The English Dance of Death :: :: University of Virginia Library

IT is not easy to conceive,
That social Law should e'er deceive;
That what for our protection's made
Should prove a pettifogging trade.
Form'd on maxims just and true,
Bearing Man's happiness in view,
And in the clear distinction strong
Of what is right and what is wrong;
Yet it is made our lives to fill
With sad varieties of ill;
And thus the most opprobrious fame
Attends upon the Attorney's name.
—Nay, these Professors seem asham'd
To have their legal title nam'd:
Unless my observation errs
They're all become Solicitors,

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A change that's now assum'd, we see,
By all of the Fraternity.
If they're oblig'd to advertise
In the News-paper Diaries,
'Tis now the Fashion to refer
To such a one—Solicitor,
Ask an Attorney his Address,
He will no more the name confess,
And on his printed Card is seen
Solicitor—in Street, or Inn,
Though he had never got so high
As one fat Suit in Chancery.
—Unless the daily Prints deceive
Attornies must for ever live;
At least, no Paragraph supplies
Th'account that an Attorney dies:
Tis the Solicitors alone
Whom they with deathly notice own.
—But still distinction must be made
Between the Classes of the Trade:

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For he who guides the wordy war
That marks the Contests of the Bar,
Where we oft hear superior sense
Cloth'd in the brightest Eloquence,
Must not partake the common feelings
That wait upon th'Attornies' dealings.
They are a class in ev'ry Nation
Who live alone by Litigation;
Who oft grow rich by working strife,
And fatten on the Ills of Life.
Whether 'tis Shakespeare, or Moliere,
Johnson or Congreve, or Voltaire,
Whatever Country's comic Stage
Does the dramatic mind engage,
Th'Attorney with degraded mien
Appears to turpify the scene.

Law in itself is just and good
When it is practised as it should,
And Lawgivers can ne'er intend
What Justice never can defend.

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It therefore, very strange appears,
That Clients should, for twenty years,
With all appliances to boot,
Be wading through a Chancery Suit;
And, after twenty years are run,
May gain their Suits, and be undone.
—Still there are Men whese names rank high,
Lawyers who may reproach defy,
There's Redesdale and there's Romilly:
Redesdale, who snatches from the claw
Of the vile Harpies of the Law,
The Debtor in his hopeless state,
And opens wide the Prison gate:
While Romilly, though oft in vain,
Strives to correct the low Chicane
That, by the Pettifogger's art,
Keeps Law and Justice far apart.
But still it is the Pleader's fate
His reasonings to accomodate
Not always to his own Belief,
But to the Attorney's dubious Brief.

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And though his knowledge may cry fye o'nt,
He turns and twists it for his Client;
Nor will his Practice think it treason,
To make the worse the better reason.

Some Writer of our age and nation
Has made the following observation:
That Annals old the time display,
When Priests bore universal sway;
And nought was seen but spire and bower,
The seats of their o'er-ruling power.
But now the Lawyers seem to ride
In a new form of power and pride.
Some, though the numbers are not great,
Are seen to rise to rank and state;
While many, as it were by stealth,
Creep on to figure and to wealth;
Not as by chance, now here now there,
They're known and noted every where.
—As you pass through a country town,
Ask, who doth the best mansion own;
You're told 'tis Lawyer such a one.

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And the reply, rough and uncivil,
May, perhaps, wish him with the Devil.
—But still no groundless wrong is meant,
I reason not with foul intent,
I plead the general Assent:
On those opinions rests the tale
Which universally prevail.
Lawyers, like other men, are made,
'Tis not their nature I upbraid;
No,—'tis the nature of their trade,
Which feuds create and quarrels bless,
And whose chief dealing is distress.
When their curs'd offices they quit,
When out of sight of Bill or Writ;
When they think not of Scire Facias,
Nor Bailiff waits to take a Capias,
Like men, in other occupations,
They do the duties of their stations,
And pass through Life with equal grace:
Lawyer's not written in their face.
—I wish 'twere otherwise, that Law
Were practis'd without Quirk or Flaw;

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But while these Quirks and Flaws remain
The Practice must reproach sustain.

I've somewhere read, though I've forgot
The Author who the Story wrote,
Perhaps Quevedo here may claim
The honour of the Author's name:
But, though I can't precisely tell,
The Narrative will do as well.
Suffice it then, that it should seem,
Some lively Sleeper had a dream,
In which, as Fancy took its turn,
He thought he was by Spirits borne
To the terrific, vast Domain
Where Satan holds his dismal reign.
But it were needless to describe
The flaming pomp, the sable tribe
Which on th'infernal Sov'reign wait,
Compose his train and form his state.
The Devil, however, did his best,
And graciously receiv'd his Guest;
Then drove him, in a Tandem, round
His awful Kingdom's ample bound.

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So swift he went there was no need
To urge the Dragons' rapid speed.
He then display'd the parts assign'd
To different classes of Mankind,
Whose Spirits, borne on Fate's dark pinions,
Are daily peopling his Dominions.
At length they reach an arid space
Which crags and sulph'rous thorns deface,
Where the weak, dazzled, mortal eye
Could not discern the Boundary.
When, as the livid Lightnings flam'd,
The Dreamer thought that he exclaim'd—
“This Plain's of an enormous size,”
“But not too large,” the Devil replies:
“For no Attorney e'er drew breath
“Who will not dwell there after death;
“And all who live in times to come,
“Will find the same allotted doom,
“Unless a change yet unforseen,
“Should, in their practice, intervene:

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“While, in a smoking vale behind,
“Some of their Clients are confin'd,
“Who in their various trickings join'd;
“And they, at seasons, to amuse 'em,
“Are there permitted to abuse 'em.”
When, as he spoke, such horrid noises
Were utter'd by their mingled voices,
That the poor Dreamer's sleep was broke,
And glad he was when he awoke.
But some, who've been reputed wise,
Explain dreams by their contraries:
In fact, these visions of the Night,
May be, by chance or wrong or right;
And this same dream may prove as well,
The Attornies never go to Hell;
As by the simple meaning given,
That these same folks ne'er go to Heaven,
But yet, perhaps, without pretence,
To more than common, mother sense,
We may the knotty point determine
As well as Judges clad in ermine.

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Let us suppose that Power supreme,
Where-ever placed, should form a scheme
That, if in Equity or Law,
A Suit by any Trick or Flaw,
By any counterfeit contrivance,
Of crafty plea, or sly connivance,
Should last beyond four Terms, at most,
Th'Attornies should pay all the Cost.
Then, that the power of Legislation
Should ask the voice of all the Nation
Whether the change, well understood,
Would not be found a public good?
Now, when this question were afloat,
How, say you, would the Attornies vote?
Would they, like honest men and true,
Keep right and Justice in their view,
Or think 'twould hurt the Revenue:
And, therefore, for th'Exchequer's sake,
They must th'opposing party take.
But this I leave to the decree
Of those who wiser are than me.

220

O that sage, Serjeant Brawl were here,
To try and make the question clear!
But he is gone I know not where.
—Full fifty thousand cases load,
As it is said, the British Code,
Compil'd in Judgments, call'd Reports
Which dictate to the puzzled Courts;
From these he could collect a string,
And to aid any reasoning bring;
While, to oppose it o'er and o'er,
He could find out as many more.
But he has met a sudden Fate,
Near Rufus' Hall wide op'ning gate.
A Hackney Chariot waited there,
To take him home to Bloomsb'ry Square.
Death mounts the Box and plies the thong,
The angry horses dart along:—
The wheels a Paviour's barrow meet,
Brim full of stones to mend the street
To stop, th'affrighted Serjeant calls,
And, as the o'erturning Carriage falls,

221

“I'll bring an Action,” loud he cries,—
Fate to the stones his head applies;—
The Action's brought—The Serjeant dies.