text:  There is a poor lad sitting biting his nails till he bites them to the quick wearing out his heart-strings in constrained silence on the back benches of Westminster Hall: he maketh speeches eloquent inwardly and briefless mutely bothereth judges and seduceth innocent juries to his _No_-side: he findeth out mistakes in his learned brethren and chuckleth secretly therefor: he scratcheth his wig with a pen and thinketh by what train of circumstantial evidence he may be able to prove a dinner: he laugheth derisively at the income-tax and the collectors thereof: yet when he may not have even a "little brown" to fly with haply some good angel in mortal shape of a solicitor may bestow on him a brief: rushing home to his chambers in the Temple he mastereth the points of the case cogitating _pros_ and _cons_: he heareth his own voice in court for the first time: the bottled black-letter of years falleth from his lips like treacle from a pipkin: he maketh good his points winneth the verdict and the commendations of the judge: solicitors whisper that there is something in him and clerks express their conviction that he is a "trump:" the young man eloquent is rewarded in one hour for the toil rust and enforced obscurity of years: he is no longer a common soldier of the bar; he steppeth by right divine forth of the ranks and becometh a man of mark and likelihood: he is now an aristocrat of the bar--perhaps a Lyndhurst