The prospect was not exhilarating for any one who had to perform the drudgery of the first few years of a junior’s life; nevertheless, I was not cast down by the mere apprehension, or rather the mere possibility of failure, for when I looked round on my competitors I was encouraged by the thought that dear old Woollet knew more about a rate appeal than Littledale himself, while old Peter Ryland, with his inimitable Saxon, was quite as good at the irremovability of a pauper as Codd was in accounting for the illegal removal of a duck, and both in their several branches of knowledge more learned than Alderson or Bayley.  But here I was, launched on that wide sea in which I was “to sink or swim,” and, as I preferred the latter, I struck out with a resolute breast-stroke, and, as I have said, never failed to keep my head above water.  It was some satisfaction to know that, if the judges were so learned, there was yet more learning to come; much yet to come down from, the old table-land of the Common Law, and much more from the inexhaustible fountain of Parliament.

The Quarter Sessions Court was the arena of my first eight years of professional life.  I watched and waited with unwearied attention, never without hope, but often on the very verge of despair, of ever making any progress which would justify my choosing it as a profession.  My greatest delight, perhaps, was the obtaining an acquittal of some one whose guilt nobody could doubt.  All the struggle of those times was the fight for the “one three six,” and the hardest effort of my life was the most valuable, because it gave me the key which opened the door to many depositories of unexplored wealth.

There were many men who outlived their life, and others who never lived their lives at all; many men who did nothing, and many more who would almost have given their lives to do something.

There was, however, one man of those days whom I cannot here pass over, as he remained my companion and friend to his life’s end, and will be remembered by me with affection and reverence to the end of my own.  It was old Bob Grimston, whom I first met at the benefit of “the Spider,” one of the famous prize-fighters of the time.  The Hon. Bob Grimston was known in the sporting world as one of its most enthusiastic supporters, and acknowledged as one of the best men in saddle or at the wicket.  But Bob was not only a sportsman—­he was a gentleman of the finest feeling you could meet, and the keenest sense of honour.

Having thus spoken of some of the eminent men of my early days, I would like to mention a little incident that occurred before I had fairly settled down to practise, or formed any serious intention as to the course I should pursue—­that is to say, whether I should remain a sessions man like Woollet, or become a master of Saxon like old Peter Ryland, a sportsman like Bob Grimston, or a cosmopolitan like Rodwell, so as to comprehend all that came in my way.  I chose the latter, for the simple reason that in principle I loved what in these days would be called “the open door,” and received all comers, even sometimes entertaining solicitors unawares.