Chapter V (6)

M. Girardin has a lecture upon suicides, in which he attacks that sentimentality--a mixture, in reality, of weakness and impatience--which in modern literature, and in modern life, often conducts to suicide. The following passage will be acknowledged to be eloquent, and even poetic, unless our translation of it shall have entirely obscured its beauty. After having described the proud and _philosophical_ suicides of ancient Rome, he adds:--

There is another species of suicide more in credit in our
days, which is rather occasioned by the weakness and
impatience of men than by the violence of their passions, or
the eccentricity of their philosophies. This species of
suicide is so much the peculiar malady of our times, that we
are tempted to think that men are now for the first time
infected by it. But no; there exists a literature which has
already expressed this our state of restlessness and
disquietude, which has described men consuming with
melancholy in the midst of riotous joys, and seeking suicide
rather as the natural termination of their career than the
remedy of their evils. It is the literature of the fathers
of the church.

I find amongst the homilies of St Chrysostom a certain
Stagyra who was possessed by a demon. To be possessed by a
demon is certainly not a malady of our times; but yet we do
not wander from our theme. For the demon of Stagyra--it is
melancholy, despondency, or, in the much more powerful
expression of the Greek, it is _athumia_--exhaustion of all
energy, all vitality of the soul. This is the demon of
Stagyra. He is one of those sick and agitated souls who
think they belong to the selected portion of mankind,
because they want the energy of the vulgar; who contrive for
themselves pleasures and afflictions apart from the rest of
the world, and who (last trait of weakness and impatience)
at once despise and envy the simplicity and the calm of
those whom they call little souls. Stagyra, in order to
deliver his spirit from its disquietudes, had entered into a
monastery; but neither there did he find the peace and
lightness of heart which he craved; for man finds at first,
in solitude, that only which he brings to it. Stagyra
complains to the saint--and the complaint is curious, for it
indicates the knowledge of a cure for the evils which
torment him, and shows that Stagyra, like many other
patients, had neither resolution to support his disease, nor
to accept its remedy. 'You complain,' says St Chrysostom,
'that while you, with all your fasts, and vigils, and
monastic austerities, have failed to appease your
disquietudes, others who, like yourself, had been tormented
by the demon of melancholy, while living in the midst of
idle pleasures and luxurious indulgence, have found a remedy
in marriage, and felt themselves cured the moment they
became fathers.' A sentence this full of sound instruction.
It is not, then, because life is devoid of pleasure, that
men are the prey of melancholy. That demon pierced, it is
true, like a gnawing worm, through all the luxuries of the
Roman world; there was no resource against it, either in
beautiful slaves, or Ionian dances, or magnificent repasts,
or the combats of gladiators, or Milesian tales, or the
voluptuous pictures which garnish the walls of Pompeii and
Herculaneum. _Athumia_ poisoned all, and the demon possessed
the voluptuary in the midst even of the debauch. But if,
fatigued with these alternate pleasures and disgusts, he
adopted regular and simple manners, married and had
had children, then, as if by enchantment the demon quitted him.
No more despondency, no more bitterness. The spirit of the
possessed was revived, refreshed, renewed by the caresses of
his children. There is no demon, not even the demon of
melancholy, which dares to encounter the presence of a
little child. There is in the innocent fresh breathing of
these creatures, something mortal to evil spirits, and a
cradled infant in the house is sure talisman against all
demoniac possession.

What is it, in fact, which man requires, in order to escape
from this _athumia_, this exhaustion of the heart? Hope--a
future. He must have a faith in the future. This is the
nourishment of his soul; without it he cannot live, he
despairs and dies. Well, the very charm of children, that
which has ranked them, from of old, amongst the blessings of
God, is this, that they form the future of every family--
that they sustain in every house that sentiment by which the
soul of man lives. Children represent the future, and in a
form the most joyous and attractive. It is this which
constitutes their irresistible fascination--it is this which
sheds around their little heads that light of happiness and
joy which reflects itself on the countenances of the
parents--which warms the heart--which gives to the poor the
force to labour, and to the miserable the force to live.
Blessed be infancy, which chases the demon!--Blessed be
infancy, which keeps alive in each family the sentiment of
hope, indispensable to run as the air and the light!

Amongst the faults of his contemporaries, M. Girardin remarks a disposition to _materialize_ the expression of passion, depicting it constantly by violent physical distortions; and also, a tendency to carry that expression to the extremity of rage, where, as he finely observes, all distinction between the various passions is lost, and man deserts his rational nature.

According to the ancient classic imagination, when passion becomes excessive, the man disappears; and this, he adds, is the foundation of what we call the philosophy of the _Metamorphoses_ of Ovid.

In the course of this censure he makes use of a common-place expression, which, we think, includes a common-place error, and therefore we pause for a moment to take notice of it. "It is the pretension of modern art," he tells us, "to say all. What then is left to the imagination of the public? It is often well to trust to the spectator to complete the idea of the poet or the statuary."

This is a mode of expression frequently made use of. Even Lessing has sanctioned it, when in his _Laocoon_, he speaks of "the highest expression leaving nothing to the imagination."

The leaving something to the imagination can mean this only, that the expression of the artist is suggestive, and kindles thought, and in fact conveys more than is found in its literal interpretation. Now, whatever is highest in art, and especially in poetry, is pre-eminently suggestive; and the highest expression does in fact leave most, or, in other words, suggest most, to the imagination. M. Girardin, in common with many others, speaks of this suggestive quality, the characteristic of the highest form of art, as if it were the result of a voluntary surrender of something by the poet to the reader, as if it were an act of moderation on his part. Surely the poet does not proceed on the principle of saying half, and permitting us to say the other half--out of compliment, perhaps, to our understanding, and as a little bribe to our vanity. The more vivid and powerful his expressions, the more must he leave, or rather the more must he give, indirectly as well as directly, to the imagination of the reader. He will sometimes even bestow what he himself never possessed. The great poet, in pouring out his feelings, must always give something less and something _more_ than was in him at the time.

It has been the fashion to illustrate the principle of leaving something to the imagination, by the ancient picture of the sacrifice of Iphigenia, where we are told that Agamemnon, the father, was painted hiding his face in his robe. The expression of grief and horror had been given in the countenance of the other bystanders, and it was left to the imagination to divine what passion would have been seen depicted on the face of Agamemnon if that robe had been torn aside. Lessing, and after him M. Girardin, have indeed given a different account of the intention of the painter. The Greek artist, say they, sedulously avoided that distortion of features through excessive grief, which was incompatible with beauty of form. They would _tone down_ the expression, as Lessing argues that the sculptor did in the features of Laocoon, until it became consistent with the lines of beauty. Timanthes, therefore, finding that, in order to render with fidelity the expression of Agamemnon, he must admit such a distortion of the features as would violate the rule, chose rather to veil the countenance. But we would suggest that something else must have weighed with the artist; for if it was an acknowledged principle of Greek art rather to sacrifice a portion of the passion, so to speak, than to admit a distortion of the features, why should Timanthes have felt any scruple, in this instance, in modifying the expression of the father's countenance in obedience to a known rule of art? Why should he have thought himself obliged to resort to the expedient of concealing the face?

We make bold to adopt neither one account nor the other. We neither believe that Timanthes concealed the expression of the father's face upon some principle of "leaving it to the imagination of the reader," nor that he acted in obedience to the rule of art which Lessing lays down with so much ingenuity. We are persuaded that Timanthes painted Agamemnon in the attitude he did, simply because it was the most natural--because it was, in fact, the only attitude in which it was possible to conceive a father present at the sacrifice of his own daughter. Other spectators might have looked on with different degrees of grief or horror, but we feel that the father could not _look_; he must veil his head. This natural attitude, bespeaking the grief it only seemed to hide, was no doubt highly expressive.

And in this point of view, it may afford no bad illustration of that suggestive language of poetry, which sometimes throws the veil, not to conceal the passion, or to leave it to another imagination to discover, but as the best means of betraying it.

We repeat that we do not profess to give any thing approaching to an analytical review of the lectures of M. Girardin; the illustrations, being taken from the poetry of another nation, would often require a length of explanatory detail quite inconsistent with our limits. We persist, therefore, in regarding them in the one point of view already indicated-namely, as a protest against certain vitiated tastes and deleterious sentiments which prevail at the present day.

We again revert, therefore, to the lecture upon suicide, for the sake of a remark that we find there upon _Werther,_ and on its celebrated author. It is rarely that we hear any one speak out so plainly upon Goethe. After speaking of the "moral vitality" which supports the fatigues and inures us to the self-denials of life, he says:--

There are characters, on the contrary, who we perceive, at
first sight, are predestined to die. Ardent and enthusiastic,
wanting force and patience--life is evidently not made for them.
Such is Werther. Goethe had not created him to live, and he knew
this well; so that when some German author, I know not whom,
undertook to correct the catastrophe of the romance, and make
Werther live instead of committing suicide, Goethe said--'The poor
man has no idea that the evil is without remedy, and that a mortal
insect has stung our Werther in the flower of his youth.'

What is this mortal insect that has stung the youth of
Werther? Mistake it not, it is the spirit of doubt, the
spirit of the eighteenth century; and it is not Werther only
that the insect has stung--it is Goethe himself. Goethe
belongs to the eighteenth century; he is its disciple, its
heir; he is, like it, the sceptic, but he is also the poet.
It is this which conceals his universal doubt. Besides, as
he perceived, with that admirable tact which accompanies his
genius, that his scepticism would injure his poetry, he has
laboured to correct its influence, and, for this purpose,
has called to his aid all the resources of art and science.
He has adored nature, he has been a pantheist, he has distributed
God everywhere, to compensate for not having him in his own heart;
he has adored Greece, and rendered a sort of worship to beauty
such as the Greeks conceived it, and endeavoured to find an
enthusiasm in the arts; he has adored the south, and sung the Land
of the orange grove, because the south is the region of strong
faiths, and is repugnant to scepticism; he has adored the middle
ages, because they were ignorant of doubt, everywhere he has
sought to cure the wound of that insect which had stung his youth.
But no; his scepticism pierces through all his enthusiasm, and the
very variety of his inspirations proves his indifference. He is
neither philosopher, nor devotee, nor Christian, nor pagan, nor
courtier, nor citizen, nor of times ancient or modern, nor of the
north, nor of the south-or rather, he is all these at once. He is
the echo of nature, he repeats to us all her harmonies; but he
fails to add that utterance, which unites so well with the
harmonies of the world the utterance of his own heart. Ask of
Goethe to represent man and nature in all their variety and
extent, and he will do it. There is one thing you must not ask of
him--himself. This _self_ fails in Goethe; not the self which
knows it is a great poet, and will to be one; but that other self,
which has a thought, a principle to contend for, which, in
short, believes in something. It is there the insect stung; both
in Goethe and in Werther.

After discussing the character of modern French literature, there remains the important question to determine, how far the state of literature represents the state of society--how far the one is a faithful picture of the other. Upon this subject M. Girardin concludes his volume with some excellent remarks; but here we must also conclude our notice of this interesting work.

LORD ELDON.

In a free country, if there ever was or will be a truly free country besides our own, the life of every public man ought to be written. All would supply a lesson of more or less value; and it is upon lessons of that order that the vigour of the rising generation can alone be trained. Undoubtedly, in the mixed qualities of human nature, there might now and then be formidable displays; the development of the heart might often startle the eye which looked to it for healthy action; the machinery of the mind would require to be examined with the hand of charity as well as the hand of science: but the general result must be knowledge--always interesting, and often of the highest value; for the tendency of manners is, to disappoint that research. The habits, the associations, almost the general peace of society, unite in covering the actual nature of man with a uniform aspect. The unquestionable effect of civilization is, not merely to smooth the inequalities of the surface, but to conceal the actual material--the rough, the hard, the cold, or the pernicious within. But there is no one operation of man, by which human nature is so deeply and so distinctly penetrated and tested, as a true narrative of the career of men acting a prominent part in the world. History is comparatively feeble to this powerful searcher. Its heroes and heroines are placed so palpably on a stage; its _dramatis personae_ are so distant and so disciplined; its positions are so openly arranged for effect, that the nearest approach is only conjecture, as the nearest approach to reality is only illusion. Courts and campaigns are not human life. Kings and ministers, in their court pageantry, are scarcely more entitled to the name of human beings. They are factitious forms, showy spectacles, glittering effigies. But strip off the state costume; stand beside them while they are unconscious of a spectator; enter into their minds; seize their motives; measure their impulses: it is only then that we discover their affinity to the family of man, and by their vigour and virtue model our own.

The life of the Earl of Eldon is an important addition to public biography. Written by a lawyer, it has the advantage of professional knowledge--by a man of a certain experience in public, and even in official life, it exhibits that practical knowledge of affairs which nothing but practice can gain--and by a man of literary accomplishment, it adds, to its more solid merits, those graces of style which supply the last attraction to a work of manly utility. We feel even, in some degree, an uncritical, yet a not less authentic satisfaction in giving our tribute to the work of one connected with a family, whose name brings to the public mind such deep recollections of fine ability finely employed--of talents combined with the noblest triumphs of past genius and of forms and countenances eminently fitted to represent the grand and beautiful of the classic drama of England.

The father of Lord Eldon was William Scott, a merchant of good means and good repute at Newcastle, his principal business being connected with the coal trade. He lived to be seventy-nine years old, and his wife (a second marriage) to be ninety-one. By her he had thirteen children, of whom John (Lord Eldon) was the eighth. William (Lord Stowell) was born in 1745, the year of the Scottish invasion, in Heworth, where his mother had been sent for her accouchement, to avoid the perils, Newcastle then expecting a siege. After her return to Newcastle, she gave birth to John, June 4, 1751. The house was situated at the end of one of those narrow streets, which in the native dialect are called _chares_, the extremity being a "chare-foot." A bar story is told of a judge on circuit, who hearing a witness depose that he had seen three men come out of a "chare-foot," desired the jury to disregard his evidence altogether, as none but a madman could say that he saw three men come out of the "foot of a chair." Lord Eldon appears to have been so fond of the jest, that he once stated in the Court of Chancery, that "he had been born in a chair-foot." At the suitable age, John and his brothers were sent to the Foundation Grammar School of Newcastle, then under the headship of one Moises, fellow of Peterhouse. His predecessor had been Dawes, the well-known author of the "Miscellanea Critica"--an able scholar, but only an additional example of the frequent insufficiency of scholars to teach. Dawes was eccentric, and injured the reputation of the school. His predominant propensity while in Newcastle was bell-ringing. On his leaving that place he adopted a new taste, that of rowing. If Moises had any peculiar taste, it seems to have been flogging.

"I was once," said Lord Eldon, "the _seventeenth_ boy whom Moises flogged, and richly did we merit it. There was an elderly lady who lived in Westgate Street, whom we surrounded, and would not allow her to go either backward or forward. She complained, and he flogged us all. When he came to me, he exclaimed, 'What, John Scott! were you there too?' And I was obliged to say, 'Yes, sir.' 'I will not stop,' said he, 'you shall all have it.' But I think I came off best, for his arm was rather tired with the sixteen who went before me."

A flogging may be all very well in its recollection fifty years after. But the impression of the moment was, we presume, not quite so favourable. The inevitable consequence of this habit was to spoil both master and scholars. It made the timid boy pusillanimous, while it made the fierce more indignant and resentful. What could be the feelings of the master who could inflict almost agony on seventeen mere children, let the offence be what it might? Yet the offence was trifling; troublesome behaviour to an old woman in the street. A slight reprimand, or trivial fine, would have properly finished the affair; but then comes the flagellation.

But our great public schools exhibit another offence; the system of fagging alike foolish and mischievous. It only teaches the elder boys to be tyrants, and the younger to be liars and slaves. In practice, it promises to correct itself, by destroying the great schools. The proprietary schools, and other institutions for the education of the people, have uniformly discountenanced this abominable nuisance; and we know none whose abolition would do more credit to the heads of the church, or, if they should remain indolent on the subject, to the heads of the legislature.

William Scott, in 1761, was sent to Oxford as a candidate for a Durham scholarship, which he obtained, but which was perilled by a blunder of the head of Corpus Christi college. This worthy person delivered his opinion in this style:--"I think, gentlemen, there can be no doubt that young Scott is by far the best scholar of them. But he has told us that his father is a fiddler, and I do not quite like to take the son of a fiddler into the college." The doctor was an ass for his dictum; and it is only to be regretted that he did not live to express this impudent opinion in our day. England is certainly growing more rational, whatever colleges may be. Language of that sort, used in a country which boasts that no artificial impediment can be suffered to exist in the career of genius and virtue, would quickly meet the reception merited by its arrogant absurdity. The "fiddler" was a blunder of the doctor for "fitter," the local name of the coal trade.

William, in his twentieth year, became a tutor; John was intended for a coal-merchant, but his brother desired that he should be sent to Oxford. "Send Jack up to me," were the words; "I can do better for him here." He was then under fifteen.

A striking anecdote marks his first starting in life. "When I left school to go to Oxford," said Lord Eldon, "I came up from Newcastle to London in a coach, then denominated, on account of its _quick_ travelling, 'a Fly,' being three or four days and nights on the road. On the panels were the words, _Sat cito, si sat bene_, (Fast enough, if well enough,) which made a most lasting impression on my mind, and have had their influence on my conduct in all subsequent life." He then exhibits a specimen of that sly humour which characterized him to the last.

"A Quaker fellow-traveller stopped the coach at the inn at Tuxford to give the chambermaid a sixpence, telling her that he had forgotten it when he slept there two years before. I was a very saucy boy, and I said to him, 'Friend, have you seen the motto on the coach?' 'No.' 'Then look at it, for I think giving her only sixpence _now_ is neither _sat cito_ nor _sat bene_."

On his arrival in London, he was overturned, with his brother, in a sedan chair. "This," thought he, "is more than _sat cito_, and it certainly is not _sat bene_." He concludes more gravely by saying, "It was this impression which made me that deliberative judge, as some have said _too_ deliberative. And reflection upon all that is past, will not authorize me to deny, that while I have been thinking, 'Sat cito, si sat bene,' I may not have sufficiently remembered whether 'Sat bene, si sat cito' has had its due influence."

The chief feature of this portion of the biography is its recollections of remarkable persons. We have heard this one of Johnson before: but the names and place are now first given from Lord Eldon's anecdote-book.

"I had a walk in the New Inn Hall garden with Dr Johnson, Sir Robert Chambers, and some other gentlemen, (Chambers was principal of the Hall, and Vinerian professor of law. He was at this period on the point of proceeding to India as judge.) Sir Robert was gathering snails, and throwing them over the wall into his neighbour's garden. The doctor attacked him roughly, and charged his conduct as being unneighbourly. 'Sir,' said Sir Robert, 'my neighbour is a dissenter.' 'Oh,' said the doctor, 'if so, toss away, toss away as hard as you can!'"

This was evidently one of Johnson's odd freaks, a piece of his growling humour; for though no man disliked sectarianism more, no man had a stronger sense of charity to all.

His manners now and then exhibited strange absence. Lord Eldon says that he had seen him standing for a considerable time, with one foot on each side of the kennel of the High Street of Oxford, gazing at the water.

It was proverbially dangerous to contradict him. Dr Mortimer, head of Lincoln college, happened occasionally to interrupt him, by saying, "I deny that," while Johnson was holding forth. At length he said, "Sir, sir, you must have forgotten that an author has said, (he then repeated in Latin,) one ass will deny more in one hour, than a hundred philosophers will prove in a hundred years."

During the year 1774 and 1775, John Scott held the office of a tutor of University college; but he appears to have left the duty to Fisher and William Scott, his brother, those two dividing the emoluments. However, he was more importantly employed when he gave lectures on the law as deputy to Sir Robert Chambers, for which he had L.60 a-year. His first essay was sufficiently ridiculous. The law professor sent him his first lecture, which he was to read immediately to the students, and which he began, without knowing its contents. It happened to be on the statute 4th and 5th, Philip and Mary, on young men running away with young women. "Fancy me," said his lordship, "reading with about 140 boys and young men giggling at the professor." While Scott was eating his terms at the Middle Temple, he had some opportunities of seeing Mr Sergeant Hill, the great lawyer of his day, eminent for learning, and scarcely less so for eccentricity. Hill one day stopped Scott in the hall, and said, "Pray, young gentleman, do you think herbage and pannage rateable to the poor's rate?" Scott replied "that he could not presume to give an opinion to so learned a personage." "Upon my word," said the sergeant, "you are a pretty sensible young gentlemen--I don't often meet with such. If I had asked Mr Burgess, a young leader upon our circuit, the question, he would have told me that I was an old fool." Hill began an argument in the King's Bench thus:--"My Lord Mansfield and judges, I beg your pardon."--"Why brother Hill, do you ask our pardon?"--"My lords," said he, "I have seventy-eight cases to cite."--"Seventy-eight cases!" said Lord Mansfield; "you can never have our pardon if you cite seventy-eight cases!" After the court had given its decision, which was against the sergeant's client, Lord Mansfield said, "Now, brother Hill, that the judgment is given, you can have no objections, on account of your client, to tell us your real opinion, and whether you do not think we are right; you know how we all value your opinion and judgment." Hill wished to be excused; but as he always thought it his duty to do what the court desired, "Upon my word," said he, "I did not think that there were four men in the world who could have given such an ill-founded judgment as you four, my lords, have pronounced." This style, however, must have been now and then intolerable.

When Baron Hotham was placed in the Exchequer, he gave a dinner, as is usual on those occasions, at Sergeant's Inn, to the judges and sergeants. Hotham had been unsuccessful at the bar. Hill, in drinking his health, called him Baron Botham. Somebody whispered the real name to him. Hill said aloud, "I beg your pardon, Mr Baron Hotham; but none of us ever heard your name in the profession before this day." In justice to the baron, however, Lord Eldon adds the following note:--"The Baron made an extremely good judge. He had not much legal learning; but he had an excellent understanding, great discretion, unwearied patience, and his manners were extremely engaging; and those qualities ensuring to him in a very large measure the assistance of the bar, he executed his duties as a judge with great sufficiency."

Shortly after his commencing the profession, Scott reduced himself into a state of invalidism by excessive study. In 1774, when he and Cookson, another invalid, were returning to Oxford from Newcastle, where they had gone to vote at the general election, the good-natured cook of the inn at Birmingham, where they arrived at eleven at night, insisted on dressing something hot for them, saying that she was sure neither of them would live to see her again. A medical friend remonstrated with him on the severity of his studies. "It is not matter," answered Scott, "I must either do as I am now doing, or starve." He rose at four in the morning, observed a careful abstinence at his meals, and, to prevent drowsiness, read at night with a wet towel round his head. At last it became necessary, as the time of being called to the bar approached, to provide a dwelling in London. In his latter days, he pointed out a house in Cursitor Street. "There," said he, "was my first perch. Many a time have I run down from that house to Fleet Market, to get sixpennyworth of sprats for supper." At this period, in mentioning to his brother the kindness of a great conveyancer, Mr Duane, whom he attended as a gratuitous pupil, he says--"This conduct of his has taken a great load of uneasiness off my mind; as, in fact, our profession is so exceedingly expensive that I almost sink under it. I have got a house barely sufficient to hold my small family, which will, in rent and taxes, cost me L.60. I have been buying books, too, for the last ten years; but I have got the mortification to find that, before I can settle, that article of trade--for so I consider it--will cost me near L.200." Of Duane's service to him, he said, a little more than a fortnight before his death, "The knowledge I acquired of conveyancing in his office, was of infinite service to me during a long life in the Court of Chancery."

In Hilary Term 1776, Scott was called to the bar by the Society of the Middle Temple. When we recollect what a leviathan of wealth the Lord Chancellor was in his latter days, it is amusing to read the statement of his early struggles, however painful they must have been at the time. "When I was called to the bar," said he, "Bessy (his wife) and I thought all our troubles were over. Business was to pour in, and we were to be almost rich immediately. So I made a bargain with her, that, during the following year, all the money that I should receive during the first eleven months should be mine, and whatever I should get in the twelfth month should be hers. What a stingy dog I must have been to make such a bargain! I would not have done so afterwards. But, however, so it was-- that was our agreement; and how do you think that it turned out? In the twelfth month I received _half-a-guinea_. Eighteen-pence went for fees, and Bessy got nine shillings. In the other eleven months I got not one shilling." This was but sorry encouragement; but such is the profession. Men must wait. Property, or perhaps life, will not trust themselves to inexperience; and thus, from the very nature of the Bar, a long period of probation must be borne by all.

There had been an old and invidious conception which represented the Lord Chancellor as the son of a coal-heaver. It appears from the memoir that his father was, on the contrary, possessed of property very considerable in those days. He was what we should now call a broker in the coal-trade--technically, a coal-fitter or factor--who transacted business between the coal-owner and the ship-owner. He was intelligent and industrious, and prospered accordingly; leaving, at his death, property worth L.25,000 to his eldest son William; another L.1000 to John; making, in the whole, L.3000, and respectable sums to his other children. He appears to have realized above L.30,000--a sum equal to nearly double at the present day.

Lord Eldon, though all gravity on the bench, and seldom indulging in any sportiveness in parliament, was a humorist at table, and fond of humorous recollections. His story of Dunning on his travels has got into print; but, in the hands of a genuine humorist, it must have been an incomparable ground for burlesque. Dunning, when solicitor-general, had gone to see the Prussian reviews. Some of these were profoundly secret, and were presumed to be experiments in those tactical novelties with which Frederick dazzled Europe. But others were showy displays, to which the king invited the princes and generals of the Continent. Dunning had announced himself as Solicitor-General of England. Frederick, either knowing nothing of solicitors, though much of generals, or what is more probable--for he was the most deliberate wag in existence--determining to play the lawyer a trick, ordered him to be received as a general officer, and provided him with a charger for his presence at the grand display. Dunning, long unused to ride, soon found that he had his master _under_ him. The charger, as well disciplined as one of his majesty's grenadiers, and delighting, like the horse of Joab, in the "trumpets and the shouting" of the captains, rushed every where with his unwilling rider; and it was not till after a day of terror, in which his cavalry exploits must have exposed him to frequent laughter, that the lawyer escaped from the din of battles, and rejoiced to find himself with unfractured bones, resolved never to play the general officer again.

There may be "some things new under the sun," in contradiction to the proverb; but they are not many, at least in wit. The story of the celebrated cardinal, who proved that the sun went round the moon, and _vice versa_, is sufficiently wall known. Dunning's pleading _pro_ and _con_. is vouched for from Scott's personal experience. Dunning led in a cause in which Scott was junior counsel. The leader so evidently reasoned against his own client, that Scott, after long amazement, at last touched his arm, and whispered that he was speaking on the wrong side. Dunning instantly perceived his mistake, and gave him a rough reprimand (we may presume _sotto voce_) for having suffered him to go on so long. He then recovered himself with his habitual dexterity; said that he had stated all that could be urged against his client, and that he would then proceed to show how utterly futile was the argument.

A good deal of his early life on the circuit was passed with Lee, then the leader of the northern circuit, and a man of great vigour of mind. A curious question once rose between them on professional morality. At supper one night, Scott made the remark, that Lee always exerted himself to gain a verdict by a display of his great legal knowledge; but not always with a regard to the accuracy of either his law or his facts. Lee contended that it was the duty of counsel to state what the party himself would have stated, and get a verdict if he could. He, however, pondered on it; and, as they were retiring for the night, said, "Scott, I have been thinking of the question you asked me; and I am not _quite_ sure that the conduct you represented will bring a man peace at the last."

Lord Eldon quotes Johnson's opinion, which had been referred to--and which stated that it was the duty of counsel, after having stated the law and the facts exactly, to exert his abilities to the utmost to gain his cause--the judge being supposed the abler lawyer, and the reasoning of the bench amending what was erroneous in that of the bar. Lord Eldon adds, in his rather too dubious way--"It may be questioned whether even this can be supported." Of course it may. The object of law is to do justice; and justice is not done if the ingenuity of an able advocate is entitled to gain a false verdict. For how is this to be gained? Either by a suppression of the truth in part, or by a colouring of the falsehood, or by an invention of facts, aided by a misinterpretation of law; all palpably against conscience. The true rule appears to be--the lawyer stands in the place of the client, to do what the client would and could have done, if he had equal skill in exhibiting the circumstances, and equal knowledge of the law which bore upon them. But as the client has no right to tell an untruth of any kind for himself, so neither has the lawyer the right to tell it for him. The lawyer's taking a brief in a cause of which he has a bad opinion, is wholly a different matter. The custom of the bar justly decides that he must not refuse the brief, because he cannot be sure that he knows the whole cause; for facts unexpected, and even unknown, may start up; he may be mistaken in his personal conception of the facts, the motives, and the law: new facts may come out on the trial. There is a judge to decide on hearing both sides, and the counsel has no right to assume the office of the judge. Of course, if he is made aware of any fraud in the conduct of the case, or even suspects it, he must abandon his brief at once.

Lee's manner was of that rough and ready kind which always tells with a jury. Once, after a very keen cross-examination, the witness charged him with severity to one who was his relation. "Why, how do you make that out," said Lee. The man stated the genealogy. "Well," said Lee, "I believe you are right. I only wish, my good fourth or fifth cousin, you would speak a little truth for the honour of the family; for not one word of truth have you spoken yet."

Even this able man had gone many years to York without a single brief; and even then began only on a burlesque case, fabricated by his brother barristers.

Accuracy of recollection is obviously of peculiar importance at the bar; but the profession has sometimes exhibited surprising instances of this faculty. Lord Eldon spoke of Chief Justice De Grey's powers of memory as extraordinary. De Grey suffered so much from the gout, the he used to come into court with both hands wrapped in flannel. He thus could not take a not. "Yet I have known him," said Lord Eldon, "try a cause that lasted nine or ten hours, and then, from memory, sum up all the evidence with the greatest correctness. When counsel offered any intimation of his inaccuracy, his answer was--'I am sure I am right; refer to your short-hand writer's notes;' and he was invariably found to be right." A similar faculty is possessed by that very distinguished person, Lord Lyndhurst.

It is remarkable that none of the lucky accidents which have raised so many inferior men into prosperity ever occurred to Scott, who was yet destined to rise to such opulence and eminence. His first steps in life might be regarded as all but ruin. He abandoned his college, where he had secured at least existence; and he abandoned it for a profession proverbially hazardous, and in which, for whole years, he made nothing. At this period, too, when scarcely able to support himself, he ran away with a portionless wife; and thus began the world not merely helpless, but with a new weight which has broken down many a strong mind. The opinion of every one who took an interest in him was, that this marriage was fatal to all his prospects. It necessarily compelled him to give up all collegiate objects; and we recollect to have seen in print a fragment of a letter from his elder brother (afterwards Lord Stowell) to a friend, in these words--"Have you seen what my foolish brother has done? He has made a runaway match; he is utterly ruined." The opinion of Moises, his schoolmaster, was equally decided. "Jack Scott has run off with Bessy Surtees, and the poor lad is undone."

Scott entered as a student of the Middle Temple in January 1773. In six years after, what was his progress? We have this letter from Lord Stowell about 1779. "Business is very dull with poor Jack, very dull indeed, and of consequence he is not very lively. I heartily wish that business may brighten a little, or he will be heartily sick of his profession. I do all I can to keep up his spirits, but he is very gloomy. But mum, not a word of this to the wife of your bosom."

At length, however, day began to dawn, and his powerful understanding and solid knowledge found the opportunity, which to such means is generally all that is wanting. A conversation with an old friend lets us into a curious trait of Lord Mansfield. "Was the Court of Chancery your object when you first came to the bar?" asked Farrar. "Certainly not," answered Lord Eldon. "I first took my seat in the King's Bench; but I soon perceived, or thought I perceived, a preference in Lord Mansfield (the Chief Justice) for young lawyers who had been bred at Westminster School and Christ Church; and so, as I had belonged to neither, I thought I could not have fair chance with my fellows, and therefore I crossed over to the other side of the hall. (The Courts of King's Bench and Chancery were at that time on the opposite sides of Westminster Hall.) Lord Mansfield, I believe, was not conscious of the bias; he was a good man." Mansfield's goodness was sufficiently questioned by his contemporaries; yet if he exhibited this bias, he could not have been a just man. The cause which first made Scott known was Acroyd v. Smithson. The question was--whether, in a property willed in fifteen shares to fifteen people, one of them dying in the testator's lifetime, the lapsed share did not belong to the heir at law. He argued the case before the Master of the Rolls, Sir Thomas Sewell. "He has argued it very well," said Sewell. But he gave it against Scott. An appeal came before Lord Thurlow. Scott argued his point. Thurlow took three days to consider, and then gave his decision in favour of the heir-at-law--a decision which has settled all similar questions ever since. He then had an omen of his prosperity. As he left the hall, a solicitor of some note touched him on the shoulder, and said, "Young man, your bread and butter is cut for life."

He then had another golden opportunity. Fatigued with waiting for fortune, he was on the point of leaving London, and taking up his abode at Newcastle, of which he was offered the recordership. A house was even taken for him, when, one morning at six o'clock, Mr, afterwards Lord, Curzon, and four or five other gentlemen, came to his door, mentioning that the Clitheroe election case was to come on that morning at ten before a committee of the Commons; that one of their counsel was detained at Oxford by illness, and their second was unprepared and would not appear; and that they were sent to him as a young and promising counsel. Scott told them that, on so short a notice, all he could do would be to give a dry statement of facts. The cause thus put into his hands went on for fifteen days. "It found me poor," said Lord Eldon, "but I was to be rich before it was done. They left me fifty guineas at the beginning; then there were ten guineas every day, and five guineas every evening, for a consultation--more money than I could count. But, better still, the length of the cause gave me time to make myself thoroughly acquainted with the law." After all this, the side on which Scott was, was beaten by a single vote. But Mansfield, (afterwards Sir James,) on hearing his speech in the committee, came up to him in Westminster Hall, and strongly advised him to remain in London. Scott answered that an increasing family compelled him to leave London. Wilson, a barrister, advised as Mansfield had done, and even generously offered to make up his income to L.400 a-year. He received the same answer. "However," said the chancellor, with natural selfgratulation, "I did remain, and lived to make Mansfield chief justice of the common pleas, and Wilson a judge." Moreover, his sagacity gave him additional triumphs on the northern circuit, where he soon took the lead. He was counsel in a cause which depended on his being able to make out who was the founder of an ancient chapel in the neighbourhood. "I went to view it," said Lord Eldon. "There was nothing to be observed which gave any indication of its date or history. However, I remarked that the ten commandments were written on some old plaster, which, from its position, I conjectured might cover an arch. Acting on this, I bribed the clerk with five shillings to allow me to chip away a part of the plaster; and after two or three attempts, I found the keystone of an arch, on which were engraved the arms of an ancestor of one of the parties. This evidence decided the cause. Here was an instance of good-luck, undoubtedly, but also of great diligence and great sagacity. A negligent counsel would never have thought of examining the chapel in person; a dull counsel would never have thought of examining the arch; but it happens that the sagacious are generally lucky, and that, therefore, the first quality is sagacity."

Another remarkable case occurred at Durham. On this occasion, Scott, though a junior counsel, was appointed to lead by his seniors, the case being relative to collieries, and he being a Newcastle man. When Buller the judge, who was a coarse man, and fond of saying abrupt things, saw him, he said, "Sir, you have not a leg to stand upon." Scott answered, "My lord, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, I should sit down on hearing the judge so express himself; but so persuaded am I that I have the right on my side, that I must entreat your lordship to allow me to reply, and I must also express my expectation of gaining a verdict." He replied, and the jury, after consulting six or eight hours, gave the verdict in his favour. When he went to the ball that evening, he was received with open arms by every one.

When he went to Carlisle, Buller sent for him, and told him that "he had been thinking over that case on his way from Newcastle, and that he had come to the conclusion that he was entirely wrong, and that I was right. He had, therefore, sent for me to tell me this, and to express his regret for having attempted to stop me in court. This cause," said Lord Eldon, "raised me aloft."

Yet this man, with all his ability, had already attended the Cumberland assizes for seven years without receiving a brief. After the celebrity of this cause, when he next attended, he received seventy guineas in fees at Carlisle.

So much has been said in parliament, and in the newspapers lately, of _Gentlemen of the Turf_, and the very dubious nature of that appellation, that the following case comes curiously in point. A question arose as to the winner of the stakes in a race--there having been a condition, that the horses should be ridden by gentlemen; and it was disputed whether the winning horse had been ridden by a gentleman or not. The judge finally addressed the jury in these words--"Gentlemen of the jury, when I see you in that box I call you gentlemen, for I know you are such. Custom has authorized me, and, from your office there, you are entitled to be called gentlemen; but out of that box, I do not know what may be deemed the requisites that constitute a gentleman--therefore I can give you no direction," (a laugh.) The jury returned a verdict that he was not a gentleman. The next morning he challenged the two counsel, Law and Scott. They answered, they could not possibly fight one who had been pronounced by the verdict of a jury to be no _gentleman_.

Politics now began to rise in the prospects of this intelligent and indefatigable mind. The condition of the English lawyer forms as striking a contrast to that of the Continental _jurisconsult_, as the English constitution to the despotisms of Europe. Abroad, the lawyer may be a man of whatever extent of attainment, but his sphere is strictly professional; within that range he lives, makes a scanty income, with a still more scanty fame, disputes for forty or fifty years, and dies. France, of late years, is partially an exception, for France now extends the range of her professions; but in all the rest, the existence of the lawyer closely resembles the existence of the quadruped in the mill. In England all is of a different and a higher order. The bar itself is but a step; distinction in the courts is only the first stage of an ascent which may raise the individual to eminence in government, as well as dignity in the high places of his profession--it is the preparative for wearing those honours which form a family, and give a pledge to fortune. As the ancients said of the eagle, that, before he takes his flight for the day, he prepares his wings by plunging them in the mountain stream, the great lawyer has plunged in the depths of his profession only to ascend into a higher range of power and prospect, and there to steer his strong flight to the possession of all that man can desire.

On the formation of the Coalition ministry under North and Fox in 1783, the great seal being in commission, Scott was appointed king's counsel; but in this instance, so important to a young barrister, he yet showed manliness. Saturday was the day on which he was to receive this honour; but on ascertaining the Erskine and Pigot, both his juniors, and who were also to have silk gowns, were to be sworn in on the Friday, he instantly retracted his acceptance, as, "he could not submit to any waiver of his professional rank." The lords-commissioners called him before them, and argued the matter pressingly. But he would not give way. At last, as the patents for the two other counsel had already passed the great seal, they were sworn in on the Friday; but a patent of precedence was given to Scott, by which he took rank before them. The day of his patent was the 4th of June 1783: he was then thirty-two years old. Late in life, a friend asked whether he thought it was important thus to insist on retaining his rank. Eldon, with the experience of half a century, answered with great earnestness, "It was every thing. I owed my future success to it." There is a moral in the words of Wiseman--"The man who begins by humiliation, will soon find that the world will judge of him by his own deed."

Lord Eldon, in one of those conversations, strikingly remarked a similar conduct in the celebrated Lord Collingwood, who had been his schoolfellow. "Medals were given," said his lordship, "on the 1st of June, but not to him. When the medal was sent to him for Cape St Vincent, he returned it, saying that he felt conscious he had done his duty as well on the 1st of June as at Cape St Vincent; and that, if he did not merit the first medal, neither could he merit the second. He was quite right," said Lord Eldon, "he would have both or neither. Both were sent to him."