“There is force in that, Bart.  Men may see God in His works, if they will; but men don’t so stamp their works.  At his best, man is weak; unknowing truth, he puts false brands on his goods, mixes and mingles, snarls and confuses, covers up, hides and effaces, so far as he can, God’s works, and palms off as His the works of the other.  And it is with these that the lawyer has to do:  a work in which your mere genius would make little headway.  He would go to it without preparation; he would grow weary of the hopelessness of the task, and fly away to some pleasant perch, and plume his wing for another flight, I fear.”

“Might not his lamp of genius aid him somewhat?” put in Bart.

“It might,” said Ranney, “and he might be misled by its flare.  He would do better to use the old lights of the law.  Some are a little lurid, and some a little blue, but always the same in tempest or calm.  The law, as you have doubtless discovered, is founded in a few principles of obvious right.  Their application to cases is artificial.  The law, for its own wise purposes, takes care of itself; of its own force, it embraces everything, investigates everything, construes itself, and enforces itself, as the sole power in the premises.  Its rules in the text-books read plain enough, and are not difficult of apprehension.  The uncertainty of the law arises in the doubt and uncertainty of the facts; and hence the doubt about which, of many rules, ought to govern.  A man of genius, as you describe him, ought to become a good lawyer; he would excel in the investigation and presentation of facts; but none but a lawyer saturated with the spirit of the law until he comes to have a legal instinct, can with accuracy apply it.”

This was clear and strong to Barton, and profitable to him.

“Now Barton,” said Henry, turning to Ranney, as if Bart were absent, “went through with Blackstone in a month, and probably would go through it every month in the year, and then he might be profitably put to read Blackstone.  If I were to shut him up with the ‘Institutes,’ in four days there might be nothing of poor Coke left but covers and cords.”

“And what would become of Bart?” asked Ranney.

“Go mad—­but not from much learning,” answered the youth for himself; “or you would find him like a dried geranium-leaf hid in the leaves of the year-books,—­

  ‘Where thy mates of the garden lie scentless and dead.’”

There was a touch of sarcasm in his mocking voice; and flashing out with his old sparkle, “Be patient with me, boys, the future works miracles.  There

  Are mountains ungrown,
  And fountains unflown,
  And flowers unblown,
  And seed never strown,
  And meadows unmown,
  And maids all alone,
  And lots of things to you unknown,
  And every mother’s son of us must
  Always blow his own—­nose, you know.”

And while the young men were a little astonished at the run of his lines, the practical and unexpected climax threw them into another laugh.