“‘Is it a good place?’” Sam is asked. Yes, Sir. “‘Little to do and plenty to get,’ said Sergeant Buzfuz jocularly. ‘Plenty to get, as the soldier said when they gave him six dozen,’ replied Sam. ‘You mustn’t tell us what the soldier or anybody else said,’ remarked the judge, waking up suddenly. ‘It is not evidence.’” Immortal too are the counsel in that famous case, the eloquent Buzfuz and the abstracted Stubbin; nor can we forget the unlucky novice, Mr. Phunky, who ruined the case for Mr. Pickwick by the way he cross-examined Mr. Winkle. No profession has risen more in dignity and respectability in England in recent years than that of the solicitor or attorney. In Scott and in almost all earlier novelists, the man who prepared the work for counsel and was engaged in the humbler practice of the courts is nearly always represented as a rogue. How often do we find him described as a “miserable pettifogger” and charged with “sharp practice.” It is the same with Dickens. Even Mr. Perker in “Pickwick,” who is thoroughly honest, cannot withhold his admiration of Dodson and Fogg’s acuteness. “‘Dodson and Fogg have taken Mrs. Bardell in execution for her costs, Sir,’ said Job. ‘No,’ exclaimed Perker, putting his hands in his pockets, and reclining against the sideboard. ‘Yes,’ said Job. ‘It seems they got a cognovit out of her, for the amount of ’em, directly after the trial.’ ‘By Jove!’ said Perker, taking both hands out of his pockets, and striking the knuckles of his right against the palm of his left, emphatically, ‘those are the cleverest scamps I ever had anything to do with.’ ‘The sharpest practitioners _I_ ever knew, Sir,’ observed Lowten. ‘Sharp,’ echoed Perker. ‘There’s no knowing where to have them.’ ‘Very true, sir, there is not,’ replied Lowten: and then both master and man pondered for a few seconds, with animated countenances, as if they were reflecting upon one of the most beautiful and ingenious discoveries the intellect of man had ever made, etc.”