epicurean and self-indulgent in his tastes and habits; and, although far advanced in life, he was evidently ambitious to have the reputation of high fashion and ton, and to be listened to and received as its leader. I am inclined to think he would not have bartered a present enjoyment for a niche in the temple of Fame. He was willing to toil for the former, but made no effort to leave any memorial of his greatness behind him.

The strong impression he made upon those who were accustomed to hear him, may, I think, be discovered in the language and style of the opinions delivered in the Courts at that period. It will be found, upon looking into them, that in many of the cases argued by him the language of the opinion is more ornate and embellished than usual at other seasons. I speak of opinions delivered in the Supreme Court as well as in the State Courts. And the remark applies even to some of the opinions of the late Chief Justice, whose style at other times is not less remarkable for its simplicity and judicial calmness than for its perspicuity and force. Mr. Pinkney's speeches must have been much admired, or his ornamented style would not have been imitated.

I have spoken more particularly of Martin and Pinkney on account of the pre-eminence they respectively held at the Maryland bar among the lawyers of the last generation. It is not my purpose to give

a particular description of the others whom I have named, or to compare them with one another. It was my good fortune to commence the practice of the law when they were all yet in the prime of life, and to become familiarly acquainted with all of them, and to be engaged in the practice in the same Courts. They were all gentlemen of high attainments, courteous and kind in their intercourse with each other, and of unblemished honor. They have now all passed away; and I can truly say, when the recollection of them has come back freshly to my memory, that each one of them would have been eminent at any bar or in any Court of justice.

I return to the history of my own life. I remained in Mr. Chase's office studying closely for three years, and in the spring of 1799 was admitted to the bar. I had, by practice in our debating societies, become capable of speaking before my companions without any feeling of embarrassment; but I remembered what I had passed through in my Valedictory oration, which was the only speech I had made in public, and I feared that I should break down in my first essay at the bar. I could not write out a speech in a Court of original jurisdiction, and depend upon my memory to speak it; for I could not know precisely what the evidence would be, or what points might arise. I knew I must be able to think and exercise the power of reasoning while I was speaking, and

while I was conscious that every one was looking at me and listening to me.

I selected, therefore, a very humble forum for my first effort. The Mayor's Court of Annapolis had then jurisdiction of certain minor offences committed within the precincts of the city, and a grand and petit jury, composed of citizens of the town, were regularly summoned to attend at the stated terms of the Court. I knew the mayor, who was a good-natured old gentleman and had never studied law; and I was quite sure that I knew more law, and had more capacity, also, than the mayor or any of the aldermen who sat with him. Gabriel Duvall, who was then a Judge of the General Court, and afterwards a Judge of the Supreme Court of the United States, was the Recorder; but he did not regularly attend the Court, and came in only occasionally when the mayor and aldermen wished his aid in a case of difficulty. The case I had selected for my first trial was the defence of a man indicted for an assault and battery, in which very little mischief had been done to either party, and I had no suspicion that Judge Duvall, for whom I had the highest respect, would think it worth his while to preside at the trial. I thought if I ever could speak without confusion in any Court of justice, I should be able to do so before the Court and jury I expected to meet. One of my fellow-students, who, like myself, was about to commence the practice, was associated with me in

the defence; and just as we had empanelled the jury, and felt quite brave, and men of some consequence in the presence of those around us, to our utter dismay in walked Recorder Duvall, with his grave face and dignified deportment, and took his seat on the bench.

I do not know whether my associate or myself was the more frightened. We had both been accustomed to see him administering justice in the General Court, and listening to the first lawyers of the State, and we thought he would hardly, in his own mind, fail to contrast our efforts with theirs. There was no drawing back, however, for the jury was empanelled, and the examination of witnesses about to begin. I think he saw our embarrassment, for his manner was kind and encouraging.

The case turned out to be a very good one for a speech. As almost always happens when a fight takes place in an excited crowd, there was much contradictory testimony, and it was difficult to say whether our client committed the assault or struck in self-defence.

I watched the testimony carefully as it was given in, turning in my own mind the use that might be made of it. I took no notes, for my hand shook so that I could not have written a word legibly if my life had depended on it; and when I rose to speak, I was obliged to fold my arms over my breast, pressing them firmly against my body; and my knees trembled under me so much that I was obliged to press my

limbs against the table before me to keep me steady on my feet; yet, under all these disadvantages, I determined to struggle for composure and calmness of mind, and by a strong effort of the will I managed to keep possession of the reasoning faculties, and made a pretty good argument in the case, but in a tremulous and sometimes discordant voice, and inferior to what I could have made under more auspicious circumstances. A verdict in favor of my client hardly consoled me for the timidity I had displayed and the want of physical firmness, which seemed, I thought, to be little better than absolute cowardice.

This morbid sensibility, of which I am speaking, has, upon many occasions throughout my professional life, given me deep pain and mortification. It was the struggle of my life to keep it down; but, long as that professional life was, I was never able entirely to conquer it. And although I had been some years in the practice when I made my first speech in the Court of Appeals of Maryland, and many more when I first appeared in the Supreme Court of the United States, I felt it on each of these occasions nearly as much as when I tried the case in the Mayor's Court. Even in the Courts in which I was familiar, and where I had risen to the first rank of the profession, and tried almost every case of importance, I have sometimes felt it at the beginning of a term, although I had so mastered it that nobody perceived it but myself. It