 | CHAPTER II. Dukesborough tales |  |
2. CHAPTER II.
A young man, a native of Virginia, and a graduate of one of the
colleges of that State, had come to Georgia for the purpose of seeking
a home and practising his profession of the law. One morning, in the
beginning of spring, in company with a middle-aged gentleman, whose
acquaintance he had newly made, he rode towards the village near
which the latter lived, for the purpose of being introduced to some
of the members of the Bar residing there. As the two were riding
along, after some conversation upon the practice of law and other pursuits
in the South, the younger gentleman asked of the elder if there
was in the South a Court of Errors.
“I do not remember to have so heard, but I presume that you have
such a court.”
“Yes, indeed,” exclaimed the elder, “many a one. We have no
other sort in Georgia. But I know what you mean, sir,” he added,
seeing the young man's surprise. “I answered your question literally,
because what I say is very nearly literally true; and it is so, doubtless,
because we have no court for the correction of errors which our other
courts continually commit. I know little of the law myself, although
I once studied it and was admitted to the Bar. I never practised, and
yet I have seen enough to know that, with our present Judiciary
system, the law can never become a science settled upon any ascertained
principles.”
“There can be very little doubt as to that.”
“We have no lack of lawyers of real ability; but I doubt if there
is in the South another State so deficient in its courts as ours. We
have, as I said, many able lawyers, but seldom an able judge. The
salary is so small that a lawyer of first-rate ability, unless he be a man
touch of dignity which did not escape the other, “rarely enter the professions”),
will not go upon the Bench. It is, therefore, generally occupied
by men of inferior learning and ability; and as we have no
Supreme Court, and every judge is independent in his circuit, there is,
of course, no uniformity in their decisions, but many an error, you may
be sure. I reside here near the boundaries of two circuits. I and
my neighbors of two adjoining counties live under two different systems
of laws. I am tolerably well acquainted with that of my own
circuit; but I dare not move out of it, as I have known others to do
to their sorrow. Even here, whenever a new judge is elected we shall
have a new system to learn; for, like every schoolmaster who begins
by throwing out of the schoolroom all the text-books which his predecessor
employed, he will fear that he will be considered nobody unless
he overrules much of what our present judge has decided.”
“Does not your constitution provide for a Supreme Court?”
“It does; but, bless you, sir, the people are almost unanimously
opposed to its establishment. They say that they are already too
much worried by courts to think of making any more of them. The
lawyers too, the most of them, are equally opposed to it, because they
know — hang them! and who should know so well as they?— that it
would lessen litigation by lessening what is to them the glorious uncertainty
of the law. A man who would get an office here must not
open his mouth in favor of a Supreme Court. He might as well avow
himself a disciple of Alexander Hamilton, or a friend of the administration
of John Adams.”
They had just reached the public square, and alighted, when Mr.
Parkinson pointed to a little office on the corner of it, into which two
men were entering.
“There go two limbs of the law now. We will go in at once,” and
leading the way, he walked in and introduced the young man, Mr.
Overton, to Mr. Sandidge and Mr. Mobley.
Mr. Sandidge (“Elam Sandidge, Attorney-at-Law,” Overton had
read upon a shingle as he entered) was about fifty years old, tall, with
very long legs, which seemed as if they were ashamed of his rather
short body, from the fact that they would never hold it straight up.
He had long arms, long hands, and long fingers, which last never
looked clean. He wore shabby clothes too, which, if they had been
ever so fine, would yet have looked shabby from a habit he had of chewing
on himself. Yet, for all these drawbacks, Mr. Sandidge had, as it
seemed, an ambition to appear perfectly and universally agreeable.
His countenance, when he looked at another, was invariably clothed in
smiles. He never laughed; he only smiled. While nature had given
him no very acute sense of the humorous, and while, therefore, he
never felt like laughing, he had, apparently from a sense of duty,
learned to smile, and he smiled at everything. If one said `Good
morning' to him, he was sure to smile as he returned the salutation.
If one, in answer to an inquiry concerning his health, complained of a
headache, he smiled the most cordial sympathy. There was no considerable
amount of cheer conveyed by his smiles — no more than
there was by his shabby coat and hands; but like these, they were a
part of him, and one got used to them. But if any one said anything
funny where he and others were standing, and no person smiled except
the invariable Sandidge, he felt that the joke had been a failure.
When Mr. Parkinson introduced Mr. Overton, Mr. Sandidge arose
and extended his hand with a smile, which seemed to say: “Ah! you
young dog! You have come at last? I knew you would.”
Mr. Mobley was a stout, fine-looking man, about twenty-three years
of age, of the middle height, with dark complexion, very black hair
and whiskers, and a fine mouth, full of large sound teeth of perfect
whiteness. There were an ease and grace in his manner, and an expression
upon his face, which marked him at once to Mr. Overton as
a man of talent and education. Immediately after the introduction
Mr. Sandidge looked at the new-comers and then at Mr. Mobley with
a smile, which the latter interpreted at once; and after an exchange of
a few words of civility, he rose to go.
“No, do not leave, Mr. Mobley,” Mr. Parkinson said. “We have
no especial business with Mr. Sandidge, but came to see you both.
So please to remain, unless you have business which calls you away.”
Mr. Sandidge smiled upon Mr. Mobley as he resumed his seat; and,
but that we knew that he was bound to smile at all events, we should
have suspected that he was infinitely amused by the idea that Mr.
Mobley should have had any business of such pressing importance as
to require him to go to it in a hurry. He then turned to Mr. Parkinson
and smiled inquiringly; for this was the first time that that gentleman
had ever called on him, except upon business.
“Mr. Overton has removed to Georgia with a view of establishing
brought him here to make him acquainted with you both, knowing that
he could obtain from you more of such information as he needs than
he could from myself; besides,” he added, looking at Mr. Mobley, “I
desired to give him an opportunity of extending his acquaintance among
those with whom he might spend pleasantly such of his leisure as he
will have when he is wearied with the dullness of Chestnut Grove.”
Mr. Mobley bowed; Mr. Parkinson rose, and saying that he would
return in an hour, left the office, Mr. Sandidge smiling at him all the
while, even at his back as he went out. A conversation was begun at
once between the young men, with an occasional but rare contribution
from Mr. Sandidge. The latter was no great talker in a social way.
It was a wonderful thing to him how many things people could find to
say to one another on matters of no business whatever, but only in the
way of civility. He could talk forever on business, and in the Court-house
often made speeches of two hours' length. He understood such
things mighty well; but it puzzled him to see two persons sitting down
together and talking at random and with interest on miscellaneous
subjects, sporting from one to another with perfect ease, having no
apparent motive except a desire in each to entertain the other. There
was Mobley now, he would think, a young man who in the Court-house
was as skittish as a girl, whose practice, though he had fine education
and ability, after a year's pursuit of it, was barely supporting him, and
yet, as soon as he was out of that dread place, and in the society of
the most intelligent and able of the profession, would bear his part in
the discussion of general subjects, and even of legal questions, with an
ease and a fluency which made him the most interesting of them all,
and the object of the especial envy of Mr. Sandidge. Being no
philosopher, Mr. Sandidge could not, for the life of him, understand
how these things could be; and it seemed to him to be not only strange,
but wrong that Mr. Mobley, whom he was accustomed to run over in
the Court-house, should not only seem to be, but should actually be
above him everywhere else. Yet such things have been before and
since, and are to be hereafter, and have excited the surprise of others
besides Mr. Sandidge. How many young men of excellent talents and
the most finished education have for a year or two striven in vain to
begin successfully careers at the Bar, and have at length shrunk from
the pursuit, and left its honors and emoluments to be gathered by the
Sandidges — the Sandidges whom men laughed at when they saw them
dozen years, and after half a dozen more years have carried them all
their cases, and have at last lived to see them rich and prosperous.
Mr. Sandidge would not have thought of exchanging places with Mr.
Mobley, or the fine young fellow who had been just now introduced to
him; but the more they ran on with each other about law, literature,
and what not, the more he wondered at and envied what he thought
was their only gift. But he smiled whenever anything was said to him,
and when he was expected to say, and did say anything to them. When
Mr. Overton inquired if there was much litigation in that circuit, and if
money was to be made by the practice, Mr. Mobley slightly blushed,
looked at Mr. Sandidge, and answered that there was not a great
amount of litigation then originating, and that Mr. Sandidge knew
more as to what was to be made by the practice than himself. Regaining
instantly his ease of manner, he laughed good-naturedly at
himself, who had managed, he said, “thus far to make money to pay
my board and store accounts, and not, I think, anything over. I do
not, however, despair to do better after a while,” he added, looking
composedly upon Mr. Sandidge.
Mr. Sandidge being thus appealed to, and looking as if he felt that
that was a subject of which he ought to know something, answered
that there were some few lawyers in the circuit who were making a
living. Law was a mighty hard thing to make a living at. He had
been trying it twenty-five years and better, and ought to know how hard
it was. There was no business that it was not easier to make money
at than law. If he had his time to go over again, he hardly thought
he would undertake it. Indeed, he knew he would not if he knew
what a young man had to go through with the first five or six years.
Now, Mr. Sandidge had commenced the practice of the law without
a dollar, and with not even a good suit of clothes. But he economised.
He borrowed money at eight per cent., and shaved paper
at sixteen and twenty. He went to every Justices' Court in the county;
learned the name of every man in it, got acquainted with every man's
business, hunted up and set agoing litigation, until here he was in
the possession of at least forty thousand dollars. And though many a
man would have shrunk from what Mr. Sandidge had to go through
with, yet Mr. Sandidge told a story when he said what he did. He
would have gone through with it a thousand times over. He was
proud of what he had gone through. Like most self-made men, he
money which he had made by the law, he loved the spyings which it
gave opportunities to make into the secrets of his neighbors, their
silent struggles with sufferings and embarrassments, and he loved yet
more the influence which the knowledge thus acquired enabled him to
exert over them. But it was not his wont to encourage young lawyers.
Nobody encouraged him, he reflected, and let them encourage themselves.
“Yes,” he said, “law is a hard thing to get on with. There's a
power of books to read, which requires a power of money to buy; and
there are so many contrary decisions on the same p'ints, and the practice
and the pleadings are so hard to learn, and then a man, a young
man, has so often got to speak before the court, where everybody is
watching him, and when he don't know sometimes what to say when
a pint is made he didn't expect and aint prepared to meet, and he
gets embarrassed, and sometimes even has to give up the case and be
non-suited. These things, as I said, and a heap of others I might
mention, makes law a hard business to follow. But some men do, by
hard labor, make a living by it, by being economical. They say in
Augusta and in Savannah it is easier to get along with it, and that
some men even make fortunes. There is more litigation there, and not
so much competition. But,” he ended, smiling quite encouragingly,
“it may be worth while to try it even here. The profession is pretty
well stocked to be sure, but the more the merrier, you know;” and he
smiled almost audibly, and with such satisfaction at this attempt at
pleasantry, that Mr. Mobley laughed at it heartily, and said:
“And, Sandidge, you know it is some consolation to a fellow who is
getting along slowly to know that there are others who are at no faster
pace than himself; for apropos to your proverb is the one that misery
loves company.”
“Just so,” answered Mr. Sandidge; and at this moment Mr. Parkinson
returned, and the two took their leave.
When they were on their way home, Mr. Parkinson asked Overton
how he liked the specimens, as he termed his new acquaintances. The
latter answered that he was much pleased with the young man.
“And you are not very much pleased with Sandidge, I suppose?”
“Why, no, I cannot say that I am greatly prepossessed in his favor;
and I fancy he returns the compliment, as he discourages my notion to
practise law.”
“He does, does he?” said Mr. Parkinson, laughing. “I knew he
would; and though I am much of his opinion in regard to any young
man who can do anything else, yet I must say that his example is encouraging.
He very well illustrates how a man of little talent and less
education can grow rich, and even attain to some eminence at the Bar.
Sandidge is certainly a queer genius. Twenty-five years ago everybody
laughed at him — the judge, the lawyers, the juries, and the people.
But Sandidge laughed too in his way, and worked every day and night;
and somehow he got into practice. The judge and lawyers came at
last to respect him, the sheriffs to fear him, and the people to be in awe
of him; until now he has made a fortune, has more influence with the
present judge and is more successful before juries than any lawyer in
the circuit. I knew he would attempt to discourage you; he always
does. I doubt if it is because he has no feeling, but because it gratifies
his vanity to exaggerate those obstacles which he had to overcome,
and which nobody thought he would. And Sandidge, though he looks
like a fool, is really a pretty good lawyer. There are men infinitely
his superiors, but he is untiringly industrious. He prepares his cases
so thoroughly, and hangs to them so doggedly, and studies the people
so constantly, that he is, I repeat it, the most successful practitioner I
know. Hs loves the law; he glories in it, and knows nothing outside
of it.”
“But Mr. Mobley; he is certainly a man of real talent and education.
Is he not likely to succeed?”
“Mobley has very superior talent and a most finished education.
He was educated by an uncle who died in the first year of his collegiate
life, leaving in the hands of his executors money to enable him to complete
his course and enter his profession. His parents both died when
he was a child. But Mobley shines everywhere except in the court-room.
There he does not yet seem to be quite at home. I have heard
him speak once or twice, and he certainly speaks well. But Sandidge
worries him so with the starting of unexpected issues that he is often
put to his wits' end. If he could live without the practice, I am
inclined to think that, notwithstanding his pride, he would abandon it.
He will succeed though after a while, I doubt not, if he will persevere.
He is a fellow of fine wit, and gores Sandidge badly sometimes when
he can reach him, which is not often the case, with this weapon. But
Sandidge only smiles, and almost always gives things a turn which is
sure to give him the best of it at last.”
“Do you usually have much business in the courts?”
“And if so, which of these men do I employ to attend to it, you
would ask? Well,” continued Mr. Parkinson, somewhat apologetically,
“what little I have in that way I usually give to Sandidge. I have
known him a long time, and he has always seemed to act an honest
part towards me. Besides, a man, you know, does not usually like to
change the channel of his business.”
Mr. Parkinson did not have the heart, after what he had said of Mr.
Sandidge's influence with the presiding judge, to give that as another
reason for retaining him.
The young man said nothing; but he thought with himself that,
hard as it was on a poor fellow like Mobley, it was natural. And is it
the less hard because it is natural, that the world will delay to give help
to a man in any business of life until, by long toiling and striving alone,
he has at last reached a point where he can live without it? Yet such
is the way of life. You man with many clients, and many more friends,
has there not been a time when nineteen of every twenty of those
whom you now value the most highly would have forborne to lend you
a helping hand, but would have waited until they had seen whether by
the aid of the few who did stand by you you were likely to rise or to
fall? Let us not then fall out with what is natural in our fellow-men,
and what our very selves would do, and what we actually do, because
it is natural to us. We would spare ourselves many an uncomfortable
feeling of contempt for the infirmities of human nature as we see them
illustrated in the lives of our neighbors, if we would but reflect that,
what is more often than otherwise the case with us, we would act in
the same circumstances just as they do. Ask yourself, O best of
men, how many young men are there in any profession whom you so
cordially wish to prosper in it that you would be willing to take any of
your business out of its old tried channel — a channel so freighted with
yours and other people's business that it would not miss the little you
take from it — and risk it in their care until they have proved that the
consignment will be a safe one? Or if you sometimes do this, is it
not done a little slyly, and do you not feel like apologising, and when
discovered, do you not actually apologise to the old channel, and tell
how trifling was the freight you have taken from it, and how you supposed
it would not care to be pestered with such a small matter? Yes,
and the old channel says it makes no difference, and that it is all right;
but then you feel as if it was not all right, and as if you had injured
boat-load on it at once.
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