“Mr. Thesiger, the witness says he understands the quotation, and as you have no evidence to the contrary, I do not see how I can help you.”  Of course, there was a renewal of the general laughter, but Thesiger, in his reply, turned it on Platt.

This was my first appearance on circuit, and my first lesson from a great advocate in the art of caricature.

* * * * *

No man at the Bar can forget the joy of his first brief—­that wonderful oblong packet of white papers, tied with the mysterious pink tape, which his fourth share of the diminutive clerk brings him, marked with the important “I gua.”

I speak not to stall-fed juniors who have not to wait till their merits are discovered, and who know that whosoever may watch and wait and hope or despair, they shall have enough.  All blessings go with them; I never envied them their heritage.  They are born to briefs as the sparks fly upwards.  I tell my experience to those who will understand and appreciate every word I say—­to men who have to make their way in the world by their own exertions, and live on their own labour or die of disappointment.  There is one consolation even for the wretched waiters on solicitors’ favours, and that is, that the men who have never had to work their way seldom rise to eminence or to any position but respectable mediocrity.  They never knew hope, and will never know what it is to despair, or to nibble the short herbage of the common where poorer creatures browse.

A father never looked on his firstborn with more pleasure than a barrister on his first brief.  If the Tower guns were announcing the birth of an heir to the Throne, he would not look up to ask, “What is that?”

It was the turning-point of my life, for had there been no first brief pretty soon, I should have thought my kind relations’ predictions were about to be verified.  But I should never have returned home; there was still the Stage left, on which I hoped to act my part.

Strange to say, my first brief, like almost everything in my life, had a little touch of humour in it.

I was instructed to defend a man at Hertford Sessions for stealing a wheelbarrow, and unfortunately the wheelbarrow was found on him; more unfortunate still—­for I might have made a good speech on the subject of the animus furandi—­the man not only told the policeman he stole it, but pleaded “Guilty” before the magistrates.  I was therefore in the miserable condition of one doomed to failure, take what line I pleased.  There was nothing to be said by way of defence, but I learnt a lesson never to be forgotten.

Being a little too conscientious, I told my client, the attorney, that in the circumstances I must return the brief, inasmuch as there was no defence for the unhappy prisoner.

The attorney seemed to admire my principle, and instead of taking offence, smiled in a good-natured manner, and said it was no doubt a difficult task he had imposed on me, and he would exchange the brief for another.  He kept his word, and by-and-by returned with a much easier case—­a prosecution where the man pleaded “Guilty.”  It was a grand triumph, and I was much pleased.