which we knew would console him, as it was generally brandy with some water added, to give it a name rather than materially alter its nature." (Works, Vol. 4, p. 384.)

Something has been said about Kenealy's case above. As a matter of fact, his utterances in court never formed the subject of inquiry by any professional tribunal, but the important point to notice is that it was his Inn, Gray's, which set the Lord Chancellor in motion (on account of his editorship of the Englishman), with the result that he was dispatented, and which disbenched and disbarred him on the same ground.

It will be clear from all the instances that no formula can exactly define to what length of retort or freedom of speech in addressing a judge counsel may with propriety (as to safety, there is practically no question)go. Obviously, a genuine instinct of selfrespect will inspire an advocate with the exact measure of what is due to himself, and what is due to his professional superior, just as it will antagonists in any other controversy. This is what Campbell called in Erskine, "the felicitous precision with which he meted out the requisite and justifiable portion of defiance." Without that instinct it matters little at the bar, or anywhere else, on which side the merits of the dispute are; it cannot be conducted in a seemly way by him that lacks it.

Perhaps the true "rule" may be collected from a dictum attributed to Curran arguendo. He offended Judge Robinson, who exclaimed furiously, "Sir, you are forgetting the respect that you owe to the dignity of the judicial character." "Dignity? my lord," said Curran. "" Upon that point I shall cite you a case from a book of some authority, with which you are perhaps not unacquainted. 'A poor Scotchman, upon his arrival in London, thinking himself insulted by a stranger and imagining that he was the stronger man, resolved to resent the affront and, taking off his coat, delivered it to a bystander to hold. But having lost the battle he turned to re

sume his garment, when he discovered that he had unfortunately lost that also that the trustee of his habiliments had decamped during the affray.' So, my Lord, when the person who is invested with the dignity of the judgment-seat lays it aside for a moment to enter into a disgraceful personal contest, it is in vain, when he has been worsted in the encounter, that he seeks to resume it -- it is in vain that he endeavors to shelter himself behind an authority which he has abandoned." Robinson exclaimed, "If you say another word, I'll commit you." "Then, my Lord, it will be the best thing you'll have committed this year." The judge did not do as he threatened, any more than was done in any of the cases already mentioned, or indeed in any recorded; but it is instructive to read that "He applied to his brethren to unfrock the daring advocate," but they refused. The true principle may be adduced from Curran's apologue. So long as a judge speaks in that capacity, be he right or wrong, he is entitled to all respect of demeanor and all courtesy of language. The moment he descends to personalities, invective or criticism not warranted or required by his duty to the court, that is, to the public, he strips himself of his judicial function, and the person aggrieved by his language is entitled to speak to him as man to man, a relation which, of course, still includes that of gentleman to gentleman.

In such a competition the judge, of course, starts with everything in his favor; if he is worsted, or reduced to silence, it must be his own fault. That some judges have succeeded in being severe without being insulting, may be seen from Roger North's account of his brother, the chief justice (about 1675). 'There were yet some occasions of his justice, whereupon he thought it necessary to reprehend sharply. As when counsel pretended solemnly to impose nonsense upon him, and when he had dealt with them and yet they persisted this was what he

could not bear — and if he used them ill, it was what became him, and what they deserved. And then his words made deep

scratches; but still with salvo to his own dignity, which he never exposed by impotent chiding."— The Law Times.

SOUTRE TERRY have years up in Ver

QUIRE TERRY had been county sheriff for

mont, and his experience in court had familiarized him not only with the forms and ceremonies of legal procedure, but also, to a considerable extent, with rudimentary principles of law. Therefore, when he removed to Wisconsin, in an early day, and took up a farm near the incipient village of L, he soon impressed himself upon the community as a legal factotum of no small consequence and, in recognition of his abilities in this regard, he was elected justice of the peace and became known throughout that section as " Squair Terry."

The Squire had brought with him from Vermont a book of common law forms which he kept in his private room; he had the true legal instinct, for, whenever he had occasion to draw up an instrument, no matter how simple the matter might be, he would incorporate within it such a mass of legal verbiage (taken mostly from the book of forms) that, when the document had been duly read and signed and the Squire had pasted a red sticker upon it and affixed his notarial seal (which he did to all his papers), one could not escape the conviction that, so far as it lay in human power to make a thing legal and binding, this matter was so. Be it remembered, however, that the Squire was no imposter, for, aside from his harmless vanity over his legal acquirements and his fondness for legal punctilio, he was a man of equity and good conscience and possessed a large fund of native common sense and sagacity which made him a safe adviser; furthermore, his court experience

up in Vermont had so thoroughly convinced him of the wastefulness and folly of unnecessary litigation that his good offices were most frequently exercised in adjusting differences between neighbors and keeping them out of court; hence it was that he became a most useful member of the community, and enjoyed the confidence of his fellowcitizens to an unusual degree.

One day, in the latter part of October, he was summoned to the home of a German farmer named Christian Boch, who lived about two miles north of the village. The Squire had, in times past, done some business for Christian; but, since the mortgage on the farm had been paid off, Christian had not been in need of much legal advice, hence the Squire was somewhat puzzled to surmise the nature of this particular business. "Must be a will," he muttered to himself as he bustled about preparing for the trip, "Yes, that's it; Christian hes got into pooty good shape and wants to make his will." However, as was his custom, he put into his valise the Revised Statutes, his book of forms, some blank deeds, bills of sale, mortgages, promissory notes and a liberal supply of legal cap. Then, jumping into his buggy, he started for the Boch farm with a feeling of placid satisfaction quite pardonable in a virtuous justice of the peace who is about to exercise his favorite function; for the drawing of wills was the Squire's especial delight, and incidentally the gathering in of a five-dollar fee therefor.

Arrived at the farm the Squire tied his horse and proceeded deliberately toward the house, fully prepared for that hearty Ger

66

What!" gasped the Squire in amazement, "you and Katie want to separate?"

"Yas," broke in Katie shrilly, "ve sebarate; I didn't vould lif noder day mit dot ole hog."

"Naw you vouldn't heh!" snarled Christian savagely, "I yous so soon lif mit a lousy olt chessie cat already."

"Stop! wait!" cried the Squire, recovering his professional decorum and perceiving that here was the culmination of a deepseated family row, "I can't hev sech talk in the presence of the court; it's an intercate perceeding to separate accordin' to law, and we mustn't hev no quarrelin' or wranglin'; the fust thing is to git the facts in order."

He opened his valise and took out, first the legal cap, then the Revised Statutes, which he opened and laid upon the table to give the proceeding a greater show of legality. Then, calling for a pen and ink, he took the matter judicially in hand.

"Les see; how many years hev you ben married?" he asked, peering at Katie over the tops of his spectacles.

"Twenty-three years," repeated the Squire, as he wrote it down, "and now want to separate!" he shook his head in grave disapprobation.

"How many acres ye got in this farm, Christian?"

"Two hundred und twanty."

"Too bad, too bad," muttered the Squire, writing the answer down; "you and Katie worked so hard to clear that mortgage off, and now the farm hes got to be divided up.” He shook his head again and heaved a sigh.

"Vell, Katie she didn' vant to vork some more," urged Christian angrily. “She radder vould be fine lady und schtay in house und blay organ already."

"Chreestion he lie bout dat, Meester Terry," broke in Katie hotly. "I vant organ. for Louise, like oder girls haf, aber Chreestion he vont buy notting; und den ven I git rhumatiz und can't vork oud in field, Chreestion he growl all time; den he say I dond kees him some more: you tink I kees a ole hog like dat?" and she snapped her fingers at Christian contemptuously.

"Aw you kees de Davil," growled Christian sullenly.

"Order! order!" commanded the Squire, rapping the table severely and looking about with an air of ruffled dignity; "the law don't allow sech language in a judicial perceeding; I'll overlook it this time, but don't talk that way agin; now les hev a list of your pers'nal property."

It took a long time to get up this list; the Squire insisted that every article should be separately listed and described, and he inquired into the history of many of them; that easy chair, for instance, was bought fifteen years ago; it was their first piece of parlor furniture, they bought it at Blankenburg's, and they couldn't help remembering what a pleasant ride they had coming home from town that day with the chair in the back of the wagon. They were just beginning

family pictures, each had its peculiar family history which the Squire brought out in detail. During these enforced reminiscences of their married life, Christian and Katie glanced uneasily at one another.

"Wal, anything else?" the Squire asked, when the list was finally nearing completion. "Yas, ve got an olt cradle, aber dot ain't vort notting," said Katie evasively.

'Oh, yes, put everything in," persisted the Squire; "when did you buy it?"

"Ve bought it ven liddle Hans vas born, he vould be nineteen years olt now." "Dead?" the Squire asked gently. Katie nodded her head.

The last thing on the list was a trundle bed; the Squire asked all about this. Each of their children had slept in it, little Fritz, their youngest, slept in it now.

"Wal, the one who gits little Fritz will take the trundle bed, I s'pose. Now we must take down the children."

They had six children living, had buried three. The Squire talked about them in a sympathetic way. Yes, he remembered the last one who died, little Annie. He had often seen her at the village and noticed how much she looked like Katie, only she had Christian's big blue eyes. He was at the funeral, the Squire was, and stopped in at their house on the way back from the graveyard, didn't they remember? Katie remembered. Christian was twisting his thumbs and looking gloomily out of the window.

"Wal, you've got to divide the children up between ye and ye might as well begin with little Fritz, here he comes now."

"Say, fader!" shouted little Fritz as he scrambled headlong into the room, "dere's a voodshuck in de orchard und I chase him under —” He stopped short upon noticing the Squire and the troubled looks of his father and mother.

"Come here, Fritz," said the Squire, and he drew the boy gently toward himself, “your pa and ma ain't goin' to live together any more; your ma is goin' to leave your

pa. Now, Fritz, would you rather go and live with your ma, or stay here and live alone with your pa?"

Little Fritz gave the Squire a frightened look and ran over to Katie, “Vy — vy moder," he faltered in childish reproach, "you vouldn't go off und leaf fader all alone, vould you, moder? vat could fader do mitout you und little Fritz - he—he vouldn't haf anybody to blay horse mit if I vas gone." His lips trembled and his voice choked so that he could say no more. Suddenly he ran into the corner and grabbed up a wooden bit which had a long string tied to each end.

"Coam on, fader," he cried, forcing a mirthless smile through his tears, "coam on und blay horse mit little Fritz," then dropping the bit he ran to Katie again and pleadingly clutched her by the apron and began to jump up and down in an agony of childish grief.

This was more than Katie could endure, she covered her face with her apron and began to cry. with a violence which she could not control.

Christian's eyes grew moist and he pulled out a big red handkerchief, and began to blow his nose vigorously.

"The fact is, Christian," said the Squire confidentially, "while it hain't in the jurisdiction of the court to interfere, still I must obsarve that you and Katie air doin' a fool thing; I kin draw up these separation papers if ye want 'em, but they'll hev to go through the circuit court, and the costs will be more'n two hundred dollars. You kin buy a organ fer sixty dollars and, so fer as Katie's workin' outdoors is consarned, she'll git sick if she does that much more, she's gittin' too old, and ye know doctor's bills air high. We can't divide up them children, neither, look at little Fritz there."

A tear began to course down Christian's weatherbeaten cheek.

"Wal, whut d' ye say," urged the Squire, pushing his advantage, "shell I finish the papers?'

"Vell," said Christian slowly, "I buy de organ for Louise, und Katie she need'n vork oud doors some more, aber mebbe Katie she dond vant-vant," he glanced wistfully at her and his voice trembled with apprehension.

"Wal, whut d' ye say, Katie, Christian will buy the organ, and he says ye needn' work outdoors any more. Christian has worked hard fer you and the children, Katie, he's ben a pooty good husband to ye after all, whut d' ye say?"

Katie wiped her eyes nervously with the corner of her apron, she glanced down at the tearful face of little Fritz and then over at Christian, who was sitting with his eyes fixed upon the floor. Suddenly she rushed over to where he sat and clutched him by the arm, "Ve try dot over agin, Chreestion?" she asked.

"Yah!" shouted Christian, slapping his knee and springing to his feet, "ve try dot over agin, Katie."

"Wal, this here case is jest about stip' lated out of court," remarked the Squire jocosely; then, resuming his professional bearing, "howsumever, this thing must be fixed up accordin' to law; them separation papers hes ben partly executed and it's the opinion of the court," here he turned the leaves of the Statute slowly, "thet the only safe percedure is to enter into a new recognizance. Stand up, Christian; you too, Katie; hold up yer right hands; 'You and

"Then, by virtue of the authority vested in me, I do hereby vacate and set aside all acts and doin's lookin' to a separation from the conjugal staitus of matrimony, and do solemnly restore the martial relations between ye in statoo quo, and hereby ratify and confirm ye as lawful husband and wife.' The reg'lar statutory fee fer this is five dollars, Christian, but I'll throw off two dollars and make it three."

Christian pulled out his leather wallet and paid it promptly.

When the Squire reached the end of the lane and turned into the main road, he glanced back at the house. Christian had the wooden bit in his mouth and was capering clumsily about the yard, while little Fritz was hanging to the string and shouting lustily. Katie stood in the doorway watching them, her arms akimbo and a broad grin on her face.

WE

E know an old gentleman here, a wagon-maker by trade, who commenced plying the same craft when young at Mechanicsville near the town of Springfield, Illinois, immortalized by Abraham Lincoln.

He knew him well when he was just a smart young lawyer, smarter than most of them, and so sought after in difficult cases.

The cartwright had a case to win or lose, connected with his trade. On the other side the best lawyer of his little town was employed and his own was no match for him. The eventful day had come and his father-in-law quaked for the result.

"Son," he said to him, "you've got just time. Take this letter to my young friend,