reputation (Ah!!!), of the members of the community (Well, and pointedly put, Boy!), and when we remember, in addition, what a powerful and (on the whole) respected body they are (I should think so!)—­a body, too, consisting not merely of a “fortuitous concourse of atoms” (I should say not, indeed!  Fancy me being a mere “atom,” or fortuitous!) ("Please, Sir, I can’t;” interjected the Boy with the Bag)—­each going his own way, and seeking his own interest, but bound together, as the great bulk of its members are, and organised by means of this great Society, and of the kindred societies scattered over the country, and acting in harmony with it—­it seems most surprising (Surprising?  Astounding, Sir!) that so little in the way of dignity and reward can be looked forward to by the Solicitor, however honestly, ably, and conscientiously he may perform the arduous and responsible duties of his profession.’”

Mr. PELL here paused, and panted, like one who comes to the surface after a deep-sea dive.  Then he pursued:—­

“There, Boy! That is from the opening speech of the President of the Incorporated Law Society at Plymouth!  And excellent it is,—­though perhaps a little long-winded.  As a mere sentence, a sinuous sequence of words, a ‘breather’ in syllables, an exercise in adjectives, it cuts the record and takes the cake.  But look, Boy, at the sound common-sense of it!  Since the famous, if flattering, remarks—­concerning Me!—­of my late friend, the ex-Lord-Chancellor, who said—­nay, swore, that ‘the country ought to be proud of me,’ I have met with no observations concerning our Profession which so commend themselves to my judgment.”

“Oh, please Sir, yussir, right you are, Sir!” jerked out the Boy with the Bag.

“Right Mr. MELMOTH WALTERS is,” corrected Mr. PELL, severely.  “I knew it would come, Boy, and it has.  Though it has taken time, it has taken time.  Listen yet further, and don’t fidget with that Bag!

“’I contend (He contends!) that it is the duty of the State to provide due recognition of merit in the ranks of a Profession which has been set apart (Dedicated, as it were, like a—­like a—­sort of a scapegoat—­ahem! no, not that, exactly, either, but—­a—­you know, Boy, you know!), and regulated (Just a leetle too much, perhaps) by it, from which so much is expected, and to which so much is confided.’

“Splendid!  My sentiments to a touch!  Sir, that Blue Bag is a Temple of Sacred Secrets, and should be a shrine of Open Honour. (Must make a note of that for my next speech at the Forum!) ‘Sir SOLOMON PELL’ would not sound badly, eh, Boy?”

“Oh, please Sir, yussir—­I mean, no, Sir, fur from it, Sir—­fur from it!”

“And yet the Bar gets all the honours, and most of the emoluments, whilst the Blue Bag, too often, is sent empty away.  Is it just?  Is it judicious?  What says once again the Plymouth oracle?