objection to which ingenious device for the conviction of rogues being, that if such a power existed, there would be no secrets to disclose; and, as a necessary consequence, that the imperfectly-informed attorney would be unable to render his client the justice to which every person, however criminal, is clearly entitled—­that of having his or her case presented before the court appointed to decide upon it in the best and most advantageous manner possible.  Let it not be forgotten either that the attorney is the only real, practical defender of the humble and needy against the illegal oppressions of the rich and powerful—­the shrewd, indomitable agent who gives prosaic reality to the figurative eloquence of old Chancellor Fortescue, when he says, “that the lightning may flash through, the thunder shake, the tempest beat, upon the English peasant’s hut, but the king of England, with all his army, cannot lift the latch to enter in.”  The chancellor of course meant, that in this country overbearing violence cannot defy, or put itself in the place of the law.  This is quite true; and why?  Chiefly because the attorney is ready, in all cases of provable illegality, with his potent strip of parchment summoning the great man before “her Sovereign Lady the Queen,” there to answer for his acts; and the richer the offender, the more keen and eager Mr. Attorney to prosecute the suit, however needy his own client; for he is then sure of his costs, if he succeed!  Again, I cheerfully admit the extreme vulgarity of the motive; but its effect in protecting the legal rights of the humble is not, I contend, lessened because the reward of exertion and success is counted out in good, honest sovereigns, or notes of the Governor and Company of the Bank of England.

Thus much by way of conciliatory prologue to the narrative of a few incidents revealed in the attorney’s privileged confessional; throughout which I have of course, in order to avoid any possible recognition of those events or incidents, changed the name of every person concerned.

Our old city firm, then, which, I am happy to say, still flourishes under the able direction of our active successors, I will call—­adopting the nomenclature appropriated to us by imaginative ladies and gentlemen who favor the world with fancy pen-and-ink portraits of the lawyer tribe—­that of Flint and Sharp; Sharp being myself, and Flint the silver-haired old bachelor we buried a few weeks since in Kensal Green Cemetery.

“Mr. Andrews,” said a clerk as he threw open the door of the inner office one afternoon; “Mr. Jesse Andrews.”

“Good-day, Mr. Andrews,” was my prompt and civil greeting:  “I have good news for you.  Take a chair.”

The good-humored, rather intelligent, and somewhat clouded countenance of the new-comer brightened up at these words.  “News from my Cousin Archibald?” he asked, as he seated himself.

“Yes:  He laments your late failure, and commiserates the changed position and prospects of your wife and boy, little Archibald, his godson.  You he has not much compassion for, inasmuch as he attributes your misfortunes entirely to mismanagement, and the want of common prudence.”