University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.
PHILPOT WART.

I have a great reverence for the profession of the
law and its votaries; but especially for that part of
the tribe which comprehends the old and thorough-paced
stagers of the bar. The feelings, habits and
associations of the bar in general, have a very happy
influence upon the character. It abounds with
good fellows: And, take it altogether, there may be
collected from it a greater mass of shrewd, observant,
droll, playful and generous spirits, than from
any other equal numbers of society. They live in
each other's presence, like a set of players; congregate
in the courts, like the former in the green room;
and break their unpremeditated jests, in the intervals
of business, with that sort of undress freedom
that contrasts amusingly with the solemn and even
tragic seriousness with which they appear, in turn,
upon the boards. They have one face for the public,
rife with the saws and learned gravity of the profession,
and another for themselves, replete with
broad mirth, sprightly wit and gay thoughtlessness.
The intense mental toil and fatigue of business give
them a peculiar relish for the enjoyment of their hours

of relaxation, and, in the same degree, incapacitate
them for that frugal attention to their private concerns
which their limited means usually require.
They have, in consequence, a prevailing air of unthriftiness
in personal matters, which, however it
may operate to the prejudice of the pocket of the individual,
has a mellow and kindly effect upon his disposition.

In an old member of the profession,—one who has
grown grey in the service, there is a rich unction of
originality, that brings him out from the ranks of his
fellow men in strong relief. His habitual conversancy
with the world in its strangest varieties, and
with the secret history of character, gives him a
shrewd estimate of the human heart. He is quiet,
and unapt to be struck with wonder at any of the
actions of men. There is a deep current of observation
running calmly through his thoughts, and seldom
gushing out in words: the confidence which
has been placed in him, in the thousand relations of
his profession, renders him constitutionally cautious.
His acquaintance with the vicissitudes of fortune, as
they have been exemplified in the lives of individuals,
and with the severe afflictions that have “tried the
reins” of many, known only to himself, makes him
an indulgent and charitable apologist of the aberrations
of others. He has an impregnable good humour
that never falls below the level of thoughtfulness
into melancholy. He is a creature of habits;
rising early for exercise; temperate from necessity,
and studious against his will. His face is accustomed

to take the ply of his pursuits with great facility,
grave and even severe in business, and readily rising
into smiles at a pleasant conceit. He works hard
when at his task; and goes at it with the reluctance
of an old horse in a bark-mill. His common-places
are quaint and professional: they are made up of
law maxims, and first occur to him in Latin. He
measures all the sciences out of his proper line of
study, (and with these he is but scantily acquainted,)
by the rules of law. He thinks a steam engine should
be worked with due diligence, and without laches: a
thing little likely to happen, he considers as potentia
remotissima; and what is not yet in existence, or in
esse, as he would say, is in nubibus. He apprehends
that wit best, that is connected with the affairs of the
term; is particularly curious in his anecdotes of old
lawyers, and inclined to be talkative concerning the
amusing passages of his own professional life. He is,
sometimes, not altogether free of outward foppery; is
apt to be an especial good liver, and he keeps the best
company. His literature is not much diversified;
and he prefers books that are bound in plain calf, to
those that are much lettered or glided. He garners
up his papers with a wonderful appearance of care;
ties them in bundles with red tape; and usually has
great difficulty to find them when he wants them.
Too much particularity has perplexed him; and just
so it is with his cases: they are well assorted, packed
and laid away in his mind, but are not easily to be
brought forth again without labour. This makes him
something of a procrastinator, and rather to delight
in new business than finish his old. He is, however,
much beloved, and affectionately considered by
the people.

Philpot Wart belongs to the class whose characteristics
I have here sketched. He is a practitioner
of some thirty or forty years standing, during the
greater part of which time he has resided in this district.
He is now verging upon sixty years of age,
and may be said to have spent the larger portion of
his life on horseback. His figure is short and thick-set,
with a hard, muscular outline; his legs slightly
bowed, his shoulders broad, and his hands and feet
uncommonly large. His head is of extraordinary
size, cubical in shape, and clothed with a shock of
wiry, dark grey hair. A brown and dry complexion;
eyes small, keen, and undefined in colour, furnished
with thick brows; a large mouth, conspicuous for a
range of teeth worn nearly to their sockets; and ample
protruding ears, constitute the most remarkable
points in his appearance. The predominant expression
of his features is a sly, quick good nature, susceptible,
however, of great severity.

His dress is that of a man who does not trouble
himself with the change of fashions; careless, and, to
a certain degree, quaint. It consists of a plain, dark
coat, not of the finest cloth, and rather the worse for
wear; dingy and faded nankeen small-clothes; and
a pair of half boots, such as were worn twenty years
ago. His hat is old, and worn until the rim has become
too pliable to keep its original form; and his
cravat is sometimes, by accident, tied in such a

manner, as not to include one side of his shirt collar;
—this departure from established usage, and others
like it, happen from Mr. Wart's never using a looking-glass
when he makes his toilet.

His circuit takes in four or five adjoining counties,
and, as he is a regular attendant upon the courts, he
is an indefatigable traveller. His habit of being so
much upon the road, causes his clients to make their
appointments with him at the several stages of his
journeyings; and it generally happens that he is intercepted,
when he stops, by some one waiting to see
him. Being obliged to pass a great deal of his time
in small taverns, he has grown to be contented with
scant accommodation, and never complains of his
fare. But he is extremely particular in exacting the
utmost attention to his horse.

He has an insinuating address that takes wonderfully
with the people; and especially with the older
and graver sorts. This has brought him into a close
acquaintance with a great many persons, and has
rendered Philly Wart,—as he is universally called,—
a kind of cabinet-counsellor and private adviser with
most of those who are likely to be perplexed with their
affairs. He has a singularly retentive memory as
to facts, dates, and names; and by his intimate
knowledge of land titles, courses and distances, patents,
surveys and locations, he has become a formidable
champion in all ejectment cases. In addition
to this, Philly has such a brotherly and companionable
relation to the greater number of the freeholders who
serve upon the juries, and has such a confiding,

friendly way of talking to them when he tries a
cause, that it is generally supposed he can persuade
them to believe any thing he chooses.

His acquirements as a lawyer are held in high
respect by the bar, although it is reported that he
reads but little law of later date than Coke Littleton,
to which book he manifests a remarkable affection,
having persued it, as he boasts, some eight or
ten times; but the truth is, he has not much time for
other reading, being very much engrossed by written
documents, in which he is painfully studious. He
takes a great deal of authority upon himself, nevertheless,
in regard to the Virginia decisions, inasmuch
as he has been contemporary with most of the cases,
and heard them, generally, from the courts themselves.
Besides this, he practised in the times of old
Chancellor Wythe, and President Pendleton, and
must necessarily have absorbed a great deal of that
spirit of law-learning which has evaporated in the
hands of the reporters. As Philly himself says, he
understands the currents of the law, and knows
where they must run; and, therefore, has no need of
looking into the cases.

Philly has an excellent knack in telling a story,
which consists in a caustic, dry manner that is well
adapted to give it point; and sometimes he indulges
this talent with signal success before the juries.
When he is at home,—which is not often above a
week or ten days at a time,—he devotes himself almost
entirely to his farm. He is celebrated there
for a fine breed of hounds; and fox hunting is quite

a passion with him. This is the only sport in which
he indulges to any excess; and so far does he carry
it, that he invariably takes his dogs with him upon
the circuit, when his duty calls him, in the hunting
season, to certain parts of the country where one or
two gentlemen reside who are fond of this pastime.
On these occasions he billets the hounds upon his
landlord, and waits patiently until he despatches his
business; and then he turns into the field with all
the spirit and zest of Nimrod. He has some lingering
recollections of the classics, and is a little given
to quoting them, without much regard to the appropriateness
of the occasion. It is told of him, that
one fine morning, in December, he happened to be
with a party of brother sportsmen in full chase of a
gray fox, under circumstances of unusual animation.
The weather was cool, a white frost sparkled upon
the fields, the sun had just risen and flung a beautiful
light over the landscape, the fox was a-foot, the
dogs in full cry, the hunstmen shouting with exuberant
mirth, the woods re-echoing to the clamour, and
every one at high speed in hot pursuit. Philly was
in an ecstasy, spurring forward his horse with uncommon
ardour, and standing in his stirrups, as if impatient
of his speed, when he was joined in the chase
by two or three others as much delighted as himself.
In this situation he cried out to one of the party,
“Is'nt this fine; don't it put you in mind of Virgil?
Tityre tu patulæ recubans sub tegmine fagi.” Philly
denies the fact; but some well authenticated flourishes
of his at the bar, of a similar nature, give
great semblance of truth to the story.

It often happens that a pair of his hounds will
steal after him, and follow him through the circuit,
without his intending it; and when this occurs, he
has not the heart to drive them back. This was
the case at the present court: accordingly, he was
followed by his dogs to Swallow Barn. They slink
close behind his horse, and trot together as if they
were coupled.

Philly's universal acquaintance through the country
and his pre-eminent popularity have, long since,
brought him into public life. He has been elected
to the Assembly for twenty years past, without opposition;
and, indeed, the voters will not permit him
to decline. It is, therefore, a regular part of his business
to attend to all political matters affecting the
county. His influence in this department is wonderful.
He is consulted in reference to all plans, and
his advice seems to have the force of law. He is
extremely secret in his operations, and appears to
carry his point by his calm, quiet and unresisting
manner. He has the reputation of being a dexterous
debater, and of making some sharp and heavy
hits when roused into opposition; though many odd
stories are told, at Richmond, of his strenuous efforts,
at times, to be oratorical. He is, however,
very much in the confidence of the political managers
of all parties, and seldom fails to carry a point
when he sets about it in earnest.

During the war, Philly commanded a troop of volunteer
light-horse, and was frequently employed
in active service, in guarding the hen roosts along
the river from the attacks of the enemy. These
occasions have furnished him with some agreeable
episodes in the history of his life. He gives
a faithful narrative of his exploits at this period,
and does not fail to throw a dash of comic humour
into his account of his campaigns.

In our ride to Swallow Barn, he and Meriwether
were principally engrossed with the subject of the
expected arbitration. Meriwether particularly enjoined
it upon him so to manage the matter as to
make up a case in favour of Mr. Tracy, and to give
such a decision as would leave the old gentleman in
possession of the contested territory.

Philly revolved the subject carefully in his mind,
and assured Frank that he would have no difficulty
in putting Swansdown upon such a train as could
not fail to accomplish their ends.

“But it seems strange to me,” said the counsellor,
“that the old man would not be content to take the
land without all this circuity.”

“We must accommodate ourselves to the peculiarities
of our neighbours,” replied Meriwether, “and,
pray be careful that you give no offence to his pride,
by the course you pursue.”

“I have never before been engaged in a case
with such instructions,” said Philly. “This looks
marvellously like an Irish donkey race, where each
man cudgels his neighbour's ass. Well, I suppose

Singleton Swansdown will take the beating without
being more restive under it than others of the tribe!”

“I beseech you, use him gently,” said Meriwether.
“He will be as proud of his victory as ourselves.”

Philly laughed the more heartily as he thought of
this novel case. Now and then he relapsed into
perfect silence, and then would again and again
break forth into a chuckle at his own meditations
upon the subject.

“You are like a king who surrenders by negotiation,
all that he has won by fighting,” said he, laughing
again, “we shall capitulate, at least, with the
honours of war,—drums beating and colours flying!”

“It is the interest of the commonwealth that there
should be an end of strife; I believe so the maxim
runs,” said Meriwether smiling.

“Concordia, parvæ res crescunt; discordiâ maximæ
dilabuntur,” added the counsellor. “But it
seems to me to be something of a wild goose chase
notwithstanding.”

Philly repeated these last words as he dismounted
at the gate at Swallow Barn, and, throwing his saddle-bags
across his arm, he walked into the house
with the rest of the party.