after a late and lounging breakfast in his chamber, was preparing to saunter to the west, and spend his morning and, if Mr. Martindale pleased, his day with Clara Rivolta, just as he had drawn the brush round his hat, that daily author of ten thousand times ten thousand palpitations, the postman, brought him a letter, on which he recognised the hand-writing of his father; but the young man thought that the writing seemed of an unsteadier hand than usual, and he was alarmed.
We have hitherto said little or next to nothing concerning Markham’s father. Our reason for so doing is, that the elder Markham was a linen-draper; and we were very naturally afraid lest any of our readers should for a moment suppose that we knew any thing about such vulgar people. As the subject, however, must be introduced, we hope that our readers will imagine that all the knowledge we have of the linen-draper cast has been derived from some cyclopedia or dictionary of universal knowledge.