Lawyers and Vampires

LAWYERS AND VAMPIRES
Lawyers and Vampires

Cultural Histories of Legal Professions
Edited by
W. WESLEY PUE
Nemetz Chair in Legal History and Professor of Law,
The University of British Columbia
and
DAVID SUGARMAN
Professor of Law, Law School, Lancaster University
OXFORD – PORTLAND OREGON

2003
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Preface
This book seeks to develop understandings of the historical and social functions
of legal professions on a comparative basis and through interpretive lenses sensi-
tive to the urges of ‘cultural history’. The essence of a comparative ‘cultural his-
tory’ of legal professions is the pursuit of an understanding transcending the
spatial, temporal or disciplinary boxes that conventionally constrain scholarship.
Because such work is best pursued collaboratively—perhaps it can only be
pursued collaboratively—this volume presents the work of an extraordinary
team of scholars, drawn from six countries on three continents. The work of
each of us individually—but more especially, of the contributors as a group has
been much enhanced by sustained dialogue about what it means to engage in a
‘cultural history of legal professions’ which has been carried on both in print
and also through a series of scholarly venues including:
—meetings of the long-standing ‘Working Group on Comparative Legal
Professions’ organised as part of the work of the International Sociological
Association’s Research Committee on the Sociology of Law (under the lead-
ership of Rick Abel, Terry Halliday, Bill Felstiner, and Benoit Bastard),
—a developmental conference convened at Whistler, British Columbia under
the sponsorship of the University of British Columbia’s Interdisciplinary Law
and Society programme,
—several meetings taking the form of panels arranged as part of the annual con-
ferences of the [USA] Law and Society Association, the American Society for
Legal History, the Australia–New Zealand Law and History Association, the
Canadian Law and Society Association, and the Australia–New Zealand
Studies Association of North America,
—an international workshop on ‘lawyers and their socio-ethical concerns’
organised by Dr JS Gandhi and hosted by Jawaharlal Nehru University’s
Centre for the Study of Social Systems in April 2001.
This research has been much facilitated too by concrete support provided by the
University of British Columbia Library, the University of British Columbia
Hampton Fund, Green College and the Interdisciplinary Law and Society
Programme (University of British Columbia), the International Institute for the
Sociology of Law at Onati, the Institute of Advanced Legal Studies (School of
Advanced Studies, London) and the University of British Columbia’s Law
Endowment Fund, (which contributed to translation costs).
We are grateful too to individuals who have worked directly on the project:
Joanne Chung, who provided administrative support at the University of British
Columbia, Richard Hart, Mel Hamill and April Boffin of Hart Publishing,
vi Preface
Gisela Mutter (who provided translation from German) and Marion

Macfarlane (who translated from French).
Finally, we wish to record our appreciation to the contributors to this work.
They have brought great learning to our shared subject-matter. As important,
they have exhibited a splendid sense of collegiality and—importantly—a sense
of humour as and when needed!
W Wesley Pue David Sugarman

Vancouver Lancaster
24 February 2003 24 February 2003
Contents
List of Contributors ix
1. Introduction: Towards a Cultural History of Lawyers 1

David Sugarman and W Wesley Pue
Part I: The Formation of Lawyers
2. Ritual, Majesty and Mystery: Collective Life and Culture

among English Barristers, Serjeants and Judges,
c.1500–c.1830 25
David Lemmings
3. ‘A Dry and Revolting Study’: the Life and Labours of

Antebellum Law Students 65
Ann Fidler
Part II: Lawyers and the Liberal State
4. ‘Finland’s Route’ of Professionalisation and Lawyer-Officials 101

Esa Konttinen
5. Juridicalisation, Professionalisation and the Occupational

Culture of the Advocate in the Nineteenth and the
early Twentieth centuries: A Comparison of Germany, Italy
and Switzerland 123
Hannes Siegrist
6. From ‘Rechstaat’ to ‘Welfare State’: Swedish Judicial Culture

in Transition 1870–1970 151
Kjell Å Modéer
Part III: Work and Representations
7. The Problems of Wealth and Virtue: The Paris Bar and the
Generation of the Fin-de-Siècle 171
John Savage
viii Contents
8. Text and Subtext: French Lawyers’ Fees in the Nineteenth

Century 211
Jean-Louis Halpérin
9. He Would Have Made a Wonderful Solicitor: Law, Modernity

and Professionalism in Bram Stoker’s Dracula 225
Anne McGillivray
10. The Syndicat de la Magistrature, 1968–1978: Elements in the

History of French White Collar Professional Unionism 269
David Applebaum
Part IV: Lawyers and Colonialism
11. Together We Fall, Divided We Stand: the Victorian Legal

Profession in Crisis 1890–1940 293
Rob McQueen
12. Cultural Chasm: ‘Mennonite’ Lawyers in Western Canada,

1900–1939 329
Harold Dick
13. Cultural Projects and Structural Transformation in the

Canadian Legal Profession 367
W Wesley Pue
List of Contributors
David Applebaum, Professor of History, Rowan University, Glassboro,

NJ, USA
Harold Dick, Barrister and Solicitor, City of Winnipeg, Manitoba,

Canada
Ann Fidler, Assistant Professor and Dean, History Department, Honors

Tutorial College, Ohio University, OH, USA
Jean-Louis Halperin, University de Bourgogne, CNRS, France
Esa Konttinen, Senior Lecturer of Sociology, University of Jyräskylä,

Finland
David Lemmings, Associate Professor of History, University of

Newcastle, Australia
Anne McGillivray, Professor of Law, University of Manitoba, Canada
Rob McQueen, Professor of Law, Victoria University, Melbourne,

Australia
Kjell Å Modéer, Lund University, Sweden
W Wesley Pue, Nemetz Chair in Legal History, Faculty of Law,

University of British Columbia, Canada
John Savage, Assistant Professor, History Department, Lehigh

University, PA, USA
Hannes Siegrist, Professor of Modern European History, University of

Leipzig, Germany
David Sugarman, Professor of Law, Law School, Lancaster University,

UK
1
Introduction: Towards a Cultural
History of Lawyers
DAVID SUGARMAN AND W WESLEY PUE
This is the first book that directly addresses the cultural history of the legal
profession. An international team of scholars canvasses wide-ranging
issues concerning the culture of the legal profession and the wider cultural
significance of lawyers, including consideration of the relation to cultural
processes of state formation and colonisation. The essays describe and
analyse significant aspects of the cultural history of the legal profession in
England, Canada, Australia, France, Germany, Italy, Sweden, Switzerland,
Norway and Finland. The book seeks to understand the complex ways in
which lawyers were imaginatively and institutionally constructed, and
their larger cultural significance. It illustrates both the diversity and the
potential of a cultural approach to lawyers in history.
This book was conceived in an interdisciplinary spirit, drawing upon
insights from history, law, literary, gender and visual studies. Taken
together the essays offer a wide-ranging exploration of the cultural, ide-
ological and intellectual processes through which the identity and culture
of the legal profession transnationally have been developed, debated and
articulated. This book aims to demonstrate some of the varied possibili-
ties of an approach to lawyers that is both historical and culturally
focussed—one which seeks to understand lawyers as both the object and
the product of complex and evolving assignations of meaning, and to
make an analysis of meaning an integral part of a broader effort to
understand social change over time. It covers a range of subjects, includ-
ing the professional formation of lawyers, lawyer’s relations with each
other and the state, their career structures and economic prospects, their
self-image and their popular reputation. In short, this book seeks to
advance a wider history of lawyers than has usually been the case through
the development of comparative and cultural approaches to the history
of the legal profession.
In the remainder of this Introduction we will, first, by a wave-of-the-
wand treatment, indicate the cultural significance of lawyers. We will
2 David Sugarman and W Wesley Pue
argue that while their importance has frequently been acknowledged, the
history and sociology of the professions has only belatedly begun to
investigate the culture of the profession and its larger cultural impor-
tance. We will then consider how and why the dominant tradition of his-
toriography and sociology tended to neglect the comparative and
cultural history of the legal profession. This will be followed by a brief
overview of the development in recent years of a wider, more inter-
disciplinary history of lawyers. Here, we emphasise the value of work
that investigates lawyers transnationally and comparatively; and the
potential significance of the so-called ‘cultural turn’ in the human
sciences for the writing of histories of the legal profession. We conclude
this Introduction with an overview of the book and some brief reflections
on areas, topics and approaches ripe for future exploration and develop-
ment.
II
Lawyers (together with doctors and priests) have long been the butt of
writers, artists and popular culture, quick to seize upon the disjunction
between their lofty claims and their debased reality:
How does an attorney sleep? First he lies on one side, then he lies on the other.
How many lawyers does it take to screw in a light bulb? Three. One to Climb the
ladder. One to shake it. And one to sue the ladder company.
What are lawyers good for? They make used car salesmen look honest.
So caricatured, the lawyer is a self-serving pettifogger, propagating liti-
gation and increasing the complexity and, therefore, the expense of the
law.
Darkness thus shrouded the imagery of the legal world. The Devil in person often
appeared in cartoons of lawyers. They shared with him a reputation for smooth
talking that cloaked sinister intentions . . . All these power-broking lawyers were
dangerous because they went everywhere and knew everyone’s secrets. And bar-
risters were doubly so because they were required to plead any case, for a fee,
regardless of right or wrong. Swift was one of many who denounced their ability
to argue ‘that White is Black, and Black is White, according as they are paid’.1
The ‘barrage of satire’2 that lawyers attracted often reflected the charges
already levelled in parliamentary reports and debates, newspapers and
magazines. Recently, the creation, transmission and re-cycling of these
caricatures has been given a new lease of life through the medium of
1 Penelope J Corfield, Power and the Professions in Britain 1700–1850 (Routledge,
London, 1995) 48–49.

2
Corfield, Power and the Professions in Britain 1700–1850 42.
Introduction: Towards a Cultural History of Lawyers 3
films, radio and TV, from court room dramas, the western, the film noir,
to the soap opera and the documentary.
Paradoxically, perhaps, the urge to demythologise the law and demo-
nise the legal profession has produced mixed messages—both mocking
the profession for failing to conform to its own high ideals, yet nonethe-
less praising the rule of law and acknowledging the importance of
lawyers in everyday life. Indeed, juxtaposed alongside the image of the
lawyer as pettifogger is that of the larger-than-life advocate of public-
interest matters—quick-witted, statesmanlike and fair-minded—much
celebrated in fiction, films and TV series, notably, ‘Perry Mason’, ‘LA
Law’, ‘Rumpole of the Bailey’ and ‘Kavanah QC’.
All this attention attests to the power and influence of lawyers. As
Robert Gordon put it:
[The] facilitation of private ordering, greasing the wheels of capitalism and
economic growth, is in itself an important social function. But even that function
necessarily involves fitting clients’ activities into a larger framework of legal reg-
ulation. Lawyers, as the field-level interpreters of the law, designers of private
contractual order, and pleaders before courts and tribunals, effectively help to
determine the practical content of the framework.3
The history of the profession illustrates how lawyers had immense
opportunities open to them to use their professional roles and standing
as springboards to business and political endeavours, generating great
personal wealth and influence. Additionally, they were ‘conceptive ideol-
ogists’, that is, the creators and transmitters of specialist discourses,
some of which are our most important political languages.4 Lawyers were
also institution-builders, constituting markets, states, civil society, com-
munity and colonial empires.5 Indeed, the construction and legitimation
of the liberal state and society, and the globalisation of liberal politics,
probably owes much to lawyers.
In sum, loath them or love them, what lawyers do, say and write is
important.
3 Robert W Gordon, ‘A Perspective from the United States’ in Carol Wilton (ed)
Beyond the Law: Lawyers and Business in Canada, 1830 to 1930 (Osgoode Society,
Toronto, 1990) 425–36, 429.
4 Maureen Cain, ‘The General Practice Lawyer and Client’, (1979) 7 International
Journal of the Sociology of Law 331–54.

5
Terence Halliday, ‘Lawyers as Institution-Builders: Constructing Markets, States,
Civil Society and Community’ in Austin Sarat, et al (eds), Crossing Boundaries:
Traditions and Transformations in Law and Society Research (Northwestern University
Press, Evanston, 1998).
III
The past 25 to 30 years have witnessed a sizeable aggregation of work on

the histories of lawyers. This metamorphosis has been both quantitative
and qualitative. The intellectual distance travelled by historians of law
and legal institutions during this period has been considerable, reflecting
major changes in mainstream historiography and the human sciences, as
well as legal education, legal practice and society (including the recon-
figuration and de-construction of law, professions and national identity).
Consequently, many of the traditional concerns and assumptions of
lawyers’ legal history and the study of the professions have been turned
on their heads.
The dominant tradition of historiography (including that pertaining
to law and lawyers), at least in the period from the mid-nineteenth cen-
tury to the mid-1970s, can be viewed as a species of nationalistic history,
celebrating the rise of the modern nation-state. David Cannadine’s
description of the dominant version of British history has strong echoes
with other national histories of the period—in Germany, France, the
United States etc:
To begin with, it cannot be too much stressed that they were all conceived, writ-
ten and marketed as histories of England . . . These years may have witnessed the
zenith of the British nation-state, of the United Kingdom, and the British Empire,
but the nation whose history they recounted and whose identity they helped to
proclaim was England. Moreover, these books were almost without exception in
praise of England. They celebrated parliamentary government, the Common
Law, the Church of England, ordered progress towards democracy and the avoid-
ance of revolution. English exceptionalism was good and it was the historians
task to explain it and applaud it. And they generally supposed that this history
was a success story: as the authors of 1066 and All That argued, when England
ceased to be top nation, history came to a full stop.6
However, the dominant version of British history was merely a particular
national variant of an ideology that has had universal appeal. Is there any
nation that does not consider itself as unique? Around the world,
historians and other human scientists helped to create and sustain the
German, French, American, British, Canadian, Australian, Japanese
etc exceptionalism tradition.7 As a result, they correspondingly de-
6 David Cannadine, ‘British History as a “New Subject”: Politics, Perspectives and
Prospects’ in Alexander Grant and Keith J Stringer (eds) Uniting the Kingdom? The
Making of British History (Routledge, London, 1995) 12–30, 16.
7 The most obvious Canadian reference here would be Carl Berger, The Writing of
Canadian History (Oxford University Press, Toronto, 1976). See, generally, B Anderson,
Imagined Communities (Verso, London, 1983); D Blackbourn and G Eley, The
Peculiarities of German History (Oxford University Press, Oxford, 1984); Geoff Eley and
emphasised the transnational and multi-cultural elements of their legal,

cultural, economic and political heritage.
This version of history writing is associated with the so-called Whig
interpretation of history that consists of writing history backwards,
thereby reconstituting the past as a teleology leading up to and fully man-
ifested in the present.8 Consequently, the complexity of life in previous
times is both unified and simplified. Ironically, this linear interpretation
of the past owes much to the linguistic and professional practices of the
early modern common lawyers.9
It was further sustained by certain assumptions about the relationship
between historical change and society best known as evolutionary func-
tionalism. In the context of law and lawyers:
. . . these notions [about historical change and the relation of law to such change]
are that the natural and proper evolution of a society (or at least a ‘progressive’
society, to use Maine’s qualification) is towards the type of liberal capitalism seen
in advanced Western nations (especially the United States), and the natural and
proper function of a legal system is to facilitate such an evolution.10
A further feature of the dominant tradition of historiography in the
period circa 1850–1975 is its tendency to be self-consciously disciplinary;
that is, informed by and constructed upon a self-referential foundation of
technical expertise associated with a particular discipline or specialism.
Under this optic, the human sciences were relatively self-contained and
uncritical, rather than interdisciplinary, eclectic or irreverent in
approach.11
Ronald Grigor Suny (eds), Becoming National: A Reader (Oxford University Press, New
York, 1996); Geoffrey Cubitt (ed), Imagining Nations (Manchester University Press,
Manchester, 1998).
8 Herbert Butterfield, The Whig Interpretation of History; PBM Blaas, Continuity
and Anachronism: Parliamentary and Constitutional Development in Whig

Historiography and in the Anti-Whig Reaction between 1890 and 1930 (Martinus
Nijhoff, The Hague, 1978); Stefan Collini, Donald Winch, and John Burrow, That Nobel
Science of Politics: A Study in Nineteenth-Century Intellectual History (Cambridge
University Press, Cambridge, 1983); JW Burrow, Whigs and Liberals: Continuity and
Change in English Political Thought (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1988).
9 See JGA Pocock, The Ancient Constitution and the Feudal Law. Reissue with
Retrospect (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1987).

10 Robert W Gordon, ‘Critical Legal Histories’ (1984) 36 Stanford Law Review
57–126, 59. See, generally, D Sugarman, and GR Rubin, ‘Towards a New History of Law
and Material Society in England, 1750–1914’ in GR Rubin and David Sugarman (eds),
Law, Economy and Society: Essays in the History of English Law, 1759–1914
(Professional Books, Abingdon, 1984) 1–123.
11
With respect to the discipline of law, see Robert Stevens, Law School; David
Sugarman, ‘Legal Theory, the Common Law Mind and the Making of the Textbook
Tradition’ in William Twining (ed), Legal Theory and Common Law (Basil Blackwell,
Oxford, 1986) 26–61; William Twining, Blackstone’s Tower: The English Law School
(Sweet & Maxwell, London, 1994); John Henry Schlegel, American Legal Realism and
Though analytically mutually distinct, these four lenses—nationalist

history writing, the Whig interpretation of history, evolutionary
functionalism and narrowly disciplinary—were in practice mutually sup-
portive. Frequently they were juxtaposed together, producing the domi-
nant vision of law and lawyers in past times. Consequently, the history of
the law tended to treat the law and legal institutions as a more-or-less
self-contained world or as a relatively dependent variable. The principal
focus was on the evolution of legal doctrine, the formal institutional
structure of the law, the ways that lawyers were organised or qualified and
the biographies of eminent lawyers.12
Within the historiography and sociology of the profession, the domi-
nant tradition cast its spell through the peculiarly modern concept of
‘professionalisation’.13 This talisman measured professionalism by insti-
tutional characteristics and a propensity to claim monopoly control of
specialised fields of knowledge. Within this body of work the autonomy
of the profession was either treated as axiomatic, or alternatively, lawyers
were reduced to mere instrumentalities of classes, interests or particular
types of society. What lawyers did, how they earned their bread and
butter, their practices and ideas, how they dealt with clients (from the
vantagepoint of both lawyers and their clients), the reputation of lawyers,
and the extent to which there was access to legal advice and assistance (as
well as alternatives to lawyers and litigation)—all these tended to receive
short shrift.14 In consequence, the larger role and practices of lawyers
economically, politically, linguistically and culturally remained largely
unaddressed or were treated as unproblematic. Analyses were largely the
histories of single nations. In retrospect, they were written from a ‘one
nation’ (or Anglocentric or Anglo-American) perspective. According to
Empirical Social Science (University of North Carolina Press, Chapel Hill, 1995); Avrom
Sherr and Alan Paterson, ‘Editorial: Legal Education at the Crossroads of Europe’ (1995)
2 International Journal of the Legal Profession 5–6; Bob Hepple, ‘The Renewal of the
Liberal Law Degree’ (1996) Cambridge Law Journal 470; HW Arthurs, ‘The Political
Economy of Canadaian Legal Education’ (1998) 25 Journal of Law and Society 14–32;
Avrom Scherr and David Sugarman, ‘Introduction: Legal Education and Legal Theory’,
(2000) 7 International Journal of the Legal Profession, 7 (2000).
12 See, further, Wilfrid Prest, ‘Introduction’, in W Prest (ed), Lawyers in Early Modern
Europe and America (Croom Helm, London, 1981) 11–15.

13
See, generally, Keith M Macdonald, The Sociology of the Professions (Sage,
London, 1995).
14 For an important critique of ‘professionalisation’, see Wilfrid R Prest, ‘Why the
History of the Professions is Not Written’ in GR Rubin and D Sugarman (eds), Law,
Economy and Society: Essays in the History of English Law, 1750–1914 (Professional
Books/Butterworths, Abingdon, 1984). See, also Michael Burrage and Rolf Torstendahl
(eds), Professions in Theory and History: Rethinking the Study of the Professions (Sage,
London, 1990); W Wesley Pue, ‘In Pursuit of Better Myth: Lawyers’ Histories and
Histories of Lawyers’ (1995) 33 Alberta Law Review 730–67; and Christopher W Brooks,
Lawyers, Litigation and English Society since 1450 (Hambledon Press, London, 1998).
this view, nations were separate from one another and some were
naturally superior to others. Almost without exception, they were devoid
of an awareness of the significance of gender, race, ethnicity and
colonialism.
Since the 1970s, these attitudes, assumptions and arguments have
increasingly seemed unacceptable and outmoded. Historical work on law
and the legal professions, like so much else in the human sciences, has
increasingly challenged the traditionalist paradigm. Scholars in a wide
range of disciplines have returned to history and historical analyses in
order to understand lawyers and allied professions in society.
Increasingly, this work has become:
. . . consciously interdisciplinary and informed by anthropology, sociology,
literary and political studies, as well as the whole sweep of general history, not
least the social history of EP Thompson and his followers, rather than con-
structed upon a self-referential foundation of technical legal expertise; hence law
and its institutions usually appear as figures within a broad economic, political
and social landscape, not as comprising a more or less self-contained theme or
portrait.15
The new histories of the profession have significantly advanced our
understanding of the profession both backward and forward in time. We
now know much more about the history of the legal profession in its ear-
liest phases in Australia, Canada, Continental Europe, England and the
United States, as well as in the seventeenth, eighteenth and nineteenth
centuries.16
15 Wilfrid Prest, ‘Notes Towards a Paper Not Given at the Plenary Session on
“Cultural Histories of Legal Professions: Perspectives and Future Directions”, Peyresq,
France, 16–18 July 2000’ (14 July 2000) 2.
16
For example, on Australia see Bruce Kercher, An Unruly Child. A History of Law
in Australia (Allen & Unwin, St Leonards, NSW, 1995) and the contributions of Kercher
and McQueen in Robert McQueen, and W Wesley Pue (eds), Misplaced Traditions: The
Legal Profession and the British Empire. Symposium Issue, 16 (1) Law in Context, 1999.
With respect to the considerable literature on Canada, see W Wesley Pue, ‘British
Maculinities, Canadian Lawyers: Canadian Legal Education, 1900–1930.’ In Misplaced
Traditions: The Legal Profession and the British Empire. Symposium Issue, 16 (1) 1999
Law in Context, edited by Robert McQueen and W Wesley Pue, 80–122, and the sources
cited therein.
On Continental Europe, see Dietrich Rueschemeyer, Lawyers and Their Society: A
Comparative Study in the Legal Profession in Germany and the United States (Harvard
University Press, Cambridge, 1973); William J Bouwsma, ‘Lawyers and Early Modern
Culture’ (1973) 73 American History Review 303–27; W Prest (ed), Lawyers in Early
Modern Europe and America (Croom Helm, London, 1981); Ezra N Suleiman, Private
Power and Centralization in France: The Notaires and the State (Princeton University
Press, Princeton, 1987); David Bell, Lawyers and Citizens: The Making of a Political Elite
in Old Regime France (OUP, Oxford, 19i94); Jean-Louis Halperin (ed), Advocats Et
Notaires En Europe: Les Professions Judiciaires Et Juridiques Dans L’histoire
Contemporaine, Droit et Societe vol 19 (Librairie generale de droit et de jurisprudence
As we have learned more about the professions in the three centuries

before the industrial revolution, so the special affiliation between profes-
sionalisation and nineteenth century capitalist society has looked
increasingly problematic.
For instance, in terms of numbers of lawyers, and professional organ-
isation and education, the English legal profession of the 1880’s looks
strikingly similar to that of the 1680s, although a major decline in num-
bers, professional organisation and education had occurred during the
intervening period. This intervening period has been characterised as one
of ‘de-professionalisation’, a significant and hitherto neglected context
to the reforms of the nineteenth century.17
This new work on the professions in the early modern period has
implicitly and explicitly challenged the efficacy of linear notions of
professionalisation as a focal point for research. It is part of a wider
(LGDJ), Paris, 1996); Kenneth Ledford, From General Estate to Special Interest: German
Lawyers, 1878–1933 (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1996); Terence C
Halliday and Lucien Karpik (eds), Lawyers and the Rise of Western Political Liberalism
(Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1997); Hannes Siegrist, Advokat, Burger Und Staat:
Sozialgeschichte Der Rechtsanwalte in Deutschland, Italien Und Der Schweiz (18.-20.
Jh.) 2 vols (Vittorio Klostermann, Frankfurt am Main, 1996).
On England, see David Sugarman, ‘Simple Images and Complex Realities: English
Lawyers and Their Relationship to Business and Politics’ (1993) 11(2) Law and History
Review 257–301; ‘Who Colonized Whom?: Historical Reflections on the Intersection
between Law, Lawyers and Accountants in England’ in Yves Dezaley and David
Sugarman (eds), Professional Competition and Professional Power: Lawyers,
Accountants and the Social Construction of Markets (Routledge, London, 1995) 226–37;
‘Bourgeois Collectivism, Professional Power and the Boundaries of the State: The Private
and Public Life of the Law Society, 1825–1914’ (1996) 3 International Journal of the Legal
Profession 81–135 and the references cited therein.
On the United States, see, for example, James Willard Hurst, The Growth of
American Law (Little, Brown and Co, Boston, 1950); Jerold S Auerbach, Unequal
Justice. Lawyers and Social Change in Modern America (OUP, New York, 1974; RW
Gordon, ‘Legal Thought and Legal Practice in the Age of the American Enterprise,
1870–1920’ in G Geison (ed), Professions and Professional Ideologies in America (Chapel
Hill, 1983); Alfred S Konefsky and Andrew J King (eds), The Papers of Daniel Webster:
Legal Papers, 3 vols (University Press of New England, Hanover, New Hampshire,
1982–4); Robert A Ferguson, Law and Letters in American Culture (Harvard University
Press, Cambridge, 1986); Terence C Halliday, Beyond Monopoly: Lawyers, State Crises
and Professional Empowerment (University of Chicago Press, Chicago, 1987); Michael J
Powell, From Patrician to Professional Elite: The Transformation of the New York City
Bar Association (Russell Sage, New York, 1988); Ronen Shamir, Managing Legal
Uncertainty: Elite Lawyers in the New Deal (Duke University Press, Durham, NC, 1995).
17
See, Christopher W Brooks, The Admissions Registers of Barnard’s Inn 1620–1869,
Selden Society Supp. Series-12 (Selden Society, London, 1995) and Christopher W
Brooks, Lawyers, Litigation and English Society since 1450 (Hambledon Press, London,
1998); David Sugarman, ‘Bourgeois Collectivism, Professional Power and the Boundaries
of the State: The Private and Public Life of the Law Society, 1825–1914’ (1996) 3
International Journal of the Legal Profession 81–135; Lemmings, Professors of the Law
(Oxford University Press, Oxford, New York, 2000).
movement within history and social theory that transcends two-class,

patrician-plebeian models of society, and takes seriously the ideologies,
institutions and practices of the middle classes—such as notions of
‘gentlemanness’, respectability and ‘bourgeois association’. This work
has fundamentally questioned some of the ways we have traditionally
characterised early modern and modern society.18
Rather than treating the history of lawyers in a singular and unitary
fashion, latter-day histories increasingly recognise the plurality of
lawyers—in terms of sub-groups, culture, social composition (gentry,
middling sort etc), the routes to practice (on-the-job training, appren-
ticeship, university education, book learning, quackery) and geographi-
cally (urban and rural)—the fragmented and de-centred character of
much of the legal community and the ways in each of the histories of the
several sub-groups that constituted the legal profession is characterised
by its own intricate history. In part this is to problematise the category of
‘lawyer’. Were ‘lawyers’ those people who were professionally qualified,
those who were professionally qualified and who practised on a regular
basis, or those who practised law even though they were not formally
qualified as lawyers? To some extent, ‘lawyer’ was understood to mean
different things by different people at different times. The category of
‘1awyer’ might embrace a wide range of sub-groupings and individuals.
Yet, the demarcation line between these sub-groupings was often not
clear-cut but was contested, and changed over time. There is a further
problem: in the common law world at least, there are large numbers of
lawyers who were not members of any professional association. Several
histories of the legal profession fall into the elementary error of confus-
ing ‘lawyers’ with members of law societies or bar associations. Even in
the case of the English Bar—something of an ideal-type legal profes-
sion—membership of the Inns of Court was often nominal only.
Moreover, the study of lawyers from a cross-cultural perspective imme-
diately poses the question of exactly what to compare. There are signifi-
cant differences in the definition and work of lawyers in various
countries. These divergences are particularly great if we compare, say, the
18
An important by-product of some of this work has been the analysis of changing
patterns of litigation over time, and its influence on the organisation and development of
the legal profession, the courts and dispute resolution. See, for example, Richard L
Kagan, Lawyers and Litigants in Castille, 1500–1700 (University of North Carolina
Press, Chapel Hill, 1980); Lawrence M Friedman, ‘Opening the Time Capsule: A
Progress Report on Studies of Courts over Time’ (1990) 24(2) Law & Society Review
229–40; CW Brooks, ‘Interpersonal Conflict and Social Tension: Civil Litigation in
England, 1640–1830’ in AL Beier, D Cannadine and J Rosenheim (eds) (Cambridge
University Press, Cambridge, 1989) 357–99 and Brooks, Lawyers, Litigation and English
Society since 1450. For a contemporary and comparative survey see BS Markesinis,
‘Litigation Mania in England, Germany and the USA: Are We So Very Different?’ (1990)
Cambridge Law Journal 223.
common law world with other legal families or traditions, such as that of
the civil law or Islamic world. It is common, for example, to translate the
French ‘avocat’ as ‘barrister’ though the professional roles and concepts
are not interchangeable. Similarly, even within English-derived legal sys-
tems, such as those of Manitoba, Victoria and England itself, ‘barrister’
can mean quite different things. It is hardly surprising, therefore, that
serious and sustained cross-cultural research on lawyers has been some-
thing of a rarity.
Nonetheless, since the 1980s, the literature striving towards a compar-
ative perspective on lawyers has grown significantly and affords some
essential, albeit tentative, first steps towards a more thoroughgoing cross-
cultural perspective on lawyers in society.19 This work is beginning to
produce a clearer and more precise specification of the contrasts and sim-
ilarities as between the character and development of common law and
civilian lawyers. Historians, legal historian and sociologists in several
countries have also begun to investigate the role of lawyers in politics and
state-building.20 Studies of key lawyers’ associations have sought to give
greater attention to the linkages between lawyers and politics (as broadly
conceived). This work has highlighted the complex and contingent ways
in which elite lawyers were both a cause and effect of the limited liberal
state.21 In particular, the relationship between lawyers and liberal democ-
racy has begun to receive significant, transnational attention.22
19 Prest (ed), Lawyers in Early Modern Europe and America; Richard L Abel and
Philip CC Lewis (eds), Lawyers in Society. The Civil Law World (University of
California Press, Berkeley, 1988); Richard L Abel and Philip SC Lews (eds), Lawyers in
Society. Comparative Theories. 3 vols vol 1 (University of California Press, Berkeley,
1989); Michael Burrage and Rolf Torstendahl (eds), Professions in Theory and History:
Rethinking the Study of the Professions (Sage, London, 1990).
20 For an early, pioneering study, see Lauro Martines, Lawyers and Statecraft in
Renaissance Florence (Princeton University Press, Princeton, 1968).

21
See, Terence C Halliday, Beyond Monopoly: Lawyers, State Crises and
Professional Empowerment (University of Chicago Press, Chicago, 1987); Michael J
Powell, From Patrician to Professional Elite: The Transformation of the New York City
Bar Association (Russell Sage, New York, 1988); Christopher Brooks, ‘Professions,
Ideology and the Middling Sort in the Late Sixteenth and Early Seventeenth Centuries’ in
Jonathan Barry and Christopher Brooks (eds), The Middling Sort of People: Culture,
Society and Politics in England 1550–1800 (Macmillan, Basingstoke, Hants, 1994)
113–40; Sugarman, ‘Bourgeois Collectivism, Professional Power and the Boundaries of
the State: The Private and Public Life of the Law Society, 1825–1914’; Brooks, The
Admissions Registers of Barnard’s Inn 1620–1869; Brooks, Lawyers, Litigation and
English Society since 1450. See, also, Rob McQueen’s contribution to this collection.
22
Ronen Shamir, Managing Legal Uncertainty: Elite Lawyers in the New Deal (Duke
University Press, Durham, NC, 1995) cf Terence C Halliday, ‘Politics and Civic
Responsibility: Legal Elites and Cause Lawyers’ (1999) 24(4) Law and Social Inquiry
1013–60; Terence C Halliday, and Lucien Karpik (eds), Lawyers and the Rise of Western
Political Liberalism (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1997) cf Stuart A Scheingold, ‘Taking
Weber Seriously: Lawyers, Politics and the Liberal State’ (1999) 24(4) Law and Social
Increasingly, this literature has sought to be less parochial and Anglo-

American in orientation. Thus, sensitivity to the confines of history and
sociology of the professions anchored in the common law world was
clearly recognised in the pioneering work of Rueschemeyer23 and the
volumes on lawyers and society edited by Abel and Lewis.24 More
recently, it is possible to talk of an increasingly thoroughgoing compara-
tive turn which both problematises Anglo-American, taken-for-granted
assumptions about the nature, scope, chronology of legal professions
and professionalisation—as well as the use and non-use of the law and
lawyers.
IV
In addition to its cross-national concerns, the principal focus of this book

is the cultural history of lawyers (as broadly conceived). In this section we
aim to explain what we mean by culture and cultural history, the kinds of
questions and methods that it suggests, and some of the difficulties that
it can give rise to.
Attempts to write a wider history than that of legal doctrine or of high
politics have a long and distinguished pedigree. In particular, the jurist-
historians of the Enlightenment created a body of work that built upon
and extended the jurisprudence of legal humanists such as Bodin, and the
natural law’s comparative, ‘laws of nations’ orientation. It stressed
that law was the product of time and historical development, and that it
should be studied comparatively, and therefore, sociologically. The
leading lights of this movement included Scotland’s Kames, Smith,
Robertson and Millar; England’s Gibbon; the German historical school
of Hugo and Savigny; and its most influential practitioner, Frances’s
Inquiry 1061–82; Karpik, Lucien, French Lawyers. A Study of Collective Action,

1274–1994 (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1999) cf Michael Burrage, ‘Escaping the Dead
Hand of Rational Choice: Karpik’s Historical Sociology of French Advocates’ (1999)
24(4) Law and Social Inquiry 1083–124; Gerard Hanlon, Lawyers, the State and the
Market: Professionalism Revisisted (Macmillan, London, 1999). See, also, Terence C
Halliday, ‘The Politics of Lawyers: An Emerging Agenda; (1999) 24(4) Law and Social
Inquiry 1007–12.
23 Dietrich Rueschemeyer, Lawyers and Their Society: A Comparative Study of the
Legal Profession in Germany and the United States (Harvard University Press,
Cambridge, 1973).
24 Abel, Richard L, and Philip SC Lewis (eds), Lawyers in Society. The Civil Law World
(University of California Press, Berkeley, 1988); Richard L Abel and Philip SC Lewis (eds),
Lawyers in Society. The Common Law World. 3 vols vol 1 (University of California Press,
Berkeley, 1989); Abel, Richard L, and Philip SC Lewis (eds), Lawyers in Society.
Comparative Theories. 3 vols vol 1 (University of California Press, Berkeley, 1989).
Montesquieu. In this way the study of law became a principal way of

studying society.25
Montesquieu’s influence is difficult to overestimate. He stressed the
contingency of the law, the diverse causes that fashion distinctive nation
states, the need for culturally specific approaches to the study of law, and
the material and cultural forces that delimit all lawmakers. It was his
followers who developed these insights into histories that were sensitive
to the manners and customs of particular societies and the ‘spirit of the
age’. It was in this context that some eighteenth century historians
acquired an interest in comparative and even ‘world’ history.
In 1860 the Swiss scholar Jacob Burckhardt published a study of The Civilization
of the Renaissance in Italy, concentrating on cultural history and describing
trends rather than narrating events. The sociologists of the nineteenth century . . .
were extremely interested in history but rather contemptuous of professional his-
torians. They were interested in structures, not events, and the new history owes
a debt to them. . .
Thus, the cultural histories contained in this volume have ‘. . . a reason-
ably long ancestry . . .’ (even if the great-great-grandparents might not
recognise their descendants). What is new is not its existence so much as
the fact that its practitioners are now . . . ‘becoming numerous. . .’.26
The development and enlargement of cultural history is closely related
to the formulation of new (and not so new) questions and approaches
within the human sciences during the last 20 or 30 years that are some-
times referred to as the ‘cultural turn.’ Since at least the 1970s, the
concept of ‘culture’ has become central to modern understandings both
of political community and of personal identity. For some time now, a
central issue in the human sciences has been the social construction of
reality: that is, the idea that the most basic ways in which people conceive
of the world, the most elementary categories that people use to organise
their everyday life and understand reality—the public and private, the
market, the family, the individual—are culturally and historically con-
tingent; that is, they are manufactured by people through language, at a
particular place and time. Thus, increasing attention is being paid to how
a specific social reality is constructed, how people conceive of that
socially constructed reality and how they interpret it to others. Whilst the
cultural turn is concerned with behaviour and social structure, it lavishes
most attention on the creation and diffusion of meaning, symbols and
language. From this perspective, then, social life is conceived as the con-
25
See, David Sugarman, ‘Law’ in John W Yolton, Roy Porter, Pat Rogers and Barbara
Maria Stafford, The Blackwell Companion to the Enlightenment (Blackwell, Oxford,
1991) 275–77.
26
Peter Burke, ‘Overture: The New History, Its Past and Its Future’ in Peter Burke
(ed), New Perspectives on Historical Writing (Polity Press, Cambridge, 1991) 1–23, 8.
struction, interpretation and negotiation of systems of meaning. Under

this optic, ‘culture’ widened its meaning: it refers to the history of rules
and assumptions underlying everyday life.27
A cultural approach to law, for example, might regard law as a potent
and institutional story: one of the privileged ways through which society
defines and presents the world to itself. Being normative in nature, law is
a way of social imagining and may come to comprise the greater lived
reality of social experience. As a partially intelligible description for
action, laws predispose their writers, actors and audience to certain
interpretative choices and social stances.
How, then, might one characterise the cultural history of lawyers? One
of its principal concerns is to describe and analyse the production, trans-
mission and reception of the ideas and practices of lawyers in society over
time: of how differing fractions within and beyond the legal community
consume the practices and ideas of lawyers and their larger significance.
The creation, transmission, diffusion and mediation of these discourses
within and beyond the legal community is an important part of the
history of the profession and of political thought.
A cultural approach to lawyers in history would also critically describe
and assess the role of lawyers as potentially important actors in the com-
plex process by which notions of national distinctiveness and personal
identity were imaginatively constructed. Its concern with culture and
symbols—the concerns of reputation, social standing and cultural
capital—also help to explain why and when lawyers refused to undertake
new fields of work or otherwise acted in ways that at first blush do not
appear to accord with their material self-interest.
By deploying a cultural approach to the history of lawyers we are sug-
gesting that legal professions:
27
See, generally, Clifford Geertz, The Interpretation of Cultures (Basic Books, New
York, 1973); Pierre Bourdieu, Outline of a Theory of Practice (Cambridge University
Press, Cambridge, 1977); Stuart Hall, ‘Cultural Studies: Two Paradigms’ in Stuart Hall
(ed), Media, Culture and Society, 1980; Raymond Williams, Culture and Society
(Columbia Press, New York, 1983); Marshall Sahlins, Culture and Practical Reason
(University of Chicago Press, Chicago, 1985); James Clifford and George E Marcus (eds),
Writing Culture: The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography (University of California Press,
Berkeley, 1986); Robert Wuthnow, Meaning and Moral Order: Explorations in Cultural
Analysis (University of California Press, Berkeley, 1987). Roger Chartier, Cultural
History (Polity Press, Cambridge, 1988); Lynn Hunt (ed), The New Cultural History
(University of California Press, Berkeley, 1989); Lawrence Grossberg, Cary Nelson, and
Paula Treichler, Cultural Studies (Routledge, New York, 1992); TL Haskell, and RF
Teichgraeber III (eds), The Culture of the Market (Cambridge University Press,
Cambridge, 1993); Joyce Appleby, Lynn Hunt, and Margaret Jacob, Telling the Truth
About History (Norton & Company, New York, 1994); NB Dirks, G Eley, and SB
Ortner, ‘Introduction’, in Dirks NB, G Eley and SB Ortner (eds), Culture/Power/History
(Princeton University Press, Princeton, 1994); Bill Schwartz (ed), The Expansion of
England: Race, Ethnicity and Cultural History (Routledge, London, 1996).
. . . were more than the sum of . . . [their] parts, and individual . . . [lawyers] can-
not be understood as simple ‘economic men’, who slavishly followed material
gain. Like anyone else, . . . [lawyers] were self-interested and independent in
varying degrees, . . . [and throughout a good deal of their history there was little
guidance or restraint available with respect to the furtherance of the economic
self-interest]. Nevertheless, they were all heirs to a complex of customs, working
habits, role models, and ideologies . . . [that might derive] from a rich collective
history which stretched back several centuries. Such a legacy certainly distin-
guished them from other individuals and helped to inform and constrain their
behaviour; it has survived, in an adapted but still recognizable form, among con-
temporary . . . [lawyers] and their counterparts in former [or current] . . .
colonies. So the ‘culture’ of . . . [lawyers] is an important subject in its own right;
besides being worth investigation for its relation to . . . [popular culture, religion,
political economy and other important cultures, ideas and ideologies].
No culture (in this social and intellectual sense) is autonomous. . . .
[Consequently, cultural histories of lawyers attempt to place lawyers and] the
legal ‘system’ which provided their primary raison d’être, in the context of the
complex (and contested) history of . . . [a particular society] and its government.
This means considering their work, their clients, and the various law courts in
relation to . . . [the economy and economic change, power and the culture of
power, social inequality, authority and the control of definitions of reality, nation
and empire building and colonialism and the intellectual trends of their day. It]
also requires some attention to the important issues of their social consciousness,
aspirations and allegiances . . . Put so briefly and exclusively, these issues belie
their infinite scope and complexity; but while they are hardly susceptible to sim-
ple answers, they may serve as convenient yardsticks against which to measure
the . . . [lawyers] working relations with clients, patrons, . . . [politicians, state
servants] and other lawyers, and to assess their collective impact as the human
embodiment of the law.28
The cultural history of lawyers also seeks to address the gendered char-
acter of the profession, for example, investigating the role of gentleman-
lyness, respectability and masculinity29 within the culture of the legal
profession—the homosocial character of the legal profession—which,
for example, parallels and connects to larger features of middle class
Victorian culture in England and its colonies.
Additionally, it is concerned with the role of lawyers and the law in the
articulation and policing of democratisation, race, ethnicity, national
identity, colonialism and empire building. Once we study societies
28 David Lemmings, Professors of the Law. Barristers and English Legal Culture in the
Eighteenth Century (Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2000) 7–8.
29 Cf Michael Grossberg, ‘Institutionalizing Masculinity: The Law as a Masculine
Profession’ in Marc C Carnes and Clyde Griffen (eds), Meanings of Manhood:

Constructions of Masculinity in Victorian America (University of Chicago Press,
Chicago, 1990); Schoemaker, Robert B, Gender in English Society, 1650–1850: The
Emergence of Separate Spheres? (Longman, London, 1998); R Collier, Masculinity and
the Law (Routledge, London, New York, 1995).
in which divisions of class, race, and ethnicity are fundamentally constitutive, it

has become clear that if we speak of culture as shared, we must now always ask
‘By whom?’ and ‘In what ways?’ and ‘Under what conditions?’30
Elsewhere it has been observed that in Britain, France, Germany and the
United States, in the period from the late eighteenth century, ‘. . . the law
had acquired additional or indeed an entirely new legitimacy by being
linked with the process of nation-building and democratization.’31 The
role of lawyers in the ‘nationalisation’ of the law, and legal institutions—
through codes, constitutions and the resistance of the English common
law to ‘rationalisation’—and how this ‘nationalisation’ impacted on the
profession, requires sustained attention. How did lawyers constitute,
impose, legitimate and resist imperialism? What was the role of lawyers
and religion in the ‘civilising mission’ in India, Africa, Ireland, Australia
and Canada? And in what ways were imperial power and the imperial
professions themselves (re)constituted by this process. This work is not
antiquarian but topical in the light of contemporary struggles to impose
particular regimes and styles of lawyering within a more globalised
world.32
And just as lawyers are best understood as a plurality so too with the
idea of culture, including legal culture. This is to acknowledge culture as
multiple discourses, ‘. . . occasionally coming together in large systematic
configuration, but more often coexisting within dynamic fields of inter-
action and conflict’.33
The essays in this book engage with some of these and other issues in
order to extend, enrich and supplement more conventional histories of
lawyers. Yet it should also be acknowledged that cultural history is an
imprecise and contested concept. It conveys a core meaning in many
historical and cultural contexts, while being sufficiently inclusive to
accommodate a range of forms. It is necessarily a heterogeneous enter-
prise, accommodating a greater diversity of questions, concerns and
30 Dirks, Eley, and Ortner, ‘Introduction’, 3.
31 Willibald Steinmetz (ed), Private Law and Social Inequality in the Industrial Age:
Comparing Legal Cultures in Britain, France, Germany, and the United States (OUP,
Oxford, 2000) 36.
32 DM Trubek, Y Dezalay, R Buchanan, and John R Davis, ‘Global Restructuring and
the Law; Studies of the Internationalization of Legal Fields and the Creation of
Transnational Arenas’ (1994) 44 Case Western Reserve Law Review 407–98; Yves
Dezakay and David Sugarman (eds), Professional Competition and Professional Power:
Lawyers, Accountants and the Social Construction of Markets (Routledge, London,
1995); Yves Dezalay and Bryant G Garth, Dealing in Virtue: International Commercial
Arbitration and the Construction of a Transnational Legal Order (University of Chicago
Press, Chicago, 1996); Avrom Sherr and David Sugarman (eds), Globalisation and Legal
Education, Special Issue of the International Journal of the Legal Profession, 2002, in
press.
33 Dirks, Eley, and Ortner, ‘Introduction’, 3–4.
approaches than has conventionally been the case in historical and legal
scholarship. Consequently, identifying the boundary that separates it
from other forms of history writing can prove difficult. The boundary
separating cultural from other types of history writing is inevitably fluid
and permeable. Consequently, cultural history tends to shade into social,
economic, political, intellectual, business, legal etc history—especially
when it is working on accepted understandings of professional culture,
and established practices, ideas and ideologies. Definitional problems
also occur because ‘new histories’ like cultural history, ‘are pushing into
unfamiliar territory.’34
Moreover, it is important to remember the artificial, contingent and
socially constructed character of conceptual categories like ‘cultural’,
‘legal’, ‘social’, ‘economic’, ‘political’, ‘intellectual’ etc. While such
categories serve useful and necessary analytical purposes, they do not
represent real divisions in everyday life but are invariably connected to
and imbricated within each other, albeit, in a complex and contradictory
fashion.
Clearly, therefore, it would be premature (and foolhardy) to attempt
a single, wholly contained and universally applicable definition of the
cultural history of the legal profession. Aware that the indiscriminate
application of the term ‘culture’ threatens to deprive that word of any
specific meaning, and that ‘cultural history’ is a contested concept, we
have nonetheless sought to indicate our understanding of its meaning,
parameters and utility.
Part I of the book addresses the formation of lawyers by way of two con-
trasting papers. David Lemmings’ essay ‘Ritual, Majesty and Mystery:
Collective Life and Culture among English Barristers, Serjeants and
Judges, c.1500–c.1830’ describes and dissects the decline of the tradi-
tional rituals of a legal elite—their dress, their customs, their dinning
requirements etc. In tracing this decline, Lemmings illuminates decisive
developments in the structure and culture of the legal profession and its
connections with the state and English people. In essence, Lemmings
argues that the changes in the ceremonial life of the profession are
illustrative of the way in which the collective life of the profession of the
common law was being privatised by the middle classes. This legal elite
became more inward looking and pervaded by competitive individual-
ism—in the sense of the restriction and maximisation of returns from
activities confined to an affluent minority of population.
34
Burke, ‘Overture: The New History, Its Past and Its Future’, 9.
In ‘ “A Dry and Revolting Study”: the Life and Labors of Antebellum

Law Students’ Ann Fidler provides a fascinating account of the life and
images of antebellum law students in the United States. Fidler’s essay uses
textual analysis to analyse the cultural constructs that shaped the law
student’s experience: the rules, myths, expectations and illusions gener-
ated from within and without the legal profession. In doing so, she pro-
vides insights into one of the many ways that the law transformed the
lives of individual Americans:
William McClintick, a Chillicothe, Ohio law student wrote to a friend in 1838:
‘You ask me how I like the Law, and all about it. To answer this, would be a task,
which at present I cannot think of undertaking. All about the Law! Why, man,
you are mad. I might as well attempt a description of the great Labyrinth of
Egypt. As to my liking it, this is something more tangible. I am much better
pleased that I expected to be and feel perfectly willing to continue a searcher into
Legal mysteries the rest of my days. The Law, sir, is glorious. Try it yourself’.
Part II of the collection examines the relationship between lawyers and

the liberal state in Continental Europe. Esa Konttinen essays a backward
glance at Finland’s route to legal professionalisation and the success of
lawyer-officials, politically, economically and culturally. Finnish profes-
sionalisation has, throughout its history, been closely connected with a
strong state and a central bureaucracy. This fact has greatly influenced
the forms and content of professionalisation and the development of the
legal profession. Thus, Konttinen argues that professionalisation in
Finland is an example of the Continental development of the profession.
He describes the cultural, educational and allied ways in which the gen-
try dominated the profession in the early and mid nineteenth century—
in contrast to say England and the United States. Although legal culture
changed during the second half of the nineteenth century, he points up
the continuing significance of gentry culture within the legal profession
and the ways in which the niche of lawyer-official offered a great number
of the nobility a smooth transition to modern liberal-bourgeois society.
Hannes Siegrist provides a remarkable overview of Continental
European developments in his ‘Juridicalization, Professionalization and
the Occupational Culture of the Advocate in the 19th and the early 20th
centuries: A Comparison of Germany, Italy and Switzerland’. He
addresses five issues. He first deals with how the legal profession was
transformed during the century by comparing the situations of advocates
in Germany, Italy, and Switzerland respectively. Secondly, he explicates
the ratio of lawyers to the general population and its larger significance.
Thirdly, he examines the relationship between supply and demand in the
market for legal services, as well as the question of accessibility to law
and legal advice. Fourth, he investigates the emergence of various sub-
groupings within the profession. Fifth, he describes some aspects of the
symbolic staging of law and the legal profession: what he terms ‘the myth
of the law practice’; the significance of professional and honorary titles;
the role of rhetoric during the ritual of a procedure; the law office as a
stage for the lawyers to portray themselves; and the use of monuments
and public celebrations to represent the lawyers. This wide-ranging tour
de force explicates the quite different structural forms of legal education,
organisation and practice which developed in Germany, Italy and
Switzerland between the Congress of Vienna and World War I.
In ‘From Rechstaat to Welfare State: Swedish Judicial Culture in
Transition 1870–1970’, Kjell Modéer contributes a valuable study of the
transformation of judicial culture within a legal culture where judges
(relative to their common law counterparts) are anonymous and where
judicial biography is rare. Modéer examines a variety of sources in order
to ascertain the changing meanings that judges and others attached to the
life, work and cultural capital of the judge: including the ideological
dimensions of judicial culture (political, philosophical and professional),
the court system, the professional and ethical rules governing the judi-
ciary the marginalisation of women as judges, the law (notably, the con-
stitution and the code of procedure), legal education and the larger
political culture. Of particular interest is his analyis of the iconography
and architecture of the courtroom, and libraries and books, as a window
on the mental furniture of the judiciary and their larger cultural signifi-
cance.
Part III of the collection is concerned with the theme of Work and
Representations. It begins with John Savage’s study of the clash between the
ideals of virtue and wealth in the late nineteenth-and early twentieth-cen-
tury Parisian Bar. Savage characterises the culture of the Parisian Bar as a
‘. . . curious mixture of bourgeois values of moral probity and talent-based
success, on one hand, with what can be thought of as aristocratic values of
honor, prowess, even heroism. . .’ In this guise it was characterised by the
regulation of professional conduct that emphasised the moral and personal
qualities of the advocate, masculinity, a disdain for commercialism and
money-making, and the Bar’s work for the public good, for example, by
providing free legal counsel to the poor. This culture was attractive in part
because it appeared to raise its membership above the level of the mere
bourgeois. Yet, as Savage demonstrates, an economic downturn, the
democratising aspirations of the Republic, the pressures generated by an
increasingly overcrowded profession and the effort to admit women to the
Bar when allied to larger concerns about the cultural de-generation of
France—exacerbated tensions between the traditionalists and the mod-
ernisers within the profession and as between the Bar and French society. By
marshalling quantitative data on changes in the size and work of the Bar,
and the number of women students at university, allied to qualitative data
on the ideas, ideologies and rhetoric within and beyond the Bar, Savage
paints a vivid picture of the effort to reform the profession from within and
without, and the backward-looking nostalgia for a past pre-democratic era
that reinforced the anti-Republic, conservatism of the Bar. ‘The experience
of the avocats suggests that, in their case at least, the fin-de-siècle saw a cul-
tural persistence of the Old Regime.’35
Jean-Louis Halperin undertakes the first detailed quantitative and
qualitative study of French lawyer’s fees in the nineteenth century. As
with English barristers, French lawyers regarded their fees as honoraria,
rather than as a salary underpinned and enforced by way of contract.36
Halperin points out that lawyers were allowed to charge their well-off
clients high fees and their less well-off clients lower fees on the principle
that lawyers should be put on the same social footing as their clients. In
this and other ways, they managed to develop an individual and collec-
tive strategy which made fees subject to accepted professional practices
that were unwritten and advantageous for their social position. This
ideology sustained the profession’s claims to independence, honour and
paternalism.
Anne McGillivray contributes a fascinating extended reading of Bram
Stoker’s Dracula (1897). Treating the book as a legal novel, a category in
which few students of literature have thought to place it, McGillivray
probes the text to reveal competing conceptions of lawyering and the legal
professions amid a fear of modernity, moral de-generation and the growing
disjunction between law and morality. In addition to delineating the themes
of professionalism, law and modernity through the ‘peculiar rationality’ of
Stoker’s text, McGillivray demonstrates the bases of that author’s legal
knowledge in his lengthy stint in the legal department of the Irish civil
service, and subsequent call to the Bar following his move to London.
David Applebaum contributes a fascinating study of birth and devel-
opment of a major French labour union of judges, the Syndicat de la
Magistrature, 1968–1978. Applebaum examines how middle level French
judicial bureaucrats were unionised, radicalised and feminised following
the political upheavals of the late 1960s. Applebaum stresses the
Syndicat’s role in creating a professional counter-culture and the
refashioning of judge and citizen relations and national legal culture. He
analyses its efforts to support the weaker sections of the community—
employees, tenants etc—so as to do justice—and the difficulties this gave
rise to. This remarkable ‘story of collective challenges to the interplay of
35 Savage’s characterisation of the Paris Bar partially contradicts that of Karpik,
French Lawyers.
36 In this guise, lawyers were admitted to a post of honour and, therefore, the services
that they provided were nominally free. Thus, the fees that they received in practice were
characterised as honoraria. Cf W Wesley Pue, ‘Moral Panic at the English Bar: Paternal
vs Commercial Ideologies of Legal Practice in the 1860s’ (1990) 15 Law and Social Inquiry
49–118.
state and society’ derives in part from a detailed investigation of the

union’s own records.
The book concludes (in Part IV) with a series of essays on Lawyers and
Colonialism. Rob McQueen’s essay, ‘Together We Fall, Divided We
Stand: the Victorian Legal Profession in Crisis 1890–1940’ challenges
simplistic images of the homogeneity of the legal profession, and the pro-
fessions assertions of ‘high ethical ideals’, in past times. He investigates
two key moments of moral and economic panic in the life of the
Australian State of Victoria’s Law Society: namely the 1890s, and the
period circa 1928–1936. In both these periods the profession was under
significant stress. McQueen’s study highlights the inevitable tension
between the Law Society’s role as a professional trade union, and its
claims to professionalism and high ideals. Turning conventional wisdom
on its head he concludes that:
The legal profession in Victoria has always been subject to considerable division
. . . the level of homogeneity claimed by both ‘institutional’ historians of the pro-
fession and by ‘market control’ theorists never appears to have existed within the
profession in Victoria. Dissent and friction between sectors of the profession have
been the ‘norm’.
Harold Dick’s essay seeks to understand the cultural chasm between

Mennonites and Mennonite Lawyers in Western Canada, 1900–1939:
To be sure, at least seven members of the legal profession in this period had been
born into Mennonite homes and had grown up speaking Plattdeutsch, eating
verenike, roll kuchen and zweibach and attending Mennonite churches. In addi-
tion, three of these men had attended a Mennonite High School and two had mar-
ried Mennonite women. It is also true that all but one of these men practised law
near Mennonite settlements for some period of time during their careers, using
their connections with the Mennonites to build a clientele. Moreover, at least two
of these men used their skills in an extra-legal capacity to defend the interests of
the Mennonite community. . . . Nevertheless, despite these connections to the
Mennonite community, none of these men can be considered Mennonites by the
standards of that community at that time and, almost certainly, by their own
standards as well.
Dick argues that these men were forced to abandon full participation in
their ethnic, cultural and religious communities of origin, not so much
because of prejudice against lawyers from immigrant communities, but
because the culture inhabited by the Mennonites was fundamentally
incompatible with the culture of the legal profession of the Canadian
prairies. And that the incompatibilities of and conflict between these cul-
tures in the early decades of the twentieth century made it impossible to
straddle the two communities.
Finally, in his essay ‘Cultural Projects and Structural Transformation
in the Canadian Legal Profession’, Wes Pue chronicles the attempts of
some Western Canadian lawyers during the early twentieth century to

effect a cultural revolution, not just of their occupation, but also its sur-
rounding community, polity and society. Pue analyses the various
impulses that underlay this effort, such as Christianity, the fear of
Bolshevism as well as a concern about the law and its practitioners. The
structures of professionalism themselves are found to be cultural arte-
facts, collapsing the ‘structure’/’culture’ distinction. Pue concludes that:
Legal professionalism, like moral regulation movements, can be a manifestation
of ‘an anxiety of freedom that haunts modern liberal forms of rule’ where there
‘is no ‘natural’ system of order.’ It is important that the developing literatures on
lawyers and liberalism take into account this seemingly anti-democratic zone of
professional activity, as well as the more obviously ‘liberal’ contributions of indi-
vidual lawyers and (less often) organised legal professions alike. . . .
[Most] leading lawyers would have understood the urges which led Michel
Foucault to describe one project of western states as being to ‘constitute the pop-
ulace as a moral subject’. . . . In common cause with other prominent Canadians
acting in many realms, it was very much what Canadian lawyers were on about.
What is interesting in the work of the legal professions is the extent to which
lawyers combined agendas which were explicitly moral and reforming with a
profound restructuring of their profession.
VI
While the individual chapters do not provide a comprehensive basis for

comparisons, they do at the very least afford a number of suggestive
parallels and contrasts. The strongest initial impression of the volume is
one of diversity and difference with respect to both the subject-matter
of the book and the approaches adopted by the contributors. The insti-
tutional, cultural and social differences between the various nation
states and their legal systems often seem very large indeed—not least as
between the common law and civil law jurisdictions. Likewise the dif-
ferences as between colonial and imperial centres, and provincial and
urban geographical perspectives—say, Melbourne and Western Canada,
contrasted with London and Paris—are often considerable. However,
some common tendencies and characteristics can also be discerned,
including the heterogeneity of most national legal professions, and their
preoccupation with order, status (as well as economic self-interest),
social exclusiveness, masculinity, legal learning and ritual. Common
ground is also evident, as witnessed by the examination of professional
structures in Australia, Finland, Germany, Italy and Switzerland by
McQueen, Kontinnen and Siegrist respectively. Overall, the essays help
us to understand the complex ways in which legal professions are cul-
turally constructed.
Like the emerging lawyers/politics paradigm37, cultural histories of the

legal profession, such as the work in this volume, suggest that many of
the most important things to know about lawyers cannot be understood
within the constraints of a market control theory,38 however valuable
that may be. Rather, cultural histories of the legal profession raise more
problematic and wide-ranging understandings of legal professions, their
various iterations, and social roles than do approaches focussed exclu-
sively on assessing the contributions of some lawyers to the development
of liberal politics.
Although the subject-matter traversed in this book is wide-ranging, it
is far from comprehensive. Several important topics require more sus-
tained exploration, such as part-time, ‘quack’, ‘folk-lawyers’ as opposed
to elite fractions within the profession (‘the history of lawyers from
below’), the clients’ experiences of lawyers39, the relationship between
lawyers and their clients, the role and position of women, the significance
of gender and the comparison between lawyers and allied occupational
groups.40 Thus, in addition to offering a broad ranging survey of current
knowledge, we also hope to stimulate further work and novel lines of
inquiry.
37 See, for example, Halliday and Karpik (eds), Lawyers and the Rise of Western
Political Liberalism (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1997). Cf Scheingold, ‘Taking Weber

Seriously: Lawyers, Politics and the Liberal State’.
38 For a critique of market control theory, see Halliday, ‘The Politics of Lawyers: An
Emerging Agenda.’ See, also, Karpik, French Lawyers esp ch 8 ‘The Market’ and
W Wesley Pue, ‘Trajectories of Professionalism’ (1990) 19 Manitoba Law Journal, 384–418.
39 See, for example, the work of Margaret Pelling.
40 For a suggestive exemplar, see Rosemary O’Day, The Professions in Early Modern
England, 1450–1800 (Longman, Harlow, Essex, 2000).

PART I
The Formation of Lawyers

2
Ritual, Majesty and Mystery:
Collective Life and Culture among
English Barristers, Serjeants and
Judges, c.1500–c.1830
DAVID LEMMINGS
The so-called ‘upper branch’ of English lawyers has traditionally been

associated with a highly ritualised collective life, located in their inns,
messes and courtrooms, and expressed in elaborate rituals and distinctive
conventions of dress. Indeed, counsellors and judges may be unique
among the lay professions for their lengthy history of participatory cere-
monial. The order of serjeants at law, from which the judges were drawn
until the nineteenth century, developed a complex investiture ceremony
and distinctive habit by 1400, and in the fifteenth century the inns of
court gave ‘readings’ or courses of lectures with their own extensive cer-
emonies.1 But these customary institutional rituals, which were the most
important ceremonies of the medieval and early modern legal profession,
have not survived to the present day, although they endured for several
centuries. Today the pomp and ceremony characteristic of the profession
is identified primarily with state occasions, such as coronations and the
opening of parliament, and the performance of public judicial duties in
the provinces and at Westminster. Moreover, legal ritual is concentrated
on the judges, rather than involving all the various ranks of the lawyers
as participants, unlike the serjeants’ creation ceremonies and inns of
court readings. While modern barristers express their own sense of fel-
lowship in the dinners and grand nights held at their inns and circuit
messes, and in court they maintain a distinctive form of dress dating from
the seventeenth century, their collective life is relatively private and pro-
fessionally exclusive, by comparison with the great public occasions
which their predecessors sponsored in the ages of Spelman and Coke.
1 JH Baker, The Order of Serjeants at Law (Selden Soc, supp ser 5, 1984), 17, 88; idem,
‘A History of English Judges’ Robes’, Costume, (1978) xii, 27; EW Ives, The Common
Lawyers of Pre-Reformation England (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1983),
41–50.
26 David Lemmings
What do these contrasts mean for the changing roles of lawyers and
judges in the governance of English society, and how did they occur? This
essay suggests that changes in the lawyers’ collective life between the six-
teenth and early nineteenth centuries may illuminate decisive develop-
ments in the structure and culture of the legal profession and its
connections with the state and English people. It begins with the institu-
tional ceremonies of the late medieval and early modern inns’ readers and
serjeants. They seem to have represented the transmission through the gen-
erations of typically Aristotelian ideals of community solidarity and sanc-
tioned advancement through a fixed hierarchy of ranks. But historians have
drawn attention to the progressive disintegration of ‘older forms of com-
munal supervision’ with post-medieval doubts about natural sociability
and increasing emphasis on the competitive nature of humankind.2
Indeed, with a massive growth in litigation after c.1560, the lawyers appear
to have been transformed from a ‘tight professional community’ of men
united by their common devotion to the corpus of English law and their
membership of guild-like institutions, to a much larger collection of indi-
viduals locked in unregulated competition for advantage in an increasingly
complex and national market.3 In these circumstances it is interesting that
their traditional communal rituals became progressively discordant and
divisive, as the winners—a new bar elite of crown counsel and law offi-
cers—challenged symbolic representations of the old order and affirmed
their superior status over the ordinary barristers and serjeants.
After considering the disintegration of these ceremonies with the
decline of the inns of court and the order of serjeants, the final sections
of the paper discuss the rather fragmented forms of collective life which
characterised barristers and judges in the eighteenth and early nineteenth
centuries. On the one hand ceremonies associated with the bar elite
remained in the form of elaborate judicial ritual: indeed it is necessary to
consider whether there was greater emphasis on the ‘theatre of power’
orchestrated by the scarlet-clad judges who were primary instruments of
the increasingly powerful Georgian state.4 On the other hand, new and
2
For manifestations of these shifts in relation to civil litigation, see WA Champion,
‘Recourse to the Law and the Meaning of the Great Litigation Decline, 1650–1750: Some
Clues from the Shrewsbury Local Courts’, in CW Brooks and M Lobban (eds),
Communities and Courts in Britain 1150–1900 (Hambledon, London and Rio Grande,
1997), 195–6; C Muldrew, ‘The Culture of Reconciliation: Community and the
Settlement of Economic Disputes in Early Modern England’, Historical Journal (1996)
xxxix, 920–21.
3 Ives, Common Lawyers of Pre-Reformation England, 37; WR Prest, The Rise of the
Barristers: a Social History of the English Bar, 1560–1640 (Oxford University Press,
Oxford, 1986).
4 D Hay, ‘Property, Authority, and the Criminal Law’, in D Hay et al (eds), Albion’s
Fatal Tree (Penguin, Harmondsworth, 1975), espec 26–32. For an account of the
growth of the English state in the eighteenth century (which strangely neglects law) see
Ritual, Majesty and Mystery 27
increasingly utilitarian types of barristers’ association emerged in the

forms of independent mooting societies and exclusive bar messes which
began the process of institutionalising the restrictive practices typical of
the modern bar. Given the considerable decline in the volume and social
reach of civil litigation after 1700, the paper concludes by assessing these
associations in the light of the common charge that the modern bar
approximates to a private trade union: were they merely forms of collec-
tive life which represented the middle-class ‘privitisation’ of the common
law, in the sense of the restriction and maximisation of returns from
activities confined to an affluent minority of the population?
I THE INNS OF COURT
It is appropriate to begin an historical account of legal ritual with the

four inns of court, because these societies have constituted the formal
institutional home of the law’s upper branch since medieval times, and
have survived to the present day. The origins of Gray’s Inn, the Inner and
Middle Temples, and Lincoln’s Inn remain relatively obscure, but they
may have been founded in the later thirteenth or fourteenth centuries as
four among several lodging houses established for the convenience of
lawyers attending the Westminster courts during the legal terms. Mere
hostels which existed only to provide bed and board probably had little
in the way of ceremony, but there is circumstantial evidence of legal dis-
putation at the inns from the 1340s, and certainly by Tudor times the four
societies which predominated and became known as the inns of court
had evolved a complex educational system which featured case argu-
ments and lectures delivered by senior members. Participation in these
exercises became the basis for the inns’ degrees of barrister and bencher
or reader, and these internal ranks also became significant for advance-
ment within the profession generally. It was therefore natural that some
of the exercises, and the grades of inns’ membership associated with
them, became invested with dignity and symbolic importance by the per-
formance of ceremonial acts.5
J Brewer, The Sinews of Power: War, Money, and the English State 1688–1783 (Unwin
Hyman, London, 1989).
5 SE Thorne, ‘The Early History of the Inns of Court with Special Reference to Gray’s
Inn’, in idem, Essays in English Legal History (Hambledon, London, 1985), 137–54; JH
Baker, The Third University of England: The Inns of Court and the Common Law
Tradition (Selden Soc, London, 1990), espec 6–14; idem, ‘Learning Exercises in the
Medieval Inns of Court’ in idem, The Legal Profession and the Common Law
(Hambledon, London, 1986), 7–23; idem, An Introduction to English Legal History 3rd
edn (Butterworths, London, 1990), 182–5; idem, ‘Counsellors and Barristers’ in idem,
The Legal Profession and the Common Law, 109–12. Ives, Common Lawyers of Pre-
Reformation England, 39–59; Prest, Rise of the Barristers, 5–6.
28 David Lemmings
At their peak in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, the inns
of court readings were the most public and sophisticated of the societies’
legal exercises, and it is therefore not surprising that they were the most
ceremonious. In substance the readings were twice-yearly courses of
lectures on some statute, given during the learning vacations of Lent and
Autumn, and taking two or three weeks. On three days of each week (usu-
ally Monday, Wednesday and Friday) the reader, a member of the inn cho-
sen for his learning and seniority in the society, would expound some
aspect of the statute, propose doubtful questions of law raised by it, and
answer relevant cases put to him by his appointed attendants and other
barristers of the inn. Members of the inn participated in debate on these
questions according to their seniority, and judges or serjeants who were
former members of the society would also join in if they were present.
The intervening days were spent in feasting and the entertainment of
notable strangers to the house.6 All these stages in the proceedings were
accompanied by elaborate ceremonies, while the readers themselves were
surrounded by more ritual during their year of office. These rites were
described in their ideal forms by Sir William Dugdale in his Origines
Juridiciales, first published in 1666.7
According to Dugdale’s fullest account, which depicts reading and
readers at the Middle Temple, probably in the mid-sixteenth century, the
ritual associated with the readers and their duties commenced from the
time of their appointment, usually six months or more before the deliv-
ery of their lectures.8 At this time the two barristers nominated as read-
ers for Lent and Autumn were called to the bench table, or high table of
the inns’ governors, at dinner time, when they bestowed a treat of wine
upon the existing benchers and senior barristers ‘for their first welcome’.
During the time of their office, the readers were responsible for all the
exercises of learning in the house, and they also presided at the inns’
feasts or ‘Grand Days’ on All Saints’ Day and Candlemas Day, when the
judges and serjeants of the house who were formerly members of the
house were entertained. On these feast days the readers were bound to
meet the judges and serjeants, who were clad in their scarlet robes, at the
lower end of the hall, and to conduct them to the table in state, carrying
white staffs or rods as insignia of their office. During the meals them-
selves the readers were responsible for placing the various dishes before
6
WC Richardson, A History of the Inns of Court (Baton Rouge, La, Claitor’s, n.d.
[1977]), 101–27; WR Prest, The Inns of Court under Elizabeth and the Early Stuarts
(Longman, London, 1972), 120–24.
7
W Dugdale, Origines Juridiciales 2nd edn (London, 1671), 159–60 (Inner Temple),
203–9 (Middle Temple), 247–8 (Lincoln’s Inn), 276–5 [sic] (Gray’s Inn).
8
Dugdale’s dating is very imprecise, although there are references to the oaths of alle-
giance and supremacy, and to regulations introduced temp. Philip and Mary and
Elizabeth.
the judges, and afterwards, when the food was cleared away, they were
to lead the barristers and students in the solemn ‘measures’ or formal
dancing.9
The solemnity of the readers’ office, and their role in the society were
emphasised further by the ceremonies which were attached to the read-
ings themselves. During the week before his reading, the reader was to
forbear dining in the hall and isolate himself in his chamber, so that his
first appearance should be invested with more state. Then, on the Sunday
before his first lecture, he was to attend the Temple church, accompanied
by those benchers in town, including two appointed as his assistants, and
12 or 14 servants in livery. That evening at dinner he took his place at the
head of the bench table, and the next morning, after choosing a sub-
lecturer to carry his books and papers, he began to expound his statute
in the hall before the whole society, after delivering ‘a grave speech, excus-
ing his own weakness, with desire of their favourable censures’.10
Following this first introduction, the reading progressed with lecturing
and argument on the appointed days and feasting in between, with the
greatest dinner being reserved for the final week, when the reader
presided at ‘a great and costly Feast . . . provided for the entertainment of
foreign Ambassadors, Earles, Lords, and men of eminent quality’. On the
day of the final lecture, after breakfast, the Reader began by making
a grave and short speech . . . tending to the excuse of his weakness, with desire of
pardon for his errors committed: which forthwith is answered by the most antient
Bencher then present, who extolleth the Reader’s bounty and learning, conclud-
ing with many thanks unto him.
After arguing some final cases, the reader thereupon took formal leave of
the society, and prepared to travel home that evening, on which journey
some of the students and other gentlemen accompanied him ‘with great
state and solemnity’, bestowing ‘a great supper’ upon him at his inn that
evening.11
The original purpose of the readings, and the office of reader, was edu-
cational. But the ceremony and ritual which surrounded the lectures and
their authors reveals other, less directly practical, functions. Firstly, the
readings and feasts, together with the elaborate grand days at which the
readers presided, were occasions when the various ranks of the inns’ past
and present membership came together. Their participation in the case
arguments at readings must have increased the lawyers’ consciousness
of common devotion to the mysteries of English law, just as, at a less ele-
vated level, meeting and talking at dinner and elsewhere would have
9
Dugdale, Origines Juridiciales, 204–5.
10
From 1559 the reader took the oaths of supremacy and allegiance before delivering
his speech.
11
Dugdale, Origines Juridiciales, 206–8.
30 David Lemmings
developed their corporate identity as members of one of the four legal

communities. Aspects of the ceremonies described clearly acted as sym-
bolic representations of this professional self-consciousness, which was
in turn strengthened and elaborated by their performance. In this context
it is significant that all the rituals of the inns, and especially those con-
nected with the readings, took careful account of the different degrees of
the participants, and ensured that they participated in strict order
according to their rank and seniority. Members or senior members of the
inns were constantly reminded of their place in the legal firmament by the
order in which they sat down to dine, or by observing their proper turn
in arguing at readings and moots. This is not so surprising in the case of
the learning exercises, since the ranks of inns’ membership were origi-
nally derived from them, but order of precedence was also maintained in
the inns rituals which were not directly associated with legal education,
such as the Grand Day feasts and revels. At the Middle Temple, for exam-
ple, according to Dugdale’s account, the two readers led the ‘solemn
measures’, or dancing, on All Saints’ Day in the following manner:
. . . the Ancient of the two that hath the staff in his hand, stands at the upper end
of the Bar Table; and the other with the White Rod, placeth himself at the
Cupboard, in the middle of the Hall, opposite to the Judges; where the Musick
being begun, he calleth twice the Master of the Revells. At the second call the
Ancient, with his white staff, advanceth forward, and begins to lead the mea-
sures, followed, first by the Barristers, and then the Gentlemen under the Bar, all
according to their several antiquities . . . .12
Orderly participation in these rites would therefore have reinforced the
notion of community solidarity in the microcosm of the legal profession
which each inn represented; like all effective rituals, they encouraged cer-
tainty of belief, in this case the certainty that every student, counsellor
and judge was placed in a regular, unchanging order of ranks which
embraced the profession and its institutional base.
Discussion of the ranks of the legal profession leads naturally to the
second major function of some of the rituals which were associated with
the inns’ readings and readers. In the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries the
delivery of readings, and election to the bench of an inn of court, were
linked with promotion to the order of serjeants at law, which in turn was
generally a pre-requisite for appointment to the judiciary. Not all readers
became serjeants, but in practice readership carried the public status of
‘apprentice at law’, and the apprentices were fully fledged advocates who
practised in the royal courts. The serjeants were chosen from those who
had read twice in the inns of court and practised as apprentices.13 For the
12 Dugdale, Origines Juridiciales, 204.
13 JH Baker, ‘The English Legal Profession, 1450–1550’, in idem, The Legal Profession
and the Common Law, 78–80, 88–90.
reader himself, therefore, his appointment and the delivery of his lectures
represented a change in his condition, or even assumed the proportions
of a valedictory event, if he was the senior reader who was to lecture in
Lent, since he would have already delivered one reading. Such a man
might hope to receive a serjeant’s writ in due course, which would take
him from the inn of court where he had been student and barrister to one
of the serjeant’s inns in Fleet Street or Chancery Lane. And even a first
reader was well aware that he had now attained full maturity as a mem-
ber of the inn, having passed through all its ranks. Robert Callis, intro-
ducing his lectures on the Statute of Sewers at Gray’s Inn in 1622,
acknowledged the significance of his reading in the following way:
My most worthy Fellows and Companions of this noble and renowned Society,
the Hourglass of my puisne time [apprenticeship] is run, and I am now come to
take possession of your Reader’s place; . . . These twenty and six years compleat
I have had continuance here, and in that time I have onely taken the measure and
length of your Hall: And herein I acknowledge Grays-Inn to be the patron of my
best fortunes, and yourselves the best Companions of my forepast and present
life.14
In these circumstances it was natural that some of the ceremonies
which were associated with the readers and readings functioned as rites
of passage: symbolic acts which accompanied the individual’s progres-
sion from one state to the next. In fact, these rituals divided into three
types often identified by anthropologists; rites of separation, rites of tran-
sition, and rites of incorporation.15 First, as has been seen, immediately
before he began to read, the reader was isolated for a whole week in his
chamber; this enforced separation from the fellowship of the inn no
doubt emphasised his special condition, as a member who was on the
threshold of metamorphosis to a new state. Secondly, during the year of
his readership generally, and especially in the two or three weeks when he
was lecturing, the readership’s public status elevated him to a condition
which was almost sacred: he was accorded precedence before all at the
inn’s feasts and ceremonies, accompanied by servants in livery on public
occasions, and generally treated in a way that no ordinary bencher or
barrister would expect. Thirdly, these rites of transition were accompa-
nied by classical rituals of incorporation, in the form of the common
meals which supplemented and concluded the reading. At the Middle
Temple the process of incorporation into the new state was completed by
14 The reading of the Famous and Learned Robert Callis, Esq; Upon the Statute 23 H.
8 cap. 5 of Sewers: As it was delivered by him at Gray’s Inn in August, 1622 2nd edn
(London, 1685), 21. Callis became a serjeant in 1627.
15 See especially A Van Gennep, The Rites of Passage, trans MB Vizedom and
GL Caffee (University of Chicago Press, Chicago, 1960); also V Turner, The Ritual
Process (Penguin, Harmondsworth, 1974).
32 David Lemmings
the following ritual, which took place at the first meeting of the govern-
ing parliament of benchers in the next term:
. . . . when the Benchers . . . have dispatched their other affairs, this new Reader
is sent for to come amongst them; when being come, and taking the lowest seat
of the room, one of his Assistants . . . being by the Bench called to give account of
the Reading, makes a great Oration unto them; declaring the great learning and
charge of the Reader, together with the Statute that he read upon; . . . tending
wholy to the Readers commendation. In answer whereof, the Reader makes
another grave Oration, in his own excuse; magnifying the learned Arguments of
his Assistants and Cupboardmen, as also the good order and behaviour of the
young Gentlemen; with thanks to them all, for so patiently bearing with his infir-
mities. After which, the Bench gives him thanks, and so they all together sit down
to Supper: at what time (and not before) the Reader is an absolute and confirmed
Bencher . . .16
Thus it appears that the rituals and ceremonies associated with the
exercises of reading at the inns of court served extra-curricular purposes,
insofar as they promoted corporate solidarity within the societies and the
legal profession generally, while also enabling individual lawyers to
locate themselves in the established order of preferment, and affirm their
progress through that order by communal acts of celebration. Dugdale’s
descriptions of the rituals at the Middle Temple are undoubtedly ide-
alised, and should not be taken as evidence of their perfect and unchang-
ing performance at all the late medieval and early modern inns. But other
sources suggest that ceremonies of this kind were being performed at all
the legal societies in the sixteenth century.17 And in early Stuart times,
although there are grounds to suspect that the value of reading as an edu-
cational device was being undermined by the growth of printed legal lit-
erature, contemporary accounts of readings confirm that many of the
rituals were still being carried out. Indeed, the continuance of the inns’
educational formalities well beyond the time when they were substan-
tively meaningful reveals their strong attachment to the traditional ritu-
als and ceremonies.18
But there was at least one important development in the ceremonies of
reading at the end of the sixteenth century: individual readers were guilty
of extravagance, especially in the provision of feasts for powerful out-
siders, and this was encouraging a general rise in the expense of reading,
16
Dugdale, Origines Juridiciales, 208.
17
See eg the report of the royal commissioners into the state of legal education temp.
Henry VIII for evidence of the insistence on order of precedence in arguing at moots and
readings (Richardson, History of the Inns of Court, 414–17).
18
Prest, Inns of Court, ch 6; Liber Famelicus of Sir James Whitelocke, in J Bruce (ed)
(Camden soc, 1st ser lxx; 1858), 70–76. Richardson dates the decline of the educational
regime at the inns from later Elizabethan period (History of the Inns of Court,
175–6).
which some who were called on to read simply could not afford. In 1591
the judges issued a series of orders ‘for the better regulating of the read-
ings in all the Inns of Court.’ These complained of ‘excessive and sump-
tuous charges’ which were causing readers to conclude their proceedings
in a shorter time than usual, and set limits to the expense, especially in
the matter of feasting, ‘to the intent that a mediocrity may be used fru-
gally without excess’.19 Like so much attempted sumptuary regulation,
the orders seem to have had little effect, since further restrictions of this
kind were promulgated in 1594, 1596 and 1627.20 Sir James Whitelocke’s
reading of 1619 reveals the extent of the problem. His feast was attended
by a galaxy of grandees, and the final cost was approximately £370, a
considerable sum in the early seventeenth century. It is true that some of
the cost was covered by the traditional practice according to which the
readers’ clients, fellow lawyers and friends made gifts of provisions and
money, but he still had to pay around £240 for the privilege of acting as
reader.21
Wealthy readers like Whitelocke were taking the opportunity of their
appointment to dispense hospitality on a lavish basis among powerful
courtiers, normally with the object of increasing their chances of promo-
tion. This is important, because the increasing extravagance and expense
of the readers’ dinners reveals how the extra-curricular functions of the
rituals identified above—the promotion of community solidarity and cel-
ebration of regular advancement through the traditional hierarchy—
were being undermined by more individualistic competition and the rise
of new orders among barristers. In the later sixteenth century a great
increase in the volume of litigation passing through the Westminster
courts caused the judges to open their bars to junior members of the inns
of court; mere barristers were able to appear as well as the more senior
readers or ‘apprentices’ who had been allowed to plead previously. In
consequence there was a significant increase in the number of men called
to the bar at the inns and who went on to practise the law. By the time
Whitelocke delivered his reading this ‘mushroom growth’ among barris-
ters anxious to take advantage of an increasingly open market was trans-
forming them from a small community of masters and pupils, centered
on the inns of court and ideally united by their institutional loyalty, to a
profession whose members were divided by considerable inequalities of
wealth and honour. Of course the lawyers of Westminster had always
competed for honour and profit: the inns’ consistent emphasis on hierar-
chy and loyalty were subliminal means of regulating and inhibiting
19
Richardson, History of the Inns of Court, 437–9; Dugdale, Origines Juridiciales,
313.
20
Richardson, History of the Inns of Court, 439–42, 444–45; Dugdale, Origines
Juridiciales, 315–16, 319.
21
Whitelocke, Liber Famelicus, 70–73.
34 David Lemmings
human friction. But it appears that by 1600 subscription to the old ethic
of community was in danger of being dissolved by a new culture of
unabashed competition, and in the context of lawyering this legitimated
cutting corners to secure a slice of the deluge of legal business created by
England’s economic growth.22 Like many manifestations of social and
economic change in the early modern period, the challenge of rising indi-
viduals and new elites was most visible in conflict over sumptuary mat-
ters.23 As a leading barrister who earned over £600 in the year of his
reading, Whitelocke was one of the winners in this lottery, and and his
profligate feasting of the duke of Buckingham’s allies represented a chal-
lenge to the old order which identified a new focus for loyalty: he was
more interested in reading as a means to gain further advantage over his
peers via court favour, than as an occasion for the legal community to
confirm its traditional ties.24
The corrosive effects on the lawyers of this self-consciously aggressive
individualism were more apparent in the reading ceremonies of the sec-
ond half of the seventeenth century, and were associated with the rise of
a new elite closely identified with the crown. During the civil war and
interregnum the readings were not given at the inns of court, but the
benchers determined to revive them with the return to ‘kingly govern-
ment’ in 1660. As was traditional, senior barristers were called upon to
read at their inns according to their seniority, irrespective of their profes-
sional success, and the readings testified to the vast differences in means
between ordinary barristers and the new elite of the profession.25 On the
one hand Thomas Hardres, reader at Gray’s Inn for Lent 1664, had only
two servants in livery to attend him, rather than 12, while John Turner,
Lent reader at the Middle Temple in the following year, was obliged to
appeal for naval victuals from his wife’s kinsman, Samuel Pepys, in order
to supply his feast.26 By way of contrast, three years earlier the Inner
Temple reading of Sir Heneage Finch, solicitor general and future lord
chancellor Nottingham, had achieved new heights of splendour and
extravagance. According to Anthony Wood, Finch mounted a great feast
on each of the six days which followed his reading lectures:
22 Muldrew, ‘Culture of Reconciliation’, 919–21; CW Brooks, Pettyfoggers and
Vipers of the Commonwealth: the Lower Branch’ of the Legal Profession in Early
Modern England (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1986), chs 4–5; Prest, Rise of
the Barristers, 5–8.
23 See A Hunt, Governance of the Consuming Passions: A History of Sumptuary Law
(Macmillan, Basingstoke, 1996), esp ch 7.

24 Whitelocke, Liber Famelicus, 75–76; Prest, Inns of Court, 226–27.
25 See D Lemmings, Gentlemen and Barristers: the Inns of Court and the English Bar,
1680–1730 (Oxford University Press, Oxford, 1990), 78–81.

26 JH Baker, ‘Readings in Gray’s Inn, their Decline and Disappearance’, in idem, The
Legal Profession and the Common Law, 36; The Diary of Samuel Pepys, in R Latham and
W Matthews (eds) (Bell, London, 1970–83), vi. 28, 49.
The first day’s entertainment was of divers peers of the realm and privy counsel-
lors, with many others of his noble friends. The second of the lord mayor, alder-
men and chief citizens of London. The third . . . of the whole college of
physicians, who all came in their caps and gowns. The fourth was of another long
robe for all the judges and advocates (doctors of the civil law) and all the society
of Doctors Commons. The fifth was of the archbishops, bishops and chief of the
clergy; and the last . . . was of the King, duke of York, lord chancellor, most of
the peers and great officers of court, the lords commissioners of Scotland and
Ireland, &c.27
At this final entertainment the reader was attended by a host of servants
in scarlet cloaks and white doublets; and the royal stomachs were satis-
fied to the accompaniment of 20 violins, which played continuously until
their owners departed.28
Faced with this kind of ostentatious showing off, it is not surprising
that some of the less distinguished barristers refused to read, presumably
for fear of impoverishing themselves by attempting to compete with the
likes of Finch, or incurring dishonour through revealing their parsi-
mony.29 In these circumstances, the institution of reading was beginning
to reflect the fragmentation of the legal community, rather than affirm its
solidarity. For the ordinary benchers who did read, ceremonies which rep-
resented rites of passage through the institutional ranks of the profession
must have seemed hollow charades, since reading was becoming a pas-
sage to nowhere for them. The opportunities of the free market and the
expansion of the profession were creating a new route to preferment, as
the crown dipped into the growing pool of talented young barristers to
promote those who could be moulded to serve its needs. Henceforth
advancement increasingly depended on crown service in the offices of
king’s counsel and solicitor or attorney general, rather than progress
through the ranks of the profession’s ancient institutions.30 The expense
of reading was therefore fast becoming a waste of money for barristers
who did not already enjoy royal office. Indeed, the delivery of a course of
lectures at one of the inns was no longer a likely ticket to the degree of
serjeant at law. In the 1680s Sir John Bramston, son of Charles I’s chief
justice, noted that his father had read twice before becoming a serjeant,
and lamented the fact that a majority of the serjeants created since 1660
27
A Wood, Athenae Oxonienses 2nd edn (London, 1721), ii. 718–19.
28
Dugdale, Origines Juridiciales, 157.
29 Master Worsley’s Book on the History and Constitution of the Honourable Society
of the Middle Temple, in AR Ingpen (ed) (London, 1910), 124–5. The judges’ orders for
the government of the inns of court and chancery which were issued in 1664 noted that
the excessive charge of readings had caused some readers to be ‘much disabled thereby in
their estates’ (Richardson, History of the Inns of Court, 451; Dugdale, Origines
Juridiciales, 323).
30 Baker, Order of Serjeants, 112–13; Lemmings, Gentlemen and Barristers,
236–45.
36 David Lemmings
had not read, while many of the post-Restoration readers had ‘found noe
advantage’.31 And readers no longer enjoyed privileges of precedence
over other barristers in the Westminster courts, as they had previously.32
Perhaps the only privilege remaining to them was the right to wear a
tufted gown, which distinguished them from ordinary counsel appearing
at the bar. But even this symbolic sumptuary privilege was challenged
and lost, for Francis North donned a tufted gown when appointed king’s
counsel in 1668, although he was not a reader, and this type of gown
became the regular dress of the crown counsel and law officers.33
The career of Francis North symbolises the divisions in the upper
branch of the legal profession which helped to undermine the readings,
and rendered their ceremonies farcical as rites which reflected the tradi-
tions of a community based on the inns of court. North’s appointment as
King’s Counsel (hereafter KC), after only a few years at the bar, was
offensive to the benchers who governed his society of the Middle Temple,
because he had not followed the traditional route of preferment via
seniority and reading in due course. They therefore refused to admit him
to a place on the bench of their society, and were only forced to do so after
North complained to the judges, who refused to hear them in court until
they complied.34 This confrontation could hardly have promoted much
in the way of community solidarity in the Middle Temple and among the
members of the inn generally. No doubt the ordinary benchers were
offended still more in 1671, when North came to give his reading as solic-
itor general. Even his brother Roger North admitted that the feasting on
this occasion was a ‘terrible example’ of extravagance, and gave the fol-
lowing graphic description of the way in which the dinner degenerated
into disorder and conspicuous waste:
. . . upon the grand day, as it was called, a banquet was provided to be set upon
the table composed of pyramids and smaller services in form. The first pyramid
was at least four foot high with stages one above another. The conveying this up
to the table, through a crowd that were in full purpose to overturn it, was no
small work: but, . . . it was set whole upon the table. But after it was looked on a
little, all went hand over head among the rout in the hall, and far the more part
31
The Autobiography of Sir John Bramston, KB, in RG Neville, Lord Braybrooke
(ed) (Camden Soc, old ser, 32; 1845), 6; E Hatton, A New View of London or, an Ample
Account of that City (London, 1708), 698.
32 W Prynne, Brief Animadversions on . . . the Fourth Part of the Institutes of the
Lawes of England . . . by Sir Edward Cooke (London, 1669), sig. A2; Dugdale, Origines
Juriciales, pp 210, 212; cf Prest, Inns of Court, 51.
33 JH Baker, ‘History of the Gowns Worn at the English Bar’, Costume, (1975) ix, 17.
34 The Lives of the Right Hon. Francis North, Baron Guilford; The Hon. Sir Dudley
North; And the Hon. and Rev. Dr. John North, in A Jessop (ed) (Everyman, London,
1890), i. 50–51. North (1637–85) was called to the bar at the Middle Temple in 1661,
became KC in 1668, solicitor general 1671, attorney general 1673, lord chief justice of
Common Pleas 1675, and lord keeper 1682 (DNB, xiv. 600–03).
was trod under foot. The entertainment the nobility had out of this, was, after
they had tossed away the dishes, a view of the crowd in confusion wallowing one
over another and contending for a dirty share of it.35
Readers who allowed the dissipation of the Restoration court to make
a mockery of their customary ceremonies were destructive of the tradi-
tions which their medieval and Tudor predecessors had developed. This
was an inevitable consequence of the promotion of men like North,
because they had not attained professional eminence after years of con-
tinuance in the inns of court: they therefore had no respect for the inns
and their rituals, and their advancement to the head of their profession
represented the disintegration of the legal community which those ritu-
als had celebrated. The readings ceased to be given at all the inns during
the later 1670s, and the inns themselves progressively abandoned most of
their ceremonies, along with their educational apparatus. They survived
into the eighteenth century in an atrophied form, as dining clubs for a few
second-rate barristers who consoled themselves with the empty privi-
leges and luxuries which were the perquisites allocated to the members of
the bench.36Another medieval institution of the common lawyers, the
order of serjeants at law, was in a similarly decrepit state at this time, and
it is appropriate to turn to the serjeants’ rituals, to see how they were
affected by the transformation of the legal profession.
II THE SERJEANTS AT LAW
The order of serjeants at law originated in the early fourteenth century,

when the right to practise as a ‘countor’ or advocate in the court of
Common Pleas began to be regulated by the admission of pleaders in
batches at regular intervals. Those few who were admitted gained a rare
privilege, in the form of a monopoly of business which passed through
the principal court in England, and they became an elite body of advo-
cates, distinguished by their wealth and great learning in the law. By the
fifteenth century they had evolved into a formal fraternity, to which
future members were called by royal writ, and admitted through an elab-
orate ceremony, which invested inclusion among the ranks of Common
Pleas advocates with the dignity of an academic degree, styled serjeant at
law. Receipt of a serjeant’s degree became obligatory for promotion to
the judicial bench, and the serjeants remained the elite of the legal pro-
fession’s upper branch until the seventeenth century.37
35 Lives of the Norths, i. 98.

36 Lemmings, Gentlemen and Barristers, chs 2 and 4.
37 Baker, Order of Serjeants, chs 2–3.
38 David Lemmings
The complex rituals which together comprised the serjeants’ investi-

ture ceremonies were appropriately splendid. In all there were six sepa-
rate elements to the ceremonies, as they were performed from the
fifteenth to the seventeenth centuries.38 Serjeants were normally called in
groups during this period, and participated in the rituals together or in
immediate succession. Firstly, after they had received their serjeants’
writs and made appropriate preparations, the serjeants-elect took formal
leave of their inns of court, from which they were graduating to a higher
fellowship, via a valedictory breakfast, which consisted principally of
wine and biscuits. On these occasions the Treasurer of the inn made a for-
mal speech to them, which traditionally expressed sadness at their depar-
ture, commended their learning and promotion as an honour to the
society, and desired their friendship and protection for the future. Each
serjeant-elect was then given a small sum of money, upon which the
senior answered by thanking the society for all the benefits it had con-
ferred upon him and his fellows, and promised the continuance of their
friendship. Secondly, and sometimes on a day before this breakfast, the
serjeants-elect went to the court of Chancery at Westminster, where their
writs were returnable, declared in turn that they appered in obedience to
them, and took an oath to serve the king’s people as one of the serjeants
at law, along with the oath of supremacy and allegiance (the latter only
after 1559). The lord keeper or chancellor sometimes took the opportu-
nity of this appearance to deliver a speech, which might take the form of
a dissertation on the serjeant’s degree and the trust attached to it, but this
address does not seem to have been obligatory.39 These subjects were usu-
ally reserved for the lord chief justice of England, who spoke on a subse-
quent occasion, when the graduands were invested with their ceremonial
insignia. This third ritual represented their admission to the fraternity,
and it was therefore performed by the judges, as the senior members of
the serjeants’ order, generally at one of the serjeants’ inns or at the inn of
court where the chief justice had been a member. Here the serjeants-elect
attended in plain robes, and heard the chief justice’s exhortation, which
was often based on a biblical text and explored the serjeants’ public
obligations by way of the symbolism which was attached to their new
robes.40 Each new serjeant then knelt before one of the judges, who tied
a white linen coif or cap under his chin and (until 1736) placed a scarlet
38
The full ceremonies are described in ibid, ch 6.
39 For speeches by the lord chancellor or keeper see ibid, 302–4 (1559), 314 (1594),
326–27 (1614), 333–34 (1623), 385 (1637), 395–96 (1640).
40 Ibid, 280–88 (1521), 288–94 (temp. Henry VIII), 294–302 (1540), 324–25 (1614),
353–55 (1623), 359–60 (1625), 361–62 (1627), 366–67 (1631), 369–70 (1634), 373–74
(1637), 378–79 (1637). The lord chief justice of Common Pleas occasionally delivered a
similar oration.
hood over his shoulders, thereby making him a ‘brother’ of the fraternity,
which eventually became known as the ‘order of the coif’.
The fourth stage in the proceedings was for the new serjeants to go in
state to Westminster Hall, where they were to be admitted to plead in the
court of Common Pleas. The serjeants walked to Westminster Hall in
parti-coloured robes of murrey and blue, and were preceded by their ser-
vants, the officers of the courts, all the officers, benchers, barristers and
students of each inn represented by a serjeant, and the members of their
affiliate inns of chancery. The servants and officers also wore parti-
coloured liveries, furnished by the serjeants, while the other lawyers wore
black gowns. If all the inns of court and chancery were represented, the
procession must have been a very long one, and it certainly constituted
the most magnificent spectacle ever mounted by the lawyers. Upon arrival
at Westminster Hall, the new serjeants attended the court of Common
Pleas for the fifth step in the ceremonies. Here, after many solemn bows
to the court from various parts of the hall, each serjeant made a formal
demand or count in law French on behalf of a named plaintiff, which was
answered by one of the old serjeants.41 By the mid-sixteenth century the
action was an artificial one, often an issue brought between peers or great
officers who allowed their names to be used as patrons of the respective
serjeants. After the count was over, the new serjeant took his place at the
bar, according to his seniority, and his attendant or ‘colt’ (a barrister or
bencher of his inn of court) ‘gave gold’, by distributing gold rings
engraved with suitable mottoes to the judges and officers, as well as the
peers and other grandees who attended the proceedings. This completed
their formal admission as advocates in Common Pleas, and the company
thereupon went on to the sixth and final stage of the creation ceremonies,
the serjeants’ feast.
At group calls the feast was normally held in one of the halls of the inns
of court. They were sufficiently commodious to accommodate the exten-
sive guest-list, including the lord chancellor and judges, the lord mayor
and aldermen of London, and the old serjeants and crown law officers,
together with various peers and great men who were connected with the
new members of the order. The feasting had been spread over seven days
in medieval and early Tudor times, and the king had sometimes attended.
By the sixteenth century it had become a single dinner, but it remained
the third public feast in England, which attracted visiting foreign digni-
taries, and involved considerable culinary extravagance and other enter-
tainment. Even in 1736, at the last general call of serjeants, the
‘sumptuous dinner’ in the Middle Temple hall was accompanied by ‘A
41 These formal pleadings were sometimes repeated at other stages in the proceedings.
See for example Serjeant Bridgman’s account of the 1623 call, when the counts were
made three times (ibid, 335–49).
40 David Lemmings
very good band of musick’, and one of the galleries was fitted up ‘for
Ladys to sit to see the company at Dinner’.42
Unlike the inns of court readings, the serjeants’ creations were purely
ceremonial.43 Although they served to ‘make’ serjeants, they had no
directly practical function, in the form of legal education or real litiga-
tion. Even the crucial ‘counting’ in Common Pleas, which admitted the
new serjeants to the court, was a ritual act, rather than the beginning of
his substantive practice in that court. It therefore follows that the cre-
ation ceremonies served oblique purposes, although these ends were
important enough to the profession for them to be preserved for two and
a half centuries. What were these purposes? Like the inns’ readings, at
one level the creation ceremonies functioned as rites of passage, by which
the promotion of individuals through the regular grades of the profession
was acknowledged and celebrated among the legal community. The first
stage of this process was the valedictory breakfast at the serjeant-elect’s
inn of court. The ritual speeches made on this occasion show that the
participants interpreted the event as the end of an apprenticeship, during
which the future serjeant had learned the law through regular study and
participation in the society’s exercises. Thus, according to Dugdale’s
account of the Treasurer’s or senior bencher’s speech, he
rehearseth the manner of learning and study, giving lawd and praise to them [i.e.
the serjeants elect] that have well used them, showing what worship and profit
cometh and groweth by reasons of the same, in proof whereof, those new
Serjeants for their cunning, discretion, and wisdom be called by the King’s
Highness, and his honourable Council, to the great promotion and dignity of the
office of a Serjeant of the Law . . .44
Henceforth, as serjeants, they were masters rather than apprentices, and
the leave-taking ceremony therefore marked the end of their former state,
their symbolic death as members of the inns and students of the law.
Indeed, by the end of the seventeenth century it was being compared
explicitly with a funeral.45
The ceremonies of swearing in Chancery, coifing before all the judges
and counting in the Common Pleas were intermediate stages in this
process of graduation, by which the serjeants-elect assumed the insignia
42
W Downing, Observations on the Constitution Customs and Usuage of the
Honourable Society of the Middle Temple, (London, 1896), 230.
43
In medieval and early Renaissance times, the rituals regularly included a visit to St.
Paul’s, where one of the old serjeants made a speech and the new ones were assigned pil-
lars in the north aisle. Before the Reformation these may have served as places for the ser-
jeants to meet clients but this practice had certainly ceased by the mid-16th century,
along with the ceremony (Baker, Order of Serjeants, 101–4).
44
Dugdale, Origines Juridiciales, 114; cf ibid, 121; Whitelocke, Liber Famelicus, 82.
45
H Chauncy, The Historical Antiquities of Hertfordshire (London, 1700), i. 153.
and began to perform the duties associated with their new condition.
Again, the speeches delivered on these occasions, usually by the lord chief
justice of England or the lord chancellor or keeper, reinforced the notion
of an orderly advancement through the profession’s ranks, and drew
attention to the ritual as symbolic of a change of state or condition
within this hierarchy. In 1521, for example, the chief justice reminded the
new serjeants that
The tabard and hood which you wear is the reward of justice for your demerits
and deservings, whereby you are known and distinct from the rest of your faculty.
For, as we see in degrees of school, the doctor . . . by his apparell is known from
other of the graduates, so you by this tabard and hood are known from the
residue which be students of the law.’46
And in 1614 Lord Chancellor Egerton was even more explicit, setting
promotion to the degree of serjeant and the rites attached to it within the
context of the traditional order of legal preferment, passage through
which assumed the proportions of a divinely inevitable progress:
For lex divinitatis est, infima et media, duci ad suprema. For first you were under
the Bar, from thence you rise to the Bar, from thence to the Bench, and so to this
place, which is the chiefest. So that God calls you to his own law.’47
So in the words of these senior members of the profession, the creation
ceremonies appear as rites which reflected and enforced the certainty and
stability of legal institutions which had remained unchanged for genera-
tions. As JH Baker has pointed out, the judges who presided at the coif-
ing ceremony had inherited the leadership of an ancient fellowship, and
for those who took this trust seriously, the investiture in coif and hood
symbolised the transmission of their responsibility to a new generation,
and the maintenance of an uninterrupted line of succession.48
The serjeants’ feast which concluded the creation ceremonies clearly
represents the final stage in these rites of passage; after the rites of sepa-
ration associated with leaving the inns of court and those of transition
represented by coifing and pleading in Common Pleas, the new serjeants
were finally incorporated into the order by enjoying a celebratory feast in
common with the judges and old serjeants. Other members of the legal
profession were also present, as they were at some of the preceding
ceremonies, and, as long as they were conscientiously performed, these
rituals may therefore be regarded as occasions which served to promote
solidarity and common consciousness among the various members of the
legal community, just as some of the acts associated with reading at the
46 Baker, Order of Serjeants, 287–8.

47 Ibid, 326; cf E Chamberlayne, Angliae Notitia, or the Present State of Great Britain,
part ii 1st edn (London, 1671), 432–4.
48 Baker, Order of Serjeants, 89.
42 David Lemmings
inns of court did. As in the case of the readings, rank and precedence
were carefully represented: at the serjeants’ feasts the judges, old ser-
jeants and law officers were placed before the new serjeants, and the
members of the inns of court were relegated to the role of mere servants,
with even the benchers sometimes condescending to wait upon the peers
and other dignitaries, while junior members attended to their inferiors.49
Order of precedence was most important in the great procession in
which the serjeants walked to Westminster Hall, to the extent that even
the menial officers of the inns of court walked in order. According to a
contemporary account of the procedure observed on this occasion, after
the coifing ceremony
the judges and the old serjeants go in their coaches to Westminster, whilst the
others put on their party-coloured robes in order to walk publicly to Westminster
Hall. Which was done in the usuall following manner; viz: first the Warden of the
Fleet’s officers to sweep and clear the way, then the inns of chancery of each
house, the youngest going first, and so the next in seniority, then should follow
the old serjeants’ clerkes . . ., and then the students, barristers and benchers of
Lincoln’s Inn, preceded by the officers and servants of their house in their gownes
and jackets, then the gentlemen of the Middle Temple in the same form and man-
ner, and lastly the Inner Temple followed them,50 preceded by their porter, the
two turnspits, the second cook and pannierman, the head washpot and fourth
butler, the third butler and the chief cook, the second and chief butler, and the
steward alone, then the students, barristers and benchers, two and two, and lastly
the new serjeants, one by one, beginning with the youngest, supported by two
clerks and two staff men with their coat armour painted thereon, till the whole
procession closed.51
This public procession is especially important in the context of the
legal community. Although it was not an annual event, it was the only
ceremony which embraced all the lawyers below the judicial bench,
including members of the ‘upper’ and ‘lower’ branches of the profession.
As such, it was a living representation of the hierarchy which was often
referred to by the senior members of the profession, ranging from the
most junior clerk or attorney who was a member of one of the inns of
chancery to the serjeants ‘graduating’ from the inns of court. If there was
any occasion on which ritual served to bind the lawyers into a real pro-
fessional family, rather than a collection of individuals dedicated only to
their own interest, the serjeants’ procession provided the best opportu-
nity for achieving this end. Moreover, it was a public event. So far it has
appeared that the serjeants’ creation ceremonies fulfilled functions simi-
lar to those served by the rituals associated with reading, in that they
49
Dugdale, Origines Juriciales, 118–19, 124.
50 Gray’s Inn was not represented in this procession because no barrister of that house
was made a serjeant.
51
Baker, Order of Serjeants, 422 (call of 1724).
acted as rites of passage, and, ideally, helped to create a sense of commu-

nity among the lawyers. But the serjeants’ creations were crucially differ-
ent in at least one respect from the inns of court readings; they were not
merely ‘internal’ events, of importance to the lawyers; rather some of the
pomp and ceremony was conducted in public, and it is reasonable to sup-
pose that it was designed to impress the common people. It is easy to see
why this was so. Between 1400 and 1600 admission to the degree of ser-
jeant was a fair promise of advancement to the judicial bench; if only a
serjeant was to live long enough, and death created vacancies among the
judges, there was a very good chance that he would become a judge
himself. And in the meantime, he was quite likely to be called upon to
officiate as an assize commissioner, thereby performing the functions of
a judge on circuit. In effect, during Tudor times at least, serjeants and
judges were genuinely members of the same order, whose essential func-
tions were judicial.52 The speeches made by the judges themselves at the
creation ceremonies confirm this, since the chief justice frequently
reminded the new serjeants that they were becoming ‘ministers’ of the
king’s law.53 The ritual of becoming a serjeant therefore represented not
only entry to an elite body of advocates; more importantly, it assumed the
proportions of the assumption of royal authority and power. Some of the
ceremonies were therefore conducted in public; because the new serjeants
were being presented as instruments of the crown, whose splendour and
majesty was clearly designed to awe the people who watched them parade
through the streets of London.
Of course the communication of this royal power, and the other ‘inter-
nal’ functions of the creation ceremonies as rites which reflected and re-
inforced the cohesive hierarchy of the legal profession, were dependent
on the survival of the serjeants as the elite of the legal community. The
meaning of these symbols therefore declined in the seventeenth century
and after, as the order of serjeants, like the inns of court, was undermined
by the transformation which spread through the profession. In the con-
text of a more openly competitive working environment, and the
increased application of royal prerogative power to nurture a cadre of
dependent lawyers and judges, the serjeants gradually declined into a
body of counsellors who were inferior to, and distinct from, the out-
standing barristers who became senior judges.54 Although its full impact
on the mentalité‚ of the bar only became clear in the eighteenth century,
this degenerative process was manifested in the creation ceremonies as
early as 1606, when Sir Edward Coke was made a serjeant merely in order
52 Ives, Common Lawyers, 66–67, 74–75.
53 Baker, Order of Serjeants, 291–2, 294–5 (calls temp. Henry VIII).
54 For the further application of royal patronage among barristers after 1660 see
D Lemmings, ‘The Independence of the Judiciary in Eighteenth-Century England’, in

P Birks (ed), The Life of the Law (Hambledon, London, 1993), 128–9.
44 David Lemmings
to be formally qualified for immediate appointment as chief justice of

Common Pleas. Coke’s promotion from attorney general to chief justice
represented the new route to preferment, mentioned previously, by which
the leaders of the profession were chosen from the ranks of the crown
counsel, rather than from the practising serjeants. His creation as ser-
jeant was merely a formality, which invested a barrister who had enjoyed
rapid success in the expanding market for legal talent with the trappings
of the medieval elite—increasingly becoming an elite in name only after
1600. Coke was made a serjeant alone; significantly, he managed to avoid
the public procession and was invested with the coif in the treasury of
Common Pleas immediately before he was admitted to the court and
sworn in as chief justice. As an aggressive and acquisitive individualist
and an officer of state who was effectively bypassing the order of ser-
jeants, no doubt he thought the ceremony which attached to the degree
was inappropriate.55 This view was certainly shared by others, since ‘pri-
vate’ calls of judges-elect with the minimum of ceremony continued.
Later in 1606 Humphrey Winch was made a serjeant in order to be chief
baron of the Exchequer in Ireland, but he gave no rings, had no proces-
sion, and avoided the celebratory feast. And in 1625 two men who were
intended for the judicial bench were created serjeants in the vacation
without any ceremony at all. Tradition re-asserted itself on this occasion:
the judges conferred and declared the creation void, condemning the
omission of the ceremonies and the making of serjeants so ‘easily and
hastily’ as detracting from the ‘solemnity and dignity’ of the degree, a
practice which they said would be of dangerous consequences for the
order if it was allowed to continue.56
The creation ceremonies survived for another century, but although
the private calls of judges-elect generally included some of the rituals, the
full ceremonies were confined to the ‘public’ calls of several serjeants.
This increasing division in the performance of the ceremonies seems to
have been a conscious process. The speeches of the chief justices on these
occasions sometimes distinguished between the creations of ordinary,
practising serjeants, and those of the future judges, to the effect that the
rituals and robes, together with the traditional obligations of the coif
which they represented, were regarded as being of lesser significance for
those men who were intended for the bench. As Sir Thomas Richardson
had put it in 1634, when investing a chief justice in Common Pleas, ‘you
are not to remain at the bar as a common soldier to be armed but to be a
55 Note, however, that Coke spoke eloquently of the honour and dignity invested in
the order of serjeants when he presided, as chief justice, at the general call of serjeants in
1614 (Baker, Order of Serjeants, 328).
56
Ibid, 105–6, 358–59, 362–63.
judge’.57 By 1700, at which time the order of serjeants was most definitely
a second rank of senior advocates, compared with the new elite of king’s
counsel, the rituals were merely curiosities—relics of an order with a glo-
rious past. All the efforts of Serjeant Sir Henry Chauncy, who lovingly
detailed the ceremonies in his Historical Antiquities of Hertfordshire,
could not restore their original meaning, at a time when the legal com-
munity was in decay, and the practising serjeants were no longer power-
ful and wealthy advocates who could expect to become judges.58 The full
ceremonies were performed for the last time in 1736; after this there was
no public procession, and the other rituals which pre-supposed the exis-
tence of a community of lawyers—the valedictory breakfasts at the inns,
and the serjeants’ feasts—were commuted in the later eighteenth century
for monetary payments to the society of serjeants.59 In 1755 the lord chief
justice of Common Pleas, who had never practised as a serjeant, pro-
posed that the serjeants should lose their monopoly of business in his
court. At the time it was argued that this innovation might have resulted
in the end of the order, and it was rejected by the other judges.60 In fact
the order of serjeants itself continued to survive until the early twentieth
century, when the last serjeant died, but its privileges were abolished in
Victorian times.61
A consciousness on the part of elite barristers that they were different
and superior seems to have assisted in the gradual destruction of this
institution, just as full subscription to the culture of openly competitive
individualism which underwrote the litigation boom of early modern
England undermined the inns of court readings and their ceremonies. A
final demonstration of their impact on the serjeants’ rituals appears in
the diary of Sir Dudley Ryder, who became a serjeant in 1754 as a step to
the chief justiceship of England. Like Coke, for Ryder becoming a ser-
jeant was a mere formality: he had risen to be attorney general by serv-
ing the government in the House of Commons, and he had no real
interest in the creation ceremonies, beyond a desire to carry them
through without any taint of parsimony.62 In his diary, the surviving rit-
uals were reduced to the level of a list of chores which have to be under-
taken, preferably by his junior, Henry Bathurst, who was becoming a
57 Ibid, 372 (call of Sir John Finch, 1634). He went on to remind Finch of his obliga-
tion to advance the king’s prerogative. See also ibid, 419 (call of Sir Edward Ward,
1695).
58 Chauncy, Historical Antiquities of Hertfordshire (1700), i. 150–58.
59 Baker, Order of Serjeants, 106.
60 ‘Observations touching the Antiquity and Dignity of the Degree of Serjeant-at-
Law’, in E Wynne (ed), A Miscellany, Containing Several Law Tracts (London, 1765),
227–31, 368–87.
61 Baker, Order of Serjeants, 115–29.
62 For Ryder’s career see R Sedgwick, The House of Commons 1715–54 (HMSO,
London, 1970), ii. 397.

46 David Lemmings
serjeant and judge at the same time, or by Counsellor Brown, his atten-
dant barrister:
Be thinking of the motto for [the] ring, speak to Brown and Bathurst; [consider]
of the speech, of the coach of state and horses, of persons to make the robes,
[how] to provide the dinner, [and] the wine of all sorts; get Bathurst to undertake
all this.63
Ryder went through the motions of the serjeants’ creation ceremonies
without any apparent consciousness of their original meaning for the
profession of which he was a member.64 He clearly regarded the degree of
serjeant at law as an insignificant dignity, for he commented acidly
‘nobody will accept of the degree but to be a judge’.65 His successor as
chief justice and head of the serjeants’ order, Lord Mansfield, seems to
have held similar views, since he was said to have laughed when presiding
at the coifing of new members.66 The rituals of the profession, and the
ancient institutions which they celebrated, could not long survive men
such as these.
III JUDICIAL MAJESTY AND THE EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY STATE
By the mid-eighteenth century, almost all the ceremonies which had been
associated with the ancient institutions of the barristers had ceased to
exist, or were in the process of terminal decay. Legal ritual and ceremony
did not disappear altogether, however, although it was much restricted in
scope. Indeed, despite the decline of their traditional institutions, there
was collective life of a sort among eighteenth-century barristers, and its
distinctive rites and rituals provide important clues to understanding
their history. Moreover, while they were not generated within the inns of
court, such customary activities as there were did indicate some pride in
the maintenance of a common fellowship among groups of barristers,
albeit of a rather narrower and more defensive nature. Crucially, however,
where participants in the celebratory occasions of the medieval and early
63
Sandon Hall, Staffordshire, Harrowby MSS., xxvii, pt. 4a, 28–9: diary for 8 Apr
1754 (emphasis added).
64
See also an account of Sir Lloyd Kenyon’s creation as a serjeant in 1788, on becom-
ing lord chief justice, which appeared in an early law magazine. Upon taking formal leave
of the Middle Temple, Kenyon gave a very short loyal speech which paraphrased the
famous speech of Sir Robert Callis (given at his reading in 1622), and after undergoing
the ‘ancient and ridiculous’ ritual of his investiture in coif and hood, in Common Pleas,
he almost forgot to distribute gold rings (The Templar; or, Monthly Register (1789), i.
302–5).
65 Sandon Hall, Staffordshire, Harrowby MSS., xxvii, pt. 4a, p 28.
66 JH Baker, ‘A History of the Order of Serjeants at Law’ (Unpublished PhD thesis,
University of London, 1968), i. 406.

modern inns often depicted the practice of law as a satisfying public ser-
vice which united all lawyers, like Ryder and Mansfield, Georgian judges
and barristers seem to have come away from their own ceremonies,
dinners and associations with little more than a heightened conscious-
ness of their collective professional status and individual superiority.67
Depending on their particular eminence, they were inclined to look down
on mere barristers, ungentlemanly attorneys and simple-minded non-
lawyers. This awareness of professional and social exclusivity can be seen
most clearly in two principal areas: the judges’ and barristers’ participa-
tion in the increasingly ritualistic administration of the criminal law, and
the activities of private messes and other associations of working barris-
ters. It is appropriate to consider them separately because it is arguable
that the culture of the eighteenth-century bar was partially divided: there
were the ‘great counsel’ who were eligible to become leading judges and
quasi-ministers, and the ordinary barristers, men who only associated in
the interests of preserving their livelihood.
The administration of criminal justice involved the performance of
much ritual, but it was hardly ‘internal’ to the legal profession. Rather it
was a matter of public display and theatre, and it centred on the judges,
as the main actors in the drama. For example, they travelled around their
circuits in style. When Sir Dudley Ryder first went out on circuit as chief
justice of England in 1754 his coach was preceded by a crier and a tipstaff,
and he was also attended by his marshal and clerk, the porter of the cir-
cuit, two footmen and several grooms, all in livery. The chief justice’s
horses were covered with a cloth on which his arms were embroidered,
and the whole retinue of both assize judges required up to 20 horses in all,
to pull the coaches and seat the servants and officers.68 This cavalcade
must have presented a considerable spectacle by itself, as it travelled the
turnpikes between assize towns. Moreover, it was enormously aug-
mented at the border of each county, where the judges were met by the
sheriff with his officers and the local gentry, all on horseback or in their
own coaches. The whole procession then travelled on to the assize town,
which it entered to the accompaniment of church bells and trumpets, pre-
ceded by the sheriff’s men, armed with pikes or halberts.
The awesome effect was no doubt reinforced throughout the duration
of the assizes, as the judges proceeded with the sheriff and his men to and
from the court room to their lodgings, or to the town hall, where they
were dined by the corporation. Indeed, the ritual was also carried into the
courtroom. Here the court divided into two sides: one judge heard civil
67 For Sir Nicholas Bacon’s emphasis on the public service performed by those who
‘gyve liefe to the lawe’ see Baker, Serjeants at Law, 303 (‘the servyce of the lawe ought of
righte to be taken for an highe and grate servyce in the commonwealth’).
68 Lincoln’s Inn, Harrowby TSS, doc 19(f), 1–2: Ryder’s Assize diary, 5 Aug 1754; cf
The Long Vacation (1691), 3.

48 David Lemmings
causes depending in the central courts by right of the fiction of nisi prius,
while the other undertook the criminal work, under the commissions of
gaol delivery and oyer and terminer.69 The proceedings were at their
most theatrical in the criminal court. Here, according to sumptuary reg-
ulations issued in 1635, the judge was to wear the full dress of scarlet robe
and mantle, trimmed with minniver, while by the eighteenth century the
civil judge was permitted to appear in a black silk gown.70 Thus arrayed
in scarlet, the criminal judge was invested with the power of judicial
death in capital cases, after the jury had passed their verdict. To add to
the impact, he donned a black cap before pronouncing the awful death
sentence, to the effect that the prisoner was to be taken away and hanged
by the neck until dead. (After 1752, in cases of murder he might even
order the body of the executed to be given thereafter to the surgeons for
dissection, or hanged in chains at some prominent spot.71) Mercy also
had its solemn rites: in the case of an assizes where no one was con-
demned to suffer in this way, the sheriff presented the judge with a pair
of spotless white gloves, symbolising the fact that no blood lay on his
hands, and the sword of justice had remained sheathed.72
Of course there is not much controversy as to the meaning of lavish
judicial displays like these (which were also performed at London oyer
and terminer and gaol delivery sessions, when the city officials enter-
tained the judges, and on the occasions when the judges attended the
House of Lords). They were simply designed to represent the power and
authority vested in the judges by the crown, and in the case of the crimi-
nal proceedings, the devolved agency of life or death. As such they may
appear to be relatively uninteresting in the context of the history of
lawyers, because these devices had been used in the same way during
Tudor and Stuart times. But there are reasons to believe that the admin-
istration of criminal law and its theatre became more significant in the
overall context of governing eighteenth-century society, and this point is
related to the development of the legal profession during these years.
A previous generation of historians has suggested that the eighteenth
century was characterised by a decline in the popular appeal of the
monarchy, and in the role of the crown as a symbol of power and author-
69
Although civil cases were commenced in the central courts and local juries were for-
mally summoned to Westminster, a proviso was always added ‘unless before then’ (nisi
prius in Latin), the royal justices should come into the county. In practice they always
did, and the case was tried at the assizes. The commission of gaol delivery was to try and
deliver the prisoners from the gaol mentioned, while that of oyer and terminer was ‘to
enquire into, hear and determine the offences specified’ (see Baker, Introduction to
English Legal History, 20, 24).
70
JH Baker, ‘A History of English Judges’ Robes’, Costume, xii (1978), 32, 36.
71
By the ‘murder act’ (25 Geo. II, c. 37).
72
JS Cockburn, A History of English Assizes (Cambridge University Press,
Cambridge, 1972) 297–302.
ity which might compel obedience and maintain order among the com-
mon people. These authors have also suggested that the established
church, riddled with absenteeism and emasculated by the decay of its
courts, had lost its power as an agency of social control. In these circum-
stances, Douglas Hay has argued that the law and its administration
became much more important as an instrument of the state which
legitimised and transmitted the power of the ruling classes—the landed
oligarchy of gentry and aristocracy. And he has interpreted the ritualistic
majesty of the criminal law, described previously, as one of the elements
of this ‘ruling-class conspiracy’, which aimed to subordinate and subju-
gate the common people, in the absence of a police force or standing
army.73 Of course some of the background supports to this thesis have
been undermined recently: JCD Clark has insisted that eighteenth-
century England was a ‘confessional state’, in which divine-right king-
ship was translated into a theory of governance which was not much less
powerful than that which sustained the Stuarts.74 And Linda Colley has
described the ‘apotheothis’ of George III as a symbol for popular loyalty
in the later eighteenth century.75 Moreover, research on the prosecution
of offences has undermined Hay’s characterisation of Hanoverian justice
as a narrowly patrician versus plebeian system: prosecutors were often
people from the middling groups of English society, and occasionally
they came from the bottom of the social scale.76 But although Hay seems
to have been carried away by his perception of a sophisticated Gramscian
legitimating ideology behind the law, and his account of what ‘law’
meant to contemporaries is regrettably one-dimensional, nevertheless
evidence remains that the elite of the legal profession was partly assimi-
lated by the growth of the state in the eighteenth century.77 So it would
not be surprising if Georgian judges and barristers actively subscribed to
socially-coercive and exclusive ‘shows’.
73 Hay, ‘Property, Authority and the Criminal Law’, 17–63.

74
JCD Clark, English Society, 1688–1832 (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge,
1985), esp ch 3.
75 L Colley, ‘The Apotheosis of George III: Loyalty, Royalty and the British Nation
1760–1820’, Past and Present, cii (1984), 94–129; idem, Britons: Forging the Nation
1707–1837 (Yale University Press, New Haven, CT, 1992), ch 5.
76 JH Langbein, ‘Albion’s Fatal Flaws’, Past and Present, xcviii (1983), 101–102;
P King, ‘Decision-Makers and Decision-Making in the English Criminal Law,

1750–1800’, Historical Journal, xxvii (1984), 27–34; JM Beattie, Crime and the Courts in
England 1660–1800 (Oxford University Press, Oxford, 1986), 192–7.
77 For criticisms of Hay see D Sugarman, ‘Theory and Practice in Law and History: a
Prologue to the Study of the Relationship between Law and Economy from a Socio-his-
torical Perspective’, in Law, State and Society, ed B Fryer et al (Croom Helm, London,
1981), 81–94. And for alternative contemporary understandings and expectations of law
see D Lemmings, Professors of the Law: Barristers and English Legal Culture in the
Eighteenth Century (Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2000), esp ch 1.
50 David Lemmings
Despite the arguments of whig historians about the growth of judicial

‘independence’ from the crown after 1689, analysis of judges’ career pat-
terns shows that the process by which advancement depended upon
crown service continued and was intensified after the Glorious
Revolution. Certainly the most senior Georgian judges were frequently
tried and trusted men who had served many years as crown counsel and
law officers, and with the increased importance of parliament they were
roles which required advocacy in the House of Commons, as well as in
Westminster Hall. This had important implications for the role of the
judicial bench, and its relations with government. The first point to make
is that the judiciary was ‘politicised’ in the eighteenth century, and thor-
oughly so at the senior levels. As a close attendant on the monarch, the
chancellor had always been forced to become a politician, but the
Glorious Revolution inaugurated a century or more which saw an unin-
terrupted line of chancellors who were active parliamentarians before
they ascended the woolsack: Hardwicke, Thurlow, Loughborough and
Eldon are the most obvious examples of the type.78 Moreover, after 1689,
lawyer-politicians became the norm among the chief justices of the com-
mon law courts too. Of the 28 chiefs appointed to King’s Bench and
Common Pleas between 1689 and 1820, 24 were former MPs, and many
of them were career parliamentarians who had served as principal gov-
ernment or party spokesmen in the House of Commons, often in the
capacity of attorney or solicitor general.79 So although the influence of
politics and the application of state power had certainly touched the judi-
ciary before, the days of chief justices who were enthusiastic amateurs in
politics and government (like the Restoration judges Sir Francis
Pemberton, Sir William Scroggs, Sir Edmund Saunders and Sir George
Jeffreys), were passing after 1689. And secondly, as suggested above, since
they were professional politicians and crown counsel their post-
Revolution successors were surely likely to have been preoccupied with
affairs of state as much as they were with law and justice. After all, as
MPs judges had debated the ‘bloody code’, and those who had been law
officers had drafted and promoted it; as crown counsel they had been the
indicters and prosecutors of jacobite rebels, radical authors and ‘jacobin’
conspirators. So Sir William Blackstone may have been thinking of his
own times, as well as remembering the seventeenth century, when he
wrote ‘Nothing . . . is more to be avoided, in a free constitution, than
78
E Foss, The Judges of England (Longmans, London, 1848–69), viii. 178–97, 374–85,
385–98, ix. 39–52.
79 The exceptions were Sir Charles Abbott (Lord Tenterden), chief justice of King’s
Bench 1818–32; Thomas Reeve, chief justice of Common Pleas 1736–7; Sir John Eardley
Wilmot, chief justice of Common Pleas 1766–71; and Sir James Eyre, chief justice of
Common Pleas 1793–99.
uniting the provinces of a judge and minister of state.’80 The clearest evi-
dence of contemporary judges acting as ‘ministers of state’ is during the
first two-thirds of the eighteenth century, among judges with the longest
records of crown service.
It is notorious that the early Hanoverian state was repressive and inter-
ventionist in its use of the criminal law: after 1715 the government used
the courts to prosecute perceived political and public order challenges;
and several important criminal statutes were enacted, including the Riot
Act (1715), the Transportation Act (1718) and the Black Act (1723).81 But
it is less well known that some early eighteenth-century judges who were
excessively zealous and severe in its service were long-term intimates of
the whig ministers. For example Sir Francis Page, the ‘hanging judge’ of
Pope, Fielding, and Johnson, had been a political pamphleteer and client
of the Whig junto in Queen Anne’s time, and spent several years as king’s
serjeant and MP before becoming a baron of the Exchequer in 1718. The
fact that in February 1722 he was charged with infringing the privileges
of the House of Commons by attempting to corrupt the corporation of
Banbury suggests he continued to be an enthusiastic politician.82 Also Sir
Robert Eyre, successively a judge of King’s Bench, lord chief baron of
Exchequer, and lord chief justice of Common Pleas, and in 1729–30 one
of several judges suspected of ‘screening’ the prison gaolers who were
being investigated by an anti-government committee of enquiry into the
state of the prisons, was another long-term client of the whig ministers,
having been an MP, solicitor general and defender of Whig pamphleteers
from the judicial bench.83 As Edward Thompson has pointed out, Page
was the senior judge selected to preside over the special commission
80 Blackstone, Commentaries (Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1765–69), i. 260.

81 JM Beattie, ‘Scales of Justice: Defence Counsel and the English Criminal Trial in
the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries’, Law and History Review, 225; idem, ‘The
Cabinet and the Management of Death at Tyburn after the Revolution of 1688–1689, in
The Revolution of 1688–1689: Changing Perspectives, ed LG Schwoerer (Cambridge
University Press, Cambridge, 1992), esp 218–9, 232–3.
82 He only escaped censure by four votes. Foss, Judges of England, viii. 143–46; San
Marino, Calif., Huntington Lib., Stowe (Brydges) MSS., ST57/18, 378: [James Brydges,
Duke of Chandos] to ‘Mr Attorny Generall’ [Sir Robert Raymond], 11 Feb 1722. For Page’s
reputation as a severe judge see Pope, in J Sutherland (ed), The Dunciad, 2nd edn (Methuen,
London, 1953), 343; idem, in J Butt (ed), Imitations of Horace, 2nd edn (Methuen, London,
1953), 13; S Johnson, ‘An Account of the Life of Mr Richard Savage, Son of the Earl Rivers’,
in P Crutwell (ed), Selected Writings (Penguin, Harmondsworth, 1968), 67–8; H Fielding,
The History of Tom Jones (Penguin, Harmondsworth, 1966), 410–11.
83 Foss, Judges, viii. 121–2; G Holmes, British Politics in the Age of Anne (Macmillan,
London, 1967), 186; British Library, Additional MSS, 32,686 ff. 383–6: Duke of
Newcastle to Lord Townshend, 1 Nov 1723; AA Hanham, ‘Whig Opposition to Sir
Robert Walpole in the House of Commons, 1727–1734’ (Unpublished PhD thesis,
University of Leicester, 1992), esp 245, 251–6.; A Complete Collection of State Trials, TB
Howell (ed) (London, 1809–26), xvii. 619–26.
52 David Lemmings
which tried the ‘Windsor Blacks’ in June 1723, and when the trial of sev-
eral ‘Waltham Blacks’ was removed from the Hampshire assizes to King’s
Bench in November of the same year, the judge on the bench was Sir
Robert Eyre.84 Indeed, their selection for this service appears to be sig-
nificant of political closeness to the government, because recent work has
shown that there were links between the Blacks and the jacobites who
were involved in the Atterbury Plot of 1722.85
The two most famous judges of the period were also actively complicit
with ministers of state. Lord Hardwicke, lord chief justice of King’s
Bench between 1733 and 1737, and Lord Mansfield, who occupied the
same office between 1756 and 1788, were lawyers who had been raised in
continuous government service during the ascendency of Walpole and
the Pelhams (1722–1756), a period when one party monopolised govern-
ment, and a small group of ministers controlled legal appointments. As
virtually government ministers themselves, it would not be surprising if
they were more preoccupied with the interests of the state, if not the rul-
ing elite, than they were with the strict interpretation of the law.
Certainly they were not backward in deploying modern penal statutes.
Thompson has shown that in 1736 Hardwicke extended the infamous
Black Act against deer stealing, contrary to the words of the statute, to
condemn two turnpike rioters who were not involved in poaching game.
Was it a coincidence that he had been solicitor general when the act
became law, and must have assisted in drafting it? Certainly he went on
to preside over the administration of the criminal law, as chief justice of
England and lord chancellor, for over twenty years in the mid-eighteenth
century. Thompson has also revealed that in 1767 Mansfield, one of
Hardwicke’s successors as lord chief justice, used a dubious precedent
from a case tried under the Black Act to extend the provisions of the Riot
Act, in this case to condemn a man who had shouted encouragement to
rioters pulling down a dwelling house in Norwich. And in the following
year, at the height of the anti-government Wilkite agitation, he applied
the same precedent to affirm the capital conviction of three unarmed
coal-heavers under the clause of the Black Act which referred to shooting
at persons in dwelling houses, on the grounds that they partipated in a
violent attack where others had used firearms. The chief justice reached
these decisions—which along with Hardwicke’s pioneering ruling of
1736 were crucial in establishing the broad construction of the Black
Act—despite his knowledge that Sir Michael Foster, another judge (and
significantly never an MP or law officer), had written a learned argument
which condemned the extension of the Act to include ‘aiding and abet-
84 EP Thompson, Whigs and Hunters (Penguin, Harmondsworth, 1977), 74, 146,
151–3, 211–12.
85 E Cruickshanks and H Erskine-Hill, ‘The Waltham Black Act and Jacobitism’,
Journal of British Studies, (1985) xxiv, 358–65.

ting’ offenders, an argument which he had forced Foster to suppress.

At the time he had privately admitted to Foster that his (ie Foster’s)
interpretation was right in respect of strict legal reasoning, but in his
subsequent rulings he failed to acknowledge the ‘former authorities’
which the other judge had cited.86
Given the consanguinity between members of the judiciary and minis-
ters preoccupied with maintaining public order and increasing the effi-
cacy of the criminal law, perhaps we should expect an increase in judicial
‘majesty’ during the eighteenth century. The Hanoverian period was once
regarded as an era of stability at home and expansion abroad, but histo-
rians of crime have shown how there was increasing concern about vio-
lent offences against property in this period, especially in the urban
areas, and in London above all. According to JM Beattie, the increasing
incidence of reported crimes in the press, particularly after the conclu-
sion of the wars which ended in 1748, 1763 and 1782, may well have
encouraged their readers to believe that ‘society was in some danger of
being overwhelmed with crime.’87 The nervousness of the social elite was
no doubt increased, and focussed on the problem of controlling the lower
orders, by the popular disturbances which threatened the peace in the
1760s, 1780s and 1790s. At times like this it was comforting to be
reminded of the intimidating pomp and ceremony which surrounded the
judges. Eighteenth-century lawyers were clearly aware of the public
impression made by judicial display. The future lord chancellor Charles
Pratt, for example, riding the western circuit as a barrister in 1749,
described an anti-turnpike riot which occurred near Bristol, involving
around 700 of the country people. The rioters were only temporarily dis-
persed by a force of sailors marshalled by the city authorities, but Pratt
believed the affair would be settled finally when the assize judge arrived
in the town. As he wrote to his future wife,
I do not in my own opinion believe these fellows will be Hardy or audacious
enough to attack a Judge, for such men are more terrified with the awful appear-
ance of a Civil Magistrate than an armed force.88
Indeed, there are signs that the ‘awful appearance’ of the judges was
accentuated in the eighteenth century, and this was accompanied by some
other changes in the dignity of the judiciary which appeared to invest
them with more state authority. The macabre theatre of the judges’ role
86 Thompson, Whigs and Hunters, 210–11, 250–54; L Radzinowicz, A History of
English Criminal Law and its Administration from 1750 (Stevens and Sons, London,
1948–86) 52–8, 71–2, 77–8; G Rudé, Wilkes and Liberty (Oxford University Press,
Oxford, 1962), 38–9, 47, 97.
87 Beattie, Crime and the Courts, 213–35.
88 Kent Archives Office, Camden MSS., U840 C1/30: Pratt to Elizabeth Jeffreys, 5
Aug, 1749.
54 David Lemmings
in the criminal law assumed larger proportions simply because the

statute book was being loaded with capital crimes, and the assize com-
missioners or Old Bailey judges therefore donned the black cap more
frequently, even if they often recommended the secretary of state to
reprieve condemned men and women after sentence. This was also the
century when junior judges, those who were not chiefs in the common
law courts, began to be addressed as ‘my lord’, rather than merely ‘sir’.89
And after 1714 the chief justices of King’s Bench were frequently made
peers of the realm, a dignity not readily accorded to their predecessors.
Thus it appears that the upper branch of the legal profession and the
judiciary were drawn more closely within the orbit of the state during the
Hanoverian period. Hanoverian barristers tended to be advanced via gov-
ernment service in the House of Commons, rather than through the cus-
tomary ranks, and with the traditional rituals, of the legal inns. It is
therefore not surprising that the high ceremonial of the profession was
identified with the state in the eighteenth century, since its leaders were
long-standing servants of the crown. The elaborate processions, scarlet
robes, full-bottomed wigs and black caps of the eighteenth-century judi-
ciary were the residue of a culture whose traditional institutional cus-
toms had been destroyed in the welter of competition for profit and
prestige occasioned by the Tudor-Stuart growth of litigation, and the
Stuart-Georgian intensification of government influence over the leading
lawyers. But if these were the rituals of the winners, and the profession
had effectively been shorn of its more inclusive ceremonial, were there
alternative rituals and ceremonies among mere barristers? As we shall see
even ordinary barristers may have placed more emphasis on their partic-
ipation in state-judicial legal ritual, because in the eighteenth century
common law seems to have become more consciously exclusive and the
bar was more explicitly socially elitist. But collective life among barris-
ters also took new forms, which were characteristic of changes in the role
and status of the bar.
IV LAWYERLY MYSTERY AND BARRISTERS’ TRADE UNIONISM
Lawyers were among the chief executors of the constitutional settlement

made in 1689, by which ‘the rule of law’ helped to constitute and legiti-
mate the state. Of course they were also beneficiaries: like the barristers
who attended the quasi-royal ‘levees’ routinely given by the lord chancel-
lor and lord chief justice at their houses, in a small way, they shared in
the state power invested in the profession, and were pleased at being so
89 Foss, Judges of England, viii. 200–201.

distinguished.90 Indeed the barristers who accompanied the judges on

circuit were conscious of sharing in the power of the state. Thus Dudley
Ryder, travelling the circuit as a junior barrister in the 1720s, congratu-
lated himself on the impression made on the ordinary country folk by the
imposing parade of judges and counsel on entering the assize towns:
. . . if we have few Diversions of our own we have a considerable Quantity of that
kind of reflected pleasure which all great folks feel in the sense of having com-
municated happiness to others. . . . If I may compare Great things with small I
may say that like the Sun in its Diurnal circuit Joy & gladness accompanys us as
we pass along & we make Day wherever we appear. The young men & Maidens
putt on their best faces & clothes & stare at us with their mouths wide open in
humble admiration.91
Ryder’s pride in being part of the judges’ grand perambulations repre-
sented his awareness of being an insider on an occasion which was
designed to awe and impress the common people.
In various ways, rather than consciousness of justice as a public good,
the collective life of eighteenth-century barristers nourished a culture
which was becoming self-consciously exclusive. Blackstone seems to have
understood this very well, and essayed to correct the problem: his
attempt to found a school of common law at Oxford is perhaps best
explained as a subtle effort at legal reform, by which the law might
become ‘a science, which is universal in its use and extent, accommo-
dated to each individual, yet comprehending the whole community’.92
He was certainly aware that many contemporary critics of English law
believed mystery and exclusivity were the primary characteristics of
lawyerly learning, as well as judicial ritual. Indeed, in a paragraph which
was excised from the published life of his brother Francis, the Restoration
barrister Roger North connected the two and acknowledged the utility of
law as coercive magic:
. . . as for those that Reason popularly, saying why should Law be made a mys-
tery, and all people not be lett into the very penetralia of it, and so the science or
profession be damned all at once, I answer in a word, viz. for reverence: for that
gives more force to laws, in the sense of common people, than Reason it selfe. I
grant it would be rare if all people were wise: but it is found that much the greater
part are otherwise, & tied up more by shows, than realities; I may with as fair a
pretence ask, why such a stir with the Halberts, Trumpets, & Scarlet, at the
90
See eg Morning Chronicle, and London Advertiser, 1 Feb 1779: ‘Yesterday evening
the Lord Chancellor had a levee at his House in Great Ormond Street, as had likewise
Lord Mansfield at his house in Bloomsbury-square.’
91 Sandon Hall, Harrowby MSS, vol. vi, ff. 69–69v: draft, Dudley Ryder to ‘Dear Jo’
[cousin Rev J Billio], c.1720s.

92 Blackstone, Commentaries, i. 27. See D Lemmings, ‘Blackstone and Law Reform by
Education: Preparation for the Bar and Lawyerly Culture in Eighteenth-Century

England’, Law and History Review (1998) xvi, 211–55.
56 David Lemmings
assizes, & solemn Robes upon the Benches, and at the bars of Judicature! Might
not all such vain expense, superflous cloth, & empty noise & show be better
spared, & Judges sit like justices of the peace, or stewards of courts in their ordi-
nary habits! I know it will be Answered, for dignity: or as I said before,
Reverence, true; but for what reason is that dignity needful, but to amuse the
common people, who are terrified, & engaged more by exterior appearances than
by real authority!93
Admittedly, such a repressive and socially divisive interpretation of ‘the
rule of law’ might have been born of extreme circumstances (North was
a high Tory who lived through the Exclusion Crisis and the Revolution of
1688), and the passage did not survive to be printed. But although the
common lawyers had long taken pride in their mystery and their elite
associations, there are signs that by the end of the eighteenth century
barristers who reflected on their collective role and controlled their insti-
tutions regarded social exclusivity and intimidatory coercion as worthy
ends in themselves. At this time the inns of court developed new conser-
vative vigour, while the circuit barristers institutionalised their associa-
tion in semi-formal messes; in the process they not only expressed an
unprecedented superiority complex towards the uneducated and unprop-
ertied, but also re-intensified their discrimination against attorneys.
As remarked earlier, by the eighteenth century the inns of court had
degenerated into mere dining clubs for barristers and benchers. Their
condition was not assisted by a major decline in the volume of civil liti-
gation from the late seventeenth century, a recession in the primary
source of barristers’ work which must have made a career at the bar less
attractive.94 Not surprisingly, admissions declined markedly in mid-
century, and although there were several isolated attempts to provide
courses of lectures in place of the readings and legal exercises, none of
them succeeded in becoming fully established. Law students were left to
93
BL, Add. MSS. 32,508 (Life of Lord Guilford), f. 28 (after 1700). Dudley Ryder was
also pleased about his access to the exclusive knowledge of the law. See Harrowby MSS,
vol ii., f. 311: Ryder to ‘Dear Cousin’, c.1720s (‘I don’t know whether it may not be some
entertainment to you to be let into a secret [ie. that law has rational foundations] that
generally shocks the Lay gens (as we of the Law call them) & has been looked upon as
unintelligible to any but such as have made it the business of at least a great part of their
lives’).
94
CW Brooks, ‘Interpersonal Conflict and Social Tension: Civil Litigation in
England, 1640–1830’, in AL Beier et al (eds), The First Modern Society (Cambridge
University Press, Cambridge, 1989), 360–67; H Horwitz and P Polden, ‘Continuity or
Change in the Court of Chancery in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries?’, Journal
of British Studies (1996) xxxv, 29–32; WA Champion, ‘Litigation in the Boroughs: the
Shrewsbury Curia Parva, 1480–1730’, Journal of Legal History (1994) xv, 205–7, 211,
216–18; idem, ‘Recourse to the Law and the Meaning of the Great Litigation Decline,
1650–1750: Some Clues from the Shrewsbury Local Courts’, in CW Brooks and
M Lobban (eds), Communities and Courts in Britain 1150–1900 (Hambledon, London,
1997), 179–98.
learn the law by private reading, attendance on the courts and participa-
tion in private mooting societies or debating clubs.95 But while their cor-
porate life was considerably impoverished by comparison with its former
glory, the benchers of the inns retained their valuable monopoly over
admission to the bar, a privilege which guaranteed the minimum of
recruits necessary for survival. At the end of the century there was a
marked revival in numbers of law suits, admissions and calls to the bar at
the inns, and barristers practising in Westminster Hall. There are signs
that late-Georgian litigation was derived from a more restrictive section
of the population than the broadly-based clientele who had resorted to
the courts during the litigation boom of the sixteenth and early seven-
teenth centuries, however.96 So it is probably no coincidence that
although there are traces of a revival in the bar’s collective life around
that time, and there was a limited return to institutional controls over
individual practice, they assumed forms which were noticeably more
socially elitist and professionally defensive than the confident fellowship
of their medieval and early modern predecessors.
One important ingredient of the bar’s collective self-esteem at the end
of the eighteenth century was its enhanced social status. While ‘patriotic’
barristers like Erskine (and Camden, Dunning and Glyn before him)
espoused popular causes, in so far as he was becoming more ‘polite’, the
ideal barrister was self-consciously snobbish, rather than virtuous. By
1840 an admiring commentator was able to say
The high social position occupied by the bar in modern times is unquestionable.
With the highest honours of the state open to him, the barrister is entitled to take
rank amongst the gentry-classes of the kingdom.97
Indeed, it was social elitism, rather than educational utility, which lay
behind the principal shift in the structure of legal education: from cleri-
cal apprenticeship to university and pupillage. Thus while The Barrister:
or Strictures on the Education Proper for the Bar, first published in 1791,
paid due attention to the need for barristers to have a public education,
its importance here was not principally, as for Blackstone, that liberal
learning might serve as a means to rationalise the administration of law.
Rather the point was to ensure they were bred in a gentlemanly environ-
ment. Where Blackstone had criticised apprenticeship with an attorney
for its potential to narrow the mind into rote learning of the forms of
practice, for The Barrister, its most serious dangers were social and
moral: in an attorney’s office, the student would be liable to ‘loss of every
95 Lemmings, ‘Blackstone and Law Reform by Education’, 211–55.
96 Brooks, ‘Interpersonal Conflict’, 361–4; Lemmings, Gentlemen and Barristers,
10; idem, Professors of the Law, esp ch 3.
97 [A Polson] Law and Lawyers; or Sketches and Illustrations of Legal History and
Biography (London, 1840), i. 162.

58 David Lemmings
sentiment of decency, morality and religion’.98 By contrast, at one of the

universities, after the public school (preferably Eton or Westminster),
rather than developing habits of ‘vulgar conviviality’ with people of ‘infe-
rior stations’, ‘habitual intercourse with men of literature and fashion’
would breed cultivated gentlemen able ‘to take a respectable station
among the most elevated ranks of society’.99
Correspondingly, while the inns of court cherished their ‘honourable’
status, and at the end of the eighteenth century their members celebrated
the revival of their aristocratic associations, their residual importance
was as ‘gatekeeping’, institutions. Above all, and despite the fragmenta-
tion of their educational regime and collective rituals, the benchers found
a role in the maintenance and protection of the bar as a closed associa-
tion of polite gentlemen. To this end they exploited the monopoly privi-
leges which sustained their culture. Thus in 1798, when the inns were
recovering their numbers, their benchers acted to capitalise on their
assets and limit access to their market. After a meeting of benchers from
all four inns, common regulations were introduced to enforce minimum
attendance at dinner of those students who were keeping ‘terms’ towards
their call, and every such person who had not resided for two years in one
of the universities was ordered to pay a deposit of £100, returnable on call
or on leaving the inn.100 These regulations also coincided with the final
phase in the long drawn out process by which practising attorneys were
excluded from the inns of court: the four inns’ regulations for call to the
bar which were promulgated in 1762 excluded attorneys or solicitors who
had not ceased to practise for two years, and after 1793 they took effec-
tive steps to prevent them from qualifying for the bar while continuing to
practise their profession.101
There is also contemporaneous evidence of more elitist and exclusive
attitudes among barristers who joined the bar messes attached to each
circuit. Circuit messes did not appear overnight: in the 1690s one barris-
ter on the Home circuit commented on the enhanced good fellowship of
unequal acquaintances thrown together by their common ‘Pilgrimage
after mony’; a loose sense of community that acted to relieve the bore-
dom and ameliorate the losses of briefless men by sharing their expenses
of ‘dyet’ and accommodation among the other and more fortunate bar-
risters who went the circuit.102 And they had their own private dinners,
98
The Barrister 2nd edn (London, 1818), 21, also p 29.
99
Ibid, 15–16, 23, 26, 34.
100
A Calendar of the Inner Temple Records, FA Inderwick and RA Roberts (eds)
(London, 1896–1936), v. 633. The £100 deposit was in addition to admission fees and the
bond taken for payment of duties.
101
Ibid, v. 142–3; HH Bellot, ‘The Exclusion of Attorneys from the Inns of Court’,
Law Quarterly Review (1910) xxvi, 143–5.
102 Hertfordshire RO, Panshanger Papers, D/EP F81/51: William Cowper to Judith
Cowper, 10 Aug, 1693; and ibid, D/EP F81/82: same to same, 4 Aug, 1696 (‘Here
separate from the occasions when they joined the circuit judges to dine.
Charles Pratt, the future Lord Chancellor Camden, recorded enjoying a
private dinner with 50 of his fellow circuiteers at Bath in September 1753,
and Nicholas Ridley, a newly-called barrister, dined with his ‘brethren of
the long robe’ on his arrival at Durham to attend the assizes there in
1773.103 Ultimately the bar mess developed around the masculine
camaderie and high jinks which were also found among public school
boys and members of gentleman’s clubs, and they found their clearest
expression in the collective organisation of exclusive dinners at the assize
towns. (Chancery leaders—who formed a self-conscious ‘bar’ of their
own by the later eighteenth century—may have had an equivalent in their
own regular dinners, such as the one organised by Charles Yorke in July
1769.104) The important point to understand is that although these prac-
titioners’ gatherings partook of the usual eating, ritual toasting, and
wagering common to drinking and dining clubs, the eighteenth-century
circuit mess was not (unlike urban coffee houses and clubs) merely a free
association of independent individuals. Although not yet fully institu-
tionalised, the mess was assuming the right to regulate and adjudicate
relations among its members and outsiders: to be precise, it was devel-
oping rules of etiquette designed to insulate barristers from ‘improper’
contact with clients, witnesses and especially attorneys.105 For besides
electing officers to preside at gatherings and juniors to address the details
of arranging for transportation of the baggage waggon and payment of
wine and food, the messes usually constituted themselves as courts for
the symbolic ‘trial’ of members who were presented for infringing the
society’s conventions.
The fortuitous survival of records for the Midland circuit mess during
the 1780s and 1790s enables us to analyse the substance of their proceed-
ings. Admittedly, most were jocular; misdemeanours were commonly
punished by fines of a few shillings or a bottle of wine, and offences
included ‘appearing in a coloured coat at the Assembly at Derby’, as well
as being a bigamist, in the case of a barrister ‘married by the [local]
[Maidstone] is little business & little of that falls to my share, so that [I] shall pay, at this
place, half costs’). The northern and home circuits both had a ‘common purse’ in the
1780s, when Boswell travelled them; he estimated the cost of going the full circuit, last-
ing 30 days, at ‘about fifty pounds’ (Boswell: The English Experiment 1785–1789, IS
Lustig and FA Pottle (eds) (McGraw-Hill, New York, 1986), 85, 89, 270).
103 Kent Archives Office, Camden MSS., U840 C1/39: Pratt to Elizabeth Pratt (his
wife), 5 Sept, 1753; Northumberland County Record Office, Ridley MSS., ZR1 32/1/2:
Ridley’s diary for 4–5 Aug, 1773.
104 British Library, Additional MSS, 35, 362, ff. 249–50: Charles Yorke to Lord
Hardwicke, 22 July 1769.

105 Compare R Cock, ‘The Bar at Assizes: Barristers on Three Nineteenth-century
Circuits’, Kingston Law Review, (1976) vi, 36–52, who emphasises the informality and
irregularity of the early bar messes.
60 David Lemmings
Newspapers’ to more than one woman. Even the attempted prohibitions

against social contact with attorneys have a humorous tone. In March
1784 several barristers were fined for dancing with attorneys’ sisters at
the assize ball, and in August 1790 another group was indicted for fishing
and eating mutton chops with attorneys.106 But charges of dining, drink-
ing or travelling with attorneys and their relatives were virtually contin-
uous, and they must be read in the context of the contemporaneous
concerns about junior barristers not keeping their proper ‘distance’ from
mere ‘practisers’. The circuit mess—a club of working barristers free to
deploy their collective social power in accordance with their own inter-
ests and prejudices—was continuing and extending the inns’ policy to
promote total social segregation from attorneys.
Clearly, although the bar’s fastidiousness about contact with attorneys
can be dressed up as the development of modern ‘professionalism’, by way
of enforcing ‘principles of independence and merit’ it was also a
matter of power relations.107 Barristers were promoting their dominant
position in the administration of law against the danger of ‘interested
friendship’, which might ultimately lead to the calamity of ‘no Barristers
but Attorneys Clerks’.108 While their modern apologists insist that the
bar’s supremacy ensures litigation and doctrinal development are con-
trolled by the best-educated lawyers, such an argument has less force for an
age when legal education was haphazard, and procedure irrational.
Indeed, we may suspect that the exclusion of attorneys from habits of
social intercourse with barristers helped to preserve the courts and the
common law from consumer-led grass-roots reform. In the eighteenth cen-
tury the main targets of individual suitors’ complaints were attorneys and
solicitors, because they had taken over the business of dealing with
litigants in the first instance, and they presented the final bill.109 As one
member of the exposed ‘lower branch’ grumbled, despite ‘the large Fees
to Counsel’, ‘we bear all the reproach, and suffer for their Sins (they are
out of our Clients hearing and reach)’. His preferred solution was
legislative intervention ‘to reform the many dilatory and chargeable
Customs, Rules and Forms of the several Courts, and by that Means
106
Bodleian Lib., Records of Midland and Oxford Circuits, 1773–1806, vol. 1, ff. 26,
58, 61: courts at Warwick, 1784 and 1790, and Leicester, 1791. I am grateful to Raymond
Cocks for helping me to locate these records.
107
D Duman, ‘The English Bar in the Georgian Era’, in W Prest (ed), Lawyers in Early
Modern Europe and America (Croom Helm, London, 1981), 103–4. For an early 19th-
century explanation of the rules of etiquette applied by the bar mess, see [Polson] Law
and Lawyers, i. 136–8 (‘They serve effectually to prevent any of those petty arts by which
vulgar and cunning pettyfoggers might attempt to obtain practice’).
108 Ruggles, The Barrister, 27.
109
See Lemmings, Gentlemen and Barristers, 125–6; idem, Professors of the Law,
ch 2.1.
render Justice speedy’.110 In this context unregulated contact with unsym-

pathetic litigants and their representatives would have been uncomfortable
and perhaps ultimately damaging, and it was convenient for barristers who
maintained their social and ethical superiority over attorneys to associate
any defects in the administration of law with ‘a blameable degree of inter-
mixture in habits of interest, among . . . the Barristers and the Practisers [ie
attorneys]’.111 Moreover, they clearly understood their collective power to
order the conduct of suits to their own advantage, for the eighteenth-
century bar mess was already developing those restrictive practices which
subsequently led to the bar being compared with a trade union.112
The Midland circuit mess certainly paid sustained attention to work-
ing conventions which appeared to protect their own livelihoods. In 1785
Mr. Balguy was presented ‘for taking a brief for a Plaintiff in which four
witnesses were examined without a Junior’, and Mr. Dayrell ‘for holding
a brief for a Defendant with three witnesses, . . . without a junior’.
Although the first charge was withdrawn, and the second attracted a fine
of one ‘Bottle’, it is clear that the mess was subtly reminding its members
that they should insist on the retention of another counsel in full trials.113
This pressure anticipated and exceeded in scope the controversial
nineteenth-century rules about retaining two counsel when the leader
was a crown counsel.114 Moreover, another counsel was presented and
fined for taking a brief at the 1784 Warwick summer assizes without a
fee, and Mr. Rastall was fined ‘for advising with both sides in a Cause, &
before Briefs were delivered, recommending a Compromise to be effected
upon fair & equal Terms by the unconditional submission of one
Party.’115 Rulings like these sit uneasily with traditional prescriptions for
ethical counsel and advocacy, especially the oft-repeated injunction to
promote settlement among the parties, and the enduring ideal of the
good lawyer, who offers his services freely, merely accepting fees as
gratuitous rewards for his services.116 On the face of it, they seem
110 Proposals Humbly Offer’d to the Parliament, for Remedying the Great Charge and
Delay of Suits at Law, and in Equity, 3rd edn (London, 1724), 14–15.
111 See The Barrister, vii–xi, xiv–xv.
112 For the beginnings of that debate, see D Duman, The English and Colonial Bars in
the Nineteenth Century (Croom Helm, London, 1983), 48.

113 Bodleian Library, Oxford, records of the Midland and Oxford circuits, 1773–1806,
vol 1, ff. 30–31: Warwick, 1785.

114 Duman, English and Colonial Bars in the Nineteenth Century, 44–5; B Abel-Smith
and R Stevens, Lawyers and the Courts: A Sociological Study of the English Legal System
1750–1965 (Heinemann, London, 1967), 56, 223; R Cocks, Foundations of the Modern
Bar (Sweet & Maxwell, London, 1983), 87–88.
115 Bodleian Lib., Records of Midland and Oxford Circuits, vol 1, ff. 31–32: Warwick,
March, 1785.
116 In the 16th and early 17th centuries these precepts were frequently repeated by the
presiding judges at the creation of serjeants (Baker, Serjeants at Law, 280–81, 352,
62 David Lemmings
to represent simple collective self-interest on the part of established

barristers.117
It therefore appears that while the bar’s collective life was fragmented
during the eighteenth century, and the traditional rituals and ceremonies
based on the inns and the order of serjeants decayed, groups of working
barristers nevertheless maintained and ultimately refreshed a sense of
corporate consciousness. Above all, of course, they continued to identify
with their traditional role as ‘professors’ of the common law. But the
apparent contraction of litigation to a relatively small section of the pop-
ulation, and the evident exclusivity of the bar’s attitudes and restrictive
practices, suggests the common law had indeed been partly ‘privatised’
and even ‘trade-unionised’ since Tudor-Stuart times. Indeed, if one focus
of the bar’s corporate activities and self-consciousness centred in the pro-
tection and maximisation of their litigation mystery, their close identifi-
cation with the ‘majesty’ of criminal proceedings may imply another
perspective on the common law as principally representative of the state
and the propertied, rather than the hallowed symbol of every
‘Englishman’s Birthright’. As the author of The Barrister put it, writing
in the aftermath of the French Revolution, barristers and judges certainly
owed a vague duty to ‘the sacred source of all justice’; but more con-
cretely, their exclusive education and associations were expected to
inspire the barrister with an essentially negative political trust. As a fully
paid-up member of the new and consciously conservative elite of the
propertied and politely educated, he would defend the status quo against
modern liberal heresies:
the laws of this country, administered by such men, will preserve through the
world, a deep-rooted respect in the opinion of mankind; for that constitution
which is our palladium, whatever freedom of government the present spirit of
liberty, that diffuses itself so far and wide throughout the globe, may obtain for
the many millions of fellow-creatures, who have hitherto been the slaves of
despotism.118
Under this optic, the constitution was opposed to liberty, law was a
weapon against the threat of disorder and dis-appropriation from below,
and the barristers and judges were their front-line soldiers. Indeed, in the
nineteenth century it appears that the benchers of the inns of court fol-
lowed similar instincts in their regulation of the profession, by intimidat-
378, 396). For more discussion of the ‘good lawyer’ ideology see Lemmings, Professors of
the Law, ch 8.
117 For further disciplinary and etiquette developments which rendered the bar ‘more
cohesive, more exclusory and more narrow’ see WW Pue, ‘Exorcising Professional
Demons: Charles Rann Kennedy and the Transition to the Modern Bar’, Law and
History Review (1987) v, 135–74.
118 The Barrister, preface, xii–xiv (original emphasis). The book had appeared origi-
nally as occasional essays in The World, during 1791.

ing and/or excluding radicals, reformers, and other political deviants: a

sustained policy that ‘substantially inhibited the flourishing of liberal
legal practices’.119 The barristers had always been private practitioners,
and their institutions were voluntary bodies; but they had long acknow-
ledged public responsibilities and trusts, and the common law was pop-
ularly supposed to be available to all, not least as a bulwark against the
state and the over-mighty. By contrast, to paraphrase Edward Thompson,
the forms of collective life characteristic of many barristers and some
senior judges during the eighteenth century suggest they were ‘consent-
ing adults in their own corruption’ in so far as they consented to and even
acknowledged a contraction in the social reach and constitutional trust
of the lawyers and the courts.120
119 WW Pue, ‘Lawyers and Political Liberalism in Eighteenth- and Nineteenth-
Century England’, in TC Halliday and L Karpik, Lawyers and the Rise of Western
Political Liberalism: Europe and America from the Eighteenth to Twentieth Centuries
(Oxford University Press, Oxford, 1997), 167–206 (quoting 197).
120
EP Thompson, Customs in Common (Penguin, Harmondsworth, 1991), 32. Cf
WD Rubinstein, ‘The End of “Old Corruption” in Britain 1780–1860’, Past and Present
ci (1983), for ‘the genuine nexus which had been built up between the Pitt-Liverpool
Tories and the older, more conservative segments of the middle classes like the East India
Company and the legal profession’ (77).
3
‘A Dry and Revolting Study: The Life
and Labours of Antebellum Law
Students
ANN FIDLER
The popular nineteenth-century novelist, Oliver Bounderby, faced a dif-

ficult technical dilemma in the writing of his book, The Law Student: Or,
the Struggles of a Heart (1850). His protagonist, the handsome, virile
Fred Stanton, leaves his deceptively placid hometown to study law in
New York City. This period of legal study was necessary if Fred had any
chance of defeating the villain (a crooked lawyer), rescuing a family for-
tune, and securing the love of a beautiful young woman. Yet Bounderby,
in making his main character a law student, saddled himself with the
onerous task of describing a pastime in which reading a ‘Story’ meant
subjecting oneself to Story on Bailments, Story on Bills of Exchange, or
Story on Equity Jurisprudence.1 His resolution of this difficulty in the
course of two succinct paragraphs was masterful. Bounderby’s underly-
ing strategy surfaced in the first sentence of his discussion of Fred’s career
as a law student : ‘The life of a student, like the history of a happy nation,
does not offer generally many very striking points which the historian
can seize’.2
Although most legal historians have not had the inestimable pleasure
of reading The Law Student, a large number subscribe to Bounderby’s
proposition. As a result, little is known about the ways and means of
antebellum law students. Instead, the scholar’s gaze has been steadily
fixed upon the more tangible topic of the institutional evolution of the
law school, the men who pounded its podiums, and the development of
its curriculum. Lost in the midst of the general crusade to understand the
might and majesty of the law school are the individuals who were subject
to its dictates. Antebellum law students are rarely glimpsed in discussions
of legal education, and are practically invisible in the historiography of
1 These are the colloquial titles of works by Joseph Story, the famous antebellum
lawyer, jurist, and law professor.

2 Oliver Bounderby, The Law Student: Or, The Struggles of a Heart (Samuel French,
New York, 1850), 33.

66 Ann Fidler
the legal profession and legal culture. Yet the days spent reading law
transformed laymen into lawyers. The ordering of their identity as
lawyers began in an environment filled with ink-splattered commonplace
books and dog-eared copies of Blackstone. Through a range of encoun-
ters, law students developed beliefs about the nature of law, its applica-
tions and their responsibilities to community, country and each other.
As a result, the habits and the habitats of antebellum law students offer
fertile ground for cultivating knowledge about law, lawyers, and legal
culture in the nineteenth-century.
Contrary to Bounderby’s assertion, there are a number of ‘striking
points’ which historians can ‘seize’ upon when constructing a history of
antebellum law students. This essay seizes upon some of the cultural con-
structs that shaped the law student experience. My research on Northern
law students suggests that would-be lawyers possessed a distinctive cul-
ture derived from a cavalcade of rules, rituals, myths, expectations and
illusions generated from within and without the legal profession. This
unique culture produced a trans-regional community of law students
based upon images of legal study, common methodologies, and exposure
to particular legal texts. Cultural comity amongst law students provided
the medium in which a post-bellum national legal culture would take
root. In the following pages, the lives and labours of antebellum law stu-
dents will be discussed in an attempt to extend present knowledge
beyond the boundaries of Bounderby.
CULTURE AND THINGS LEGAL: GENERALITIES AND

PARTICULARITIES OF AN EVOLVING DISCOURSE
Before entering the law offices and law school classrooms of the past,
some preliminary observations need to be made about legal culture in
general and antebellum legal culture in particular. Legal culture is a con-
cept that has received considerable attention in the historical work of the
past decade, but the intersection between culture and things legal is not
well understood. The chief difficulty with legal culture lies in finding an
adequate meaning for the term in the midst of a historical discourse that
is still evolving. Like all things cultural, it is a pot-pourri of possibilities
lacking the sharp edges that contribute to a good definition. Lawrence M
Friedman made an early attempt to pin down legal culture by describing
it as a filter between legal agents and society at large made up of ‘ideas,
attitudes, beliefs, expectations, and opinions about law’ engendered by
legal institutions.3 Kermit L Hall changed legal culture from a passive
3
Lawrence M Friedman, Law and Society: An Introduction (Prentice-Hall,
Englewood Cliffs, NJ, 1977), 7.
The Life and Labours of Antebellum Law Students 67
screening device into an active ‘matrix of values, attitudes, and assump-

tions’ responsible for shaping ‘both the operation and the perception of
the law’.4 Hall along with David J Bodenhamer and James W Ely also
argued that legal culture contained important sectional and regional
elements.5 What was common to most discussions of legal culture in the
1980s was the sense that the ideas and values that fuelled legal culture
emanated from formal legal institutions and the legal profession.6 In a
1991 article, Michael Grossberg suggests that this core assumption about
culture and things legal is too static and exclusive. Entities existing out-
side of traditional legal enclosures, such as litigants, popular ideology,
and informal institutions, are overshadowed by a preoccupation with
legal rules and rule makers. Grossberg suggests that legal culture is more
fruitfully understood as an arena of conflict occupied by a myriad of sub-
cultures capable of influencing law, and in turn, being influenced by it.7
This description of legal culture is useful for the study of antebellum law
students, because legal pupils occupied a transitional position between
the layman and the lawyer. Being neither fish nor fowl, a law student can-
not be fully understood from the perspective of the legal profession or
from that of the lay world. A thorough historical account of the ante-
bellum law student must include an attempt to place him within his
own unique cultural environment as well as those of the profession and
communities that he was destined to serve.
The depiction of legal culture as a product of the interaction of sub-
cultures also accommodates the complicated nature of the antebellum
legal universe. The mode, men and manners of legal practice were in a
state of flux before the Civil War. The lax licensing requirements of the
expanding West drew well-educated men from the East as well as the ill-
educated sons of humble farmers to the bar. Mingling of the posh and
poor in the growing commercial cities and small agricultural settlements
resulted in a bar subject to an assortment of internal struggles ranging
from large matters like legal ethics to small ones like legal etiquette.
Meanwhile, beyond the bar, laymen engaged the profession in a variety
of tussles. An extensive set of legal reforms that altered or attempted to
4 Kermit L Hall, The Magic Mirror: Law in American History (Oxford University
Press, New York, 1989), 6.
5 See, Kermit L Hall, ‘The Legal Culture of the Great Plains’, Great Plains Quarterly
(1992) 12, 86–98; Kermit L Hall and James W Ely, Jr (eds), An Uncertain Tradition:
Constitutionalism and the History of the South (University of Georgia Press, Athens,
1988); David J Bodenhamer and James W Ely, Jr (eds), Ambivalent Legacy: A Legal
History of the South (University Press of Missouri, Jackson, 1984).
6 For example, most of the 11 essays included in Bodenhamer and Ely’s Ambivalent
Legacy focus upon questions of jurisprudence, the legal profession, courts, specific cases
and other apparatus connected with traditional legal institutions and actors.
7 Michael Grossberg, ‘ “Fighting Faiths” and the Challenges of Legal History,’ (1991)
25 Journal of Social History, 191–201, 195–196.

68 Ann Fidler
alter the selection of judges, the jurisdictions of courts, the right to prac-
tice law, the bounds of legal procedure and the purview of the common
law were championed by laymen. Fugitive slaves, capital punishment
opponents, and temperance types also scaled the legal ramparts.
The best overall description of antebellum legal culture resides in the
work of R Kent Newmyer. Undaunted by the kaleidoscopic nature of the
legal landscape, Newmyer constructs an elegant synthesis that finds an
embryonic national legal culture flourishing in New England.8 His thesis
is of particular interest to a discussion of antebellum law students
because he designates Harvard Law School as the engine of both a
regional and a national legal culture. Newmyer argues that persuasive,
prolific New Englanders such as Joseph Story shaped the legal and cul-
tural agenda of the law school for the purpose of infusing their conserv-
ative ideals on a fragmented region and nation.9 The doyens of the law
school aligned it with powerful regional economic interests and cultural
institutions, multiplying the influence already exerted by its graduates
stocking the bench and bar. Newmyer believes that New England legal
culture contained in the writings of its faculty and the notes of its stu-
dents spread across the North, counteracting the ‘centrifugal tendencies’
of the prevailing ragtag system of legal apprenticeship.10 In this manner,
a pathway was constructed for the formation of a post-bellum national
legal culture amenable to legal conservatism. Although Newmyer’s
discussion contains much of value, his focus on the role of the formal
structures and strictures of the law produces an incomplete picture of
antebellum legal culture in the North. It is a vision of a legal universe
controlled by professors in which law students appear only in the form of
vectors who transport the wisdom of Harvard Law School to the wilds of
the Northwest. Reinserting law students and their milieu into the equa-
tion produces a more detailed understanding of the nature of antebellum
legal culture.
A close reading of the diaries and letters of antebellum law students
does reveal elements of experiential commonality that transcend the
diversity in legal education inherent in a mix of apprenticeships and law
school attendance, in settings ranging from the rural Northwest to urban
New England. The basis for this commonality is not simply the imprint
of the Harvard Law School curriculum, however, but stems from a more
extensive and complex body of influences prevalent in antebellum legal
education. The connatural experiences of law students are illustrated by
a brief comparison of the legal training of Charles Sumner, scion of a
8 R Kent Newmyer, ‘Harvard Law School, New England Legal Culture, and the
Antebellum Origins of American Jurisprudence,’ in David Thelen (ed), The Constitution

and American Life (Cornell University Press, Ithaca, 1988), 154–175.
9 Ibid, 157.
10
Ibid, 162.
Boston lawyer, and student at Harvard Law School between 1831–1833,

with that of Albert G Riddle, heir to the poverty and distress of Ohio
pioneers, who studied with Seabury Ford of Burton, Ohio, between
1838–1840.
During the time Sumner was at Harvard, Joseph Story—Newmyer’s
candidate for the catalyst of antebellum legal culture—published his first
two monographs: Commentaries on the Law of Bailments (1832) and
Commentaries on the Constitution of the United States (1833). Although
Story’s Commentaries oeuvre was in its infancy, Sumner, as a favourite
pupil of Story’s, absorbed much of his teacher’s jurisprudential outlook
in the form of lectures. By 1840, the year that Riddle ended his appren-
ticeship, four more monographs by Story were published.11 Yet a reading
list included in Riddle’s unpublished memoir does not include any works
by Story even though the young Buckeye was the student of a prominent
Yale-educated attorney in possession of a well-stocked law library. (See,
Appendix). Despite the disparities in their educational experience and
curriculum, Sumner and Riddle shared many beliefs and expectations
concerning law and lawyers.
Undoubtedly, Story maintained an important presence in the
Northwest, especially if the work of his student Timothy Walker,
founder of the Cincinnati Law School, is taken into account. Volumes
penned by Story, however, were not ubiquitous in the rapidly settling
western ranges. Michael H. Harris notes that Story’s books did not
appear frequently in private antebellum law libraries in Indiana.12
Clearly, there were additional elements, including images of legal study,
methodologies for studying law, and other books, that assisted in the cre-
ation of the cultural comity that existed between Sumner and Riddle.
MEASURING UP: IMAGES OF LEGAL STUDY
Antebellum folklore and lawyer jokes suggest that attorneys became

members of the legal profession through the time-honoured tradition of
selling their souls to the devil. Unfortunately, it was not that simple. Once
the decision was made to embark upon a life of legal toil, a young man
needed to obtain some instruction in the rudiments of legal practice.
In the period before the Civil War, apprenticeship, law school, or a com-
bination of both were the chief educational choices available to law
students. Each option involved the relatively glamourless activities of
11
Commentaries on the Conflict of Laws (1834); Commentaries on Equity
Jurisprudence (1836); Commentaries on Equity Pleading (1838); Commentaries on the
Law of Agency (1839).
12
Michael H Harris, ‘The Frontier Lawyer’s Library; Southern Indiana, 1800–1850,
as a Test Case,’ (1972) 26 The American Journal of Legal History, 239–251, 250.
70 Ann Fidler
learning the law by means of reading, writing, and observing. In addition

to imparting knowledge, an apprenticeship or a term at law school laid
the foundations for a life lived within an occupation.
Despite its rather mundane nature, legal study was a subject of inter-
est to antebellum Americans. Popular culture was rife with conflicting
imagery associated with learning the law. The value of legal study, what
it entailed, and whether it could be properly borne by the human mind
and body formed subjects of general discussion. How did this imagery
generated outside the legal profession affect would-be lawyers’ percep-
tion of themselves and their task? What can it tell us about the substance
and structure of legal culture?
In the view of the anonymous author of the 1846 satirical novel Law
and Laziness, the study of law contributed little to the formation of citi-
zens worthy to guide the course of a nation. ‘There is no place like a law-
office,’ he observed, ‘for making a fashionable acquaintance, and doing
the least work with the greatest ease’.13 In a letter in 1819 to the Scioto
Gazette, a resident of Chillicothe, Ohio made clear his manifest displea-
sure at the contributions made by law students in his community.
Every lawyer’s ‘prentice must be continually dabbling in political affairs, and
weekly annoying the public with a farrago of impudence and stupidity. No town
in the state is more infested with these creatures than Chillicothe; and if the cor-
poration could pass an ordinance to ferret out from their borough such pestifer-
ous nuisances, they would contribute more to the dignity of the place and the
peace of the citizens, than they have by any of the previous laudable endeavors
toward order and morality.14
Although judged lazy and meddlesome by some, there were other view-
points regarding the usefulness of law students. Tocqueville observed in
1835 that the pursuit of legal knowledge was a worthy enterprise, as it
provided ‘security against the excesses of democracy’.15 A Circleville,
Ohio attorney felt that a number of advantages accrued to society from
the popularity of legal studies. In an 1849 article on the legal profession,
he presented a catalogue of benefits to society derived from the study of
law.
It sharpens and invigorates the understanding. It teaches men to reason and
reflect . . . No mind capable of the comprehension of its spirit, ever found there
encouragement to chicane, fraud, or immorality. It adds force to virtue by more
13 Law and Laziness; or, Students At Law of Leisure (Golden Rule Office, New York,
1846), 6.
14 Quoted in James M Miller, The Genesis of Western Culture: The Upper Ohio
Valley, 1800–1825 (The Ohio State Archaeological and Historical Society, Columbus,
1938), 61.
15
Alexis de Tocqueville, Democracy in America (Alfred A Knopf, New York, 1980),
I, 272.
clearly defining the rights and duties of persons, and it strengthens wavering
principles by the sanctions of its wisdom. . . . This study renders men more obe-
dient subjects of government. . . . There are few minds that, on perusal of
Blackstone, Kent, and Story, do not warm, glow and burn with the love of right,
and the sentiments of rational patriotism.16
The discussion over the value of legal study was not confined to the
sphere of curmudgeons, commentators and counsellors-at-law. The topic
was also the subject of public lectures and debating society discussions
across the nation. In 1837, John E Moler witnessed such a debate at
Dickinson College in Carlisle, Pennsylvania. The debate was entitled
‘Which is more beneficial to the world a doctor or a lawyer?’17 No record
of the outcome of the actual proceedings survives, but Moler’s decision
to become a physician is somewhat suggestive.
Faced with conflicting opinions about the value of studying the law,
young men considering legal careers frequently turned to their elders for
advice. The counsel given by laymen often contained imagery that
reflected the popular understanding of what legal study entailed. In 1825,
Alexander Chase replied to his brother Salmon’s request for career con-
sultation with a discussion of ‘the advantages public and private of each
of the learned professions.’ Alexander, a geologist, cautioned Salmon
that the law presented a significant amount of mental labour. Law
dragged behind it a
formidable train of ponderous quartos and folios of maxims and opinions
expressed in the technical jargon and elegant obscurity of centuries long past, to
say nothing of the thousands of volumes of later date.—To become a good
Lawyer it is requisite that you should not only be master of all these but that you
should have a competent knowledge of all the other sciences, of the arts, and a
thorough acquaintance with ancient and modern History—In fine you must
become an universal scholar.18
Alexander Chase’s thoughts reflected a widespread perception of the
depth and breadth of the enterprise of legal study present in both law and
lay circles.
The depiction of the attorney as the consummate bookworm was the
natural outcome of a profession in which books played such a prominent
role. As Thomas Jefferson observed in 1769, ‘a lawyer without books
16 ‘The Profession of the Law,’ (Dec 1849) ns 2 The Western Law Journal, 97–113,
99–100.
17 26 Feb 1837, Journal of John Engle Moler, Ohio Historical Society, Columbus,
Ohio.
18 Alexander Ralston Chase to Salmon P Chase, 4 Nov 1825, The Salmon P. Chase
Papers: Correspondence, 1823–1857 (ed) John Niven (Kent State University Press, Kent,
OH, 1994), II, 4–5.
72 Ann Fidler
would be a workman without tools’.19 Attorneys toted books into court

as ammunition for their legal arguments. Lawyers travelling on circuit
carried a volume or two. Portraits of counsellors-at-law always contained
a tasteful scattering of law books. Legal offices frequently displayed
libraries ranged in plain view of the client’s chair. While generally mod-
est in scale, these personal law libraries were known even to those who
had no reason to consult an attorney. Quite often, the lawyer’s office con-
tained the largest collection of books in a particular locale. All of these
books signalled to laymen a concern, if not a passion, for knowledge. In
many small towns, lawyers were often the most literate, although not
necessarily the best educated, members of the community. William Dean
Howells, who in 1855 spent a month as a student in the Jefferson, Ohio
law office of Benjamin Wade, observed: ‘There were lawyers, of those
abounding at every county-seat, who were fond of reading, and imparted
their tastes to the young men studying in their offices’.20
There is no record of a single antebellum lawyer actually achieving the
mastery of the ‘thousands of volumes of law’ described by Alexander
Chase. In fact, the combination of lenient licensing standards and the
perfunctory nature of most bar examinations enabled men to join the
profession on the strength of having read an armful of books. Yet the
belief in the necessity of comprehensive and arduous learning persisted
despite the actuality of the low threshold of admission.21 The image of
the attorney as a man of hard-won erudition was a useful concept and
therefore carefully cultivated by the antebellum profession. In 1835,
William Rawle, Jr declared that in addition to a detailed understanding
of ‘the whole volume of legal science,’ a lawyer needed ‘a deep and accu-
rate knowledge of history, . . . some acquaintance with the useful and
even the elegant arts and sciences, familiarity with polite literature, and
. . . profound and frequent study of the sacred volume’ to ‘successfully
perform the varied duties of his calling’.22 The existence of a link between
intellectual pursuits and the practice of law enabled lawyers to claim a
19 Thomas Jefferson to Thomas Turpin, 5 Feb 1769, The Papers of Thomas Jefferson,
(ed) Julian P Boyd (Princeton University Press, Princeton, 1950), I, 24.
20
William Dean Howells, Years of My Youth and Three Essays (Indiana University
Press, Bloomington, 1975), 92. The prevalence of lawyers among the ranks of the well
read is discussed in Ronald J Zboray’s examination of the charge records of the New
York Society Library for the years 1847–49 and 1854–56. His work reveals that the
largest group of male patrons were lawyers. Zboray, A Fictive People: Antebellum
Economic Development and the American Reading Public (Oxford University Press,
New York, 1993), 159–160.
21 See Robert A Ferguson, Law and Letters in American Culture (Harvard University
Press, Cambridge, Mass, 1984), 28–30.

22 William Rawle, Jr, ‘An Address Delivered Before the Law Academy of Philadelphia
on the 6th of May, 1835,’ The American Jurist and Law Magazine 15 (April 1836)
233–235, 233.
range of abilities that ostensibly fitted them for leadership in governmen-

tal and social spheres. Members of the bar also vainly hoped that public
recognition of a high intellectual threshold of the bar would serve as a
damper against the penetration of the profession by a dreaded cavalcade
of threadbare schoolmasters and disgruntled farmers.
The concept of the well-read, learned lawyer was a durable one capa-
ble of co-existing with the other popular vision of attorneys as malinger-
ing blots of pestilence upon the commonweal. Not surprisingly, the
image of the erudite lawyer found its strongest reinforcement in the
speeches of lawyers and law professors, but traces of it can be found in
the personal correspondence and diaries of law students. Many law
students felt the necessity of measuring up to the archetype of the ante-
bellum attorney. Fiscal difficulties forced Calvin Fletcher, an Ohio law
student, to divide his time between teaching and the study of law.
Although he was supervised by an attorney, his reading was limited and
took place in fits and starts. On the eve of his official admission to the
bar, Fletcher measured himself against the omnipresent ideal.
I found myself very incapabl[e] in my profession as a Lawyer. Much application
must [be] given before I can expect to reap an agreeable and ful[l] harvest. I find
myself very ignorant of the world and destitute of that fund of book knowledge
that is necessary for to acquit myself with honor and eclat at the bar.23
Throughout his years of active practice, this strongly ingrained sense of
deficiency caused Fletcher to pursue a programme of reading designed to
remedy his nescience.
Individuals whose lack of resources curtailed the scope of their studies
were not the only law students to experience the pressure generated by
the inability to measure up to the ideal. The legal education of another
Ohio law student, Rutherford B Hayes, was not undercut by the restric-
tive forces of money and time. Hayes had the leisure to pursue the path
of the universal scholar through the study of language and literature.
Despite his considerable accomplishments, however, he too felt that his
progress was insufficient. Like Fletcher, Hayes looked to the future for a
remedy of his shortcomings.
My deficiencies are so many and apparent that I fear no exertion I can now make
will prepare me for entrance into business as well as I could wish. But what I leave
undone now may be finished, partially at least, during the intervals of leisure
which for many years to come I am to expect.24
23
6 Dec 1820, The Diary of Calvin Fletcher (ed) Gayle Thornbrough (Indiana
Historical Society, Indianapolis, 1972), I, 19.
24 21 Sept 1844, Diary and Letters of Rutherford Birchard Hayes (ed) Charles R
Williams (The Ohio State Archaeological and Historical Society, Columbus, 1922), I,
159–160 (hereafter cited as RBH Diary).
74 Ann Fidler
While some law students felt obliged to scourge themselves for their
perceived failings, the institutions in which they received their education,
be they offices or law schools, seemed unconcerned with forging would-
be lawyers in the mould of universal scholars. Generous lipservice was
given to the concept, but the goal of acquiring profound and extensive
knowledge through deep, broad reading was a task left solely to the dis-
cretion of the individual. Some students, prodded by ambition or fear,
took up the challenge. Peter Zinn, who studied law under the direction of
a Cincinnati lawyer, set up an evening reading schedule that included
works of history, literature, foreign languages and natural sciences.25
Young men who attended law schools often followed suit. Law students
at schools attached to universities were sometimes aided in this pursuit
by being granted permission to partake of the offerings of other depart-
ments. Rutherford B Hayes took advantage of Harvard University’s
policy of granting its law students the
privilege of attending all the public lectures of the University gratis; and the
opportunity of instruction in the modern languages on the payment of $10 per
annum for each language studied.26
The conception of law student as universal scholar was frequently
overshadowed by another popular representation of legal study—the
stultifying dryness and dullness of reading the law. Unlike the previous
notion, which was the product of lay observation and professional
puffery, the popular understanding of the tedium inherent in legal read-
ing drew heavily on the commentary of would-be lawyers. American law
students of the past were instrumental in the creation of a minor branch
of literature consisting chiefly of complaints about studying law. Their
groans and grumbles appeared in correspondence, doggerel, reminis-
cences, biographies and newspapers from the eighteenth century
onwards.27 One of the primary themes of this genre was that the study of
law added little relish to the circumstances of living. William Wirt, who
studied law in the 1780s, ventured his opinion on the nature of the pur-
suit in an 1814 letter to a law student.
The law is to many, at first, and at last too, a dry and revolting study. It is hard
and laborious; it is a dark and intricate labyrinth, through which they grope in
constant uncertainty and perplexity—the most painful of all states of mind.28
25 See, Peter Zinn Diary, Cincinnati Historical Society, Cincinnati, Ohio, 218,
229–230, 236–237.
26 ‘The Law Institution of Harvard University,’ The American Jurist and Law
Magazine (July 1830) 4, 217–220, 218; RBH Diary, I, 115, 120, 147, 148.
27 For a choice selection of 18th-century grumbles see, Jay F Alexander, ‘Legal Careers
in Eighteenth Century America,’ (1985) 23 Duquesne Law Review, 631–658.

28 William Wirt to Francis Gilmore, 13 July 1814, John P Kennedy, Memoirs of the
Life of William Wirt (Lea & Blanchard, Philadelphia, 1849), I, 376.

Wirt’s words were echoed and underscored by many others, insuring that
young antebellum men possessed ample knowledge of this outlook on
legal study. As a result, those committed to the path of the law fretted
about what lay ahead, and those who wavered engaged in a fair amount
of foot-dragging and soul-searching. Individuals who took the plunge
emerged divided on the question of law’s tedium. Mathew Birchard
began studying medicine and then switched to law in 1824. He observed:
I yet have this to say of the two studies. So far as I remember that of medicine was
more captivating & always interesting. Law was dry & Dull for a long time. It
required much study before I could feel an absorbing interest in it. I think it much
the dullest for a beginner.29
Richard Henry Dana, who studied law at Harvard in 1838, offered a dif-
ferent assessment.
From the very first recitation it became exceedingly interesting to me; & I have
never yet found it dry or irksome. After studying law about a year & a half, I told
Professor Greenleaf that I had not come across any dry places yet. ‘No Sir,’ said
he, ‘& you never will. A man who begins it properly & studies it philosophically,
will never find it dry’.30
In the popular understanding of the law student existence, reading the
law not only exposed young men to dull books, but also threatened their
personal health. As a result, state and national constitutions were not the
only constitutions that concerned law students. In Albert G. Riddle’s
Bart Ridgeley; A Story of Northern Ohio, an autobiographical novel
recounting its author’s youth, law student days and early legal practice,
the eponymous main character returns to the office of his law instructor,
General Ford, after consuming the first volume of Blackstone in the space
of a week. The General scolds Bart:
I don’t know but there is a man in the world who, without having seen a law book
before, has taken up and mastered the first volume of Blackstone in a week, but I
never heard of him. . . . It will not do for you to go on in this way; you should read
up a library in a year, if you lived, but will die in six months, at this rate.
With tears in his eyes, Bart said: ‘Do not fear [for] me, General; I am
strong and healthy; besides, there are a good many things worse than
death’.31
Albert G Riddle’s belief that legal study took a significant toll on the
mind and body stemmed from the death of his brother Harrison, who
29
Mathew Birchard, Autobiographical Sketch, Western Reserve Historical Society,
Cleveland, Ohio.
30 Richard Henry Dana, Jr, An Autobiographical Sketch, 1815–1842 (ed) Robert F
Metzdorf (Shoe String Press, Hamden, CT, 1953), 78.

31
Albert G Riddle, Bart Ridgeley; A Story of Northern Ohio (Nichols and Hall,
Boston, 1873), 104.
76 Ann Fidler
died shortly after being admitted to the Ohio bar. The Riddle family was
convinced that a gruelling course of legal study killed Harrison. Albert,
who was at his brother’s deathbed, concluded,
Nothing but utter exhaustion appeared to be his ailing, in which his mind seemed
to share—the penalty of his two years, unremitting and intense study—not the
law alone, but kindred studies.32
When Albert later declared his intentions to become a lawyer, his mother
and elder brothers declared their opposition, citing the fate of Harrison,
but the young man managed to prevail. Like his alter-ego Bart, he was
willing to take the risk, believing ‘that his own elasticity and power of
endurance would carry him forward and through, unscathed’.33
Rutherford B Hayes also acknowledged the debilitating effects of legal
study. While at Harvard Law School, he declared:
If I ever have any students I shall earnestly advise them to take respite enough to
prevent them from becoming disgusted and wearied out with study. . . . A few
months of close application can be easily borne by a young man of regular habits
and good constitution, but continual study seems to dry up the fountains of the
heart, cramp the intellect, sour the temper, and ruin health.34
The concerns raised by Riddle and Hayes illustrate how cultural con-
cepts from outside the legal profession influenced internal discussions of
legal study. Most antebellum Americans were convinced that periods of
concentrated study were dangerous to the well-being of young men. They
were led and confirmed in this belief by a group of medical experts whose
work focused on the brain as the primary engine of physical health. In
1832, Dr Amariah Brigham published his influential Remarks on the
Influence of Mental Cultivation and Mental Excitement Upon Health.
Directed at a lay audience, Brigham’s work sought to warn parents
against the ‘injury they may do their children by too early cultivating
their minds.’35 Adults engaged in strenuous mental labours, Brigham
concluded, were also subject to the potentially damaging effects of brain
drain. The mind possessed the ability to produce disease, consequently
‘if we do admit that the brain is the organ by which the mind acts, we
must acknowledge the necessity of guarding this organ most carefully, of
exercising it with extreme caution, of not endangering its delicate struc-
ture at any period of life by too much labor.’ In defence of his physiolog-
ical theory, Brigham quoted from Plutarch: ‘ “Should the body sue the
32 Albert G Riddle, ‘Fifty-Five Years of Lawyer Life, 1840–1895,’ 28, Albert G. Riddle
Papers, Western Reserve Historical Society.

33 Riddle, Bart Ridgeley, 168.
34 18 May 1844, RBH Diary, I, 151.
35 Amariah Brigham, Remarks on the Influence of Mental Cultivation and Mental
Excitement Upon Health (1833; reprint, Scholars’ Facsimiles & Reprints, Delmar, NY,
1973), 47.
mind before the court of judicature for damages, it would be found that
the mind would prove to have been a ruinous tenant to its landlord” ’.36
Joan Burbick points out how the emphasis on ‘privileging the brain’ by
Brigham and other medical writers dovetailed with changes in antebel-
lum society. ‘The rising class of managers and professionals knew the key
to their wealth and supposed happiness lay in their ability to be mental
laborers. . . . With mental labor came a sense that the mind could easily
become exhausted and worn out. Manual labor exercised the body and
could produce strength, but mental labor seemed to rest upon an inertia
for most of the body while the brain worked surrounded by an abyss of
strain, delusions, and torments. The efforts of the mind could easily turn
upon the user and extract a nasty revenge’.37 Under this scenario, legal
study was considered a risk even for the healthy, but for those in poor
physical condition it was unthinkable. Albert G Riddle observed that the
son of his late partner ‘has not yet developed the bodily vigor and hardi-
hood’ to sustain him as a law student.38 George W Brown used his weak
constitution to head off his father’s efforts to arrange a legal apprentice-
ship. Brown reminded his father in an 1831 letter: ‘It requires good health
for the practice of law as for most anything else, especially strong lungs,
which I have not’.39
36 Ibid, 32, 188.

37 Joan Burbick, Healing the Republic: The Language of Health and the Culture of
Nationalism in Nineteenth-Century America (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge,
1994), 156.
The role of the mind in the untimely demise of students took root firmly in antebellum
popular culture, but not everyone subscribed to it. The Reverend Daniel Wise acknowl-
edged the prevalent belief that being a serious student was an unhealthy occupation,
however, he doubted that strenuous mental activity had anything to do with the deaths
of young men. Wise preferred to locate the source of ill-health in the abuse of a lower
organ. ‘When I am told of a sickly student, that he is ‘studying himself to death,’ . . . I
study his countenance, and there, too often, read the real, melancholy truth in his dull,
averted, sunken eye, discolored skin, pimpled forehead, and timid manner. These signs
proclaim that the young man is, in some way, violating the laws of his physical nature.
He is secretly destroying himself! . . . He is sapping the source of life with his own guilty
hands, and erelong, will be a mind in ruins, or a heap of dust.’ Daniel Wise, The Young
Man’s Counselor; or, Sketches and Illustrations of the Duties and Dangers of Young
Men. Designed to be a Guide to Success in this Life, and to Happiness in the Life Which
is to Come (Swormstedt & Poe, Cincinnati, 1856), 119–120.
38 Albert G Riddle, History of Geauga and Lake Counties (Williams Brothers,
Philadelphia, 1878), 99.

39 George C Wing (ed), Early Years on the Western Reserve With Extracts From
Letters of Ephraim Brown and Family (Arthur H Clark Co, Cleveland, 1916), 120.
The belief in the necessity of good overall health for the undertaking of legal study per-
sisted after the Civil War. Joel Prentiss Bishop devoted the first chapter of his book for
law students to a discussion of ‘physical capacity.’ See, Bishop, The First Book of Law;
Explaining the Nature, Sources, Books, and Practical Applications of Legal Science, and
Methods of Study and Practice (Little, Brown, & Co, Boston, 1868), 1–4.
78 Ann Fidler
The emphasis on the debilitating effects of concentrated study also

assisted in the project of legitimating law as a manly and exclusive
endeavour. A desire to forge firm links between masculinity and the legal
profession emerged during the antebellum period.40 The devotion to
books and pens that allowed attorneys to lay claim to an exalted national
role also prompted visions of soft-bodied men sapped by idleness.
Imagery emphasising that law students must be fit, healthy and in pos-
session of great stamina to avoid being crushed by the demands of legal
study helped lawyers to augment the belief that law was an exclusively
masculine domain. Before embarking on his legal studies in 1842,
Rutherford B Hayes wrote in his diary: ‘The life of a truly great lawyer
must be one of severe and intense application; he treads no ‘primrose
path;’ every step is one of toil and difficulty; it is not by sudden, vigorous
efforts that he is to succeed, but by patient, enduring energy, which never
hesitates, never falters, but pushes on to the last. . . . Now is the time to
acquire the habits which will enable me to endure its hardships; and if I
make a right use of my present opportunities, my after life will be as
happy as it is laborious’.41
While there were certainly exceptions, neither death, nor dullness, nor
the prospect of eternal diligence stayed most antebellum law students
from attorneys’ offices or law school classrooms. Heroic visions of the
ends of legal study kept law students at their appointed task. Charles
Sumner wrote to another law student in 1831:
Tower, we have struck the true profession; the one in which the mind is the most
sharpened and quickened, and the duties of which, properly discharged, are most
vital to the interests of the country.42
Popular representations of legal study, however, were an important part
of law student culture. Each law book was measured for tedium, every
bout of ill health scrutinised, and the ideal of the true lawyer continually
sighed after. In the same letter, Sumner admitted that he despaired when
confronted by ‘the vast weight which a lawyer must bear up under’.43
Images of the content, consequences and expectations of reading the
law functioned as a common denominator for young men making the
journey between the lay and the legal world. These depictions also
40
See, E Anthony Rotundo, American Manhood: Transformations in Masculinity
from the Revolution to the Modern Era (Basic Books, New York, 1993), 169–174;
Michael Grossberg, ‘Institutionalizing Masculinity: The Law as a Masculine Profession,’
in MC Carnes and C Griffen (eds), Meanings for Manhood: Constructions of
Masculinity in Victorian America (University of Chicago Press, Chicago, 1990), 133–151.
41 6 Jan 1842, RBH Diary, I, 82–83.
42 Charles Sumner to Charlemagne Tower, 29 September 1831, Edward L. Pierce,
Memoirs and Letters of Charles Sumner, 2nd edn (S Low, Marston, Searle, & Rivington,
London, 1878), I, 111.
43 Ibid.
coloured the lay understanding of the law student experience. As a result,

the prevailing imagery of legal study provided a two-way channel
through which would-be attorneys and laymen communicated about the
nature and value of reading the law. One instance of the functioning of
this cultural exchange can be seen in Law and Laziness which plays with
the commonplaces concerning law students in a mock exposé that pur-
ports to reveal that instead of being colourless drones, antebellum law
students in New York were actually colourless lazybones. The novel
details a group of law students’ efforts to avoid, postpone and mitigate
the business of learning the law until shortly before the bar examination.
In words that echo those of Alexander Chase, the author observed
there are Chitty, Phillips, Kent, the Revised Statues, &c., to be familiar with;
some thousand reports to be consulted; and Graham and Burrill to be got by
heart, at leisure moments—all in three weeks.
The author wryly notes, ‘Somewhere in history there is an infant wonder
who did this in a year and died of the effort’.44 Yet the novel’s chivvying
of law students has a serious purpose. The author wants to provoke dis-
cussion about the course of legal study and the effects of restricting
admission to the bar. Humorous treatment of the popular imagery
surrounding law students provides him with an effective means of com-
municating his concerns.
BY THE BOOK: THE MECHANICS OF READING THE LAW
Upon entering an office or law school, the new acolyte of the law was
introduced to books from whence a good portion of his sense and sensi-
bility about the law was to be garnered. It was the task of the law student
to read the books at least once, to take notes upon them in a common-
place notebook, and on occasion to answer questions about their con-
tents. This course of ‘steady, systematic, dutiful reading,’ as one
antebellum attorney characterised it, laid the groundwork for a career in
the law.45 Oliver Bounderby, with his unerring instinct for compression,
presented a terse description of the process.
Three years rolled on over the head of Stanton in the office where he was endeav-
oring to master the noble science whose history is adorned with the names of
Bacon, Coke, Blackstone, and a thousand others shining as bright as those. The
history of one day in this period would pretty nearly be the history of it all. Hard
44
Law and Laziness, 20.
45
George W Houk, A Sketch of the Dayton Bench and Bar (United Brethren
Publishing House, Dayton, 1889), 47.
80 Ann Fidler
and unremitting study, and the closest attention to all the mysteries of the pro-
fession he sought to attain, seemed to be his only thoughts.46
The antebellum syllabus of legal reading rarely encompassed thou-
sands of bright, shiny books, but it was variable. Reading lists reflected
the publication of new material, the content of libraries and the prefer-
ences of instructors. There was, however, some overlap in titles and
subject matter. A comparison between the reading done by two Ohio
antebellum legal apprentices—Albert G Riddle and Peter Zinn—and the
books assigned by three antebellum law schools—Indiana, Harvard and
Cincinnati—yields a total of 38 titles (see, Appendix).47 Titles read by
three or more parties were Blackstone’s Commentaries (all five), Kent’s
Commentaries (Zinn, Indiana, Harvard), and Chitty on Contracts
(Cincinnati, Harvard, Indiana). Other congruities existed in the realm of
subject matter. Riddle, Zinn and the students attending the law schools
all read preliminary studies of the law and works concerning pleading
under common law procedure. Subjects studied by four parties (Riddle,
Indiana, Harvard, Cincinnati) included evidence under common law pro-
cedure and the principles related to chancery law and procedure. Other
similarities included overviews examining matters like equity, common
law procedural concerns and contracts. Differences between reading
assignments existed in not only the treatises chosen on a particular topic,
but in the absence or presence of readings on certain subjects.48 Only one
or two lists included works on criminal law, criminal procedure, legal
history, statutory law, common law practice, negotiable contracts, sales,
equity pleading and practice, partnership, constitutional law, corpora-
tions, international law, insurance, maritime contracts, agency, bail-
ments, or commercial law.
The titles of books provide clues to the scope and direction of particu-
lar legal educations, but the practice of judging books by their covers can-
not be condoned. Legal historians still pick up these crumbling volumes
on occasion to stiffen the resolve of arguments, but each ‘black letter’ law
book coaxed out of storage seems grey and lifeless under the fluorescent
lights of the modern law library. For antebellum law students, however,
these law books were more than cowhide containers of legal pronounce-
ments. They were instruments of fortune and futility that engaged and
46 Bounderby, The Law Student, 33.
47 Sources for these reading lists are noted in the Appendix. The lists cannot be
thought of as definitive as most students ventured beyond their assigned reading. The
comparison of lists was undertaken to give some sense of what was considered core read-
ing for antebellum law students.
48 The range of titles assigned for a single topic of study can be seen in the reading lists.
For example, there are three different texts devoted to the procedural aspects of equity—
Fonblanque’s Equity (Riddle), Story’s Equity Jurisprudence (Indiana, Harvard), and
Holcombe’s Introduction to Equity (Cincinnati).
enraged young men in equal proportions. Blackstone and his minions

must be understood as part of a dialogue that was taking place between
self, other students, society and the profession. The mechanics of reading
and the coping strategies that students developed help explain why law
students underwent similar intellectual experiences despite variations in
the content and the context of their studies.
On his first day as a law student, George W Van Horne knew that there
would be difficult times ahead, but on that date in 1853 his enthusiasm
for legal study knew no bounds.
Comparatively a stranger to the ‘Republic of Letters,’ untutored in the Sciences,
and upon no familiar terms with the classics, I perceive at once that my future suc-
cess does not depend on what has been accomplished but rather, upon present
unwearied action, just appreciation of present advantages, an unflinching pur-
pose, an energy of will, that bows before, and yields to no opposing obstacle.49
While few antebellum law students could equal Van Horne’s exuberance,
many shared his lack of preparation for the often byzantine task of
reading the law. Given what is known about antebellum culture and edu-
cation, this observation may seem surprising. The ostensible task of the
law student was the digestion of a battery of topics through which the
structure, function and operation of the law would be slowly revealed.
On the surface, literary socialisation in the period seemed well suited to
such an endeavour. Education tended to encourage the capacity for rote
memorisation and compartmentalisation while trimming the sails of
imagination. Common practices associated with reading the Bible
emphasised the turning of discrete narratives into a complex maze of
strictures that gave purpose and form to faith. Meanwhile, the dictates of
self-culture promoted the virtues of steady, serious reading. Young ante-
bellum men of all walks of life were urged to devote any available leisure
time to works of a serious, factual nature, and from the reading lists that
survive it is evident that while novels and newspapers proved tempting,
the advice was often followed. Taken together these common antebellum
strategies of selecting and processing reading material suggest that a
happy match existed between the project of legal study and the skills of
young men. Yet most law students struggled and fumed over the task set
before them.
Ronald Zboray, in his work on antebellum reading and publishing,
suggests that the standard picture of literary socialisation needs adjust-
ing. He points out that an antebellum individual’s reading capacity and
interpretative capability depended upon religious, familial and educa-
tional forums that were increasingly fractured. Bible reading was altered
by a proliferation of sects with divergent ideas on the interpretation and
49
Mildred Throne (ed), ‘The Diary of a Law Student, 1853–1855,’ Iowa Journal of
History (1957) 55, 167–186, 169.
82 Ann Fidler
use of scripture. Familial lines of power in regard to the responsibilities

of raising middle-class children shifted in a way that altered reading prac-
tices within the home. Zboray notes that attentive mothers sheltered
their charges from the dreary technical and competitive aspects of the
lives of their fathers by selecting reading material that dealt with the
formation of personal character.50 At the other end of the social scale,
parental attention to reading of any variety was rare for children in large
families of low incomes and little leisure. In the schoolroom, the experi-
ence of reading was anything but standard as pupils were exposed to a
wide array of inept pedagogy. As a consequence, large numbers of law
students were rendered ill-equipped for their studies.
Under these circumstances, the first challenge that many youths faced
in reading the law was learning the mechanics of how to read the law.
That task involved not only understanding the means of translating
printed words into accessible knowledge, but figuring out how to deal
with limitations imposed by abilities, resources and instruction. Those
who suffered the least in regard to the prospect of legal reading were gen-
erally young men who had attended a college or university. While time
spent at an institution of higher education did not translate into greater
comprehension of the material, it did ease the transition into legal study
by providing exposure to classical languages, history and the methodol-
ogy of scientific thought. These were subjects that aided in developing a
feel for the logic and rhythms of legal reading. While a student at
Harvard Law School, Rutherford B Hayes advised some friends at
Kenyon College:
For the student who has the industry and the ability to master the difficulties of
his college course, will not be apt to grapple unsuccessfully with the difficulties of
the study of law.51
A college or university sojourn also provided some young men with the
savior faire necessary for dealing with the amorphous task set before
them. Exposure to higher education taught some students the fine art of
academic coasting—knowing when it was absolutely necessary to push
and when it was possible to sit back and enjoy the ride. Charles Matchett,
studying at Cincinnati Law School, confided to his journal:
It may be my misfortune to fail. As far as I am concerned in the failure I care but
little: but when I reflect that I have an aged and venerable Father at home, whose
50
‘The reading a mother encouraged did not so much ready her child to deal with a
society of contracts, technical manuals, account books, or law, as provide the morality,
feelings, and discipline that might make the world a better place.’ Zboray, Fictive People,
86.
51
Rutherford B Hayes to the President and Members of the Phi Zeta Club, 30 Jan
1844, RBH Diary, I, 140.
most anxious care is for my success; I must strive with all my might to make the
case otherwise.
The desire to succeed, however, did not interfere with his active social life
that included frequent attendance at concerts, lyceums, plays, the occa-
sional snowball fight and ‘the Balloon assention by Moris Goddard on a
live Pony in company with his wife’.52 In college, Matchett had learned
that academic work need not be an obstacle to a daily round of pleasure.
Although it offered some advantages, college exposure could not com-
pletely resolve the strain of dealing with the volumes of volumes, the swift
passage of time and the fragility of powers of concentration. Most
students, regardless of educational background, sought a method, philo-
sophy, or short-cut to help them get through. Rutherford B Hayes
believed that ‘mental discipline’ was indispensable to legal study. He
noted in his diary:
The important powers to be disciplined in studying a work like Blackstone, are
the memory and attention. The other great powers of the mind, [such] as appre-
hension, judgement, and reasoning, are of necessity called into action.53
In an attempt to impose mental discipline Hayes instituted a regime of
study. It forbade the reading of newspapers, and required him to rise at
seven and retire at ten, spending six hours a day studying law, two hours
at German, and another two reading the English divine, William
Chillingsworth.54 Peter Zinn’s daily diary entries often ended with the
phrase ‘mad at myself.’ He charted the course of each day’s progress and
often found himself lacking. As a consequence, Zinn constructed a com-
plicated schedule of checks and balances that in theory promoted intense
industry while setting aside time for the purpose of banishing care. His
diary then recorded his progress in his ‘rules for my government.’ After
two weeks of the cumbersome regime, he decided to abandon it, and
notations such as ‘tolerably mad at self and truly miserable’ begin to
appear again.55
The establishment of a regime was a practice urged upon law students
for centuries. William Fulbecke published one of the earliest English
guides to the proper study of the law in 1600. The subtitle of the book
indicated its general purpose: ‘Wherein is Shewed, What Things Ought
to be Observed and Used of Them that are Addicted to the Study of the
Law’56. Twenty-eight years later, Edward Coke, in his commentary upon
52
20 Jan, 13 April 1856, Charles G Matchett Journal, Cincinnati Historical Society,
11, 22.
53
19 Nov 1842, RBH Diary, I, 109.
54
26 Nov 1842, RBH Diary, I, 110.
55
Zinn Diary, 217, 218, 234.
56
William Fulbecke, A Direction or Preparative to the Study of the Lawe (1600;
reprint, Garland, New York, 1980).
84 Ann Fidler
Thomas Littleton’s work on the common law of real property, advised

students to dedicate six hours to sleep, six hours to reading, four hours
to discussion, two to eating and the final waking hours to spiritual mat-
ters.57 In antebellum America, David Hoffman in the second edition of A
Course of Legal Study (1836) enlarged upon his predecessor’s directives
by pointing out the importance of method. He wrote:
In the various pursuits of man throughout life, method is no less important than
industry. If the latter brings us with certainty to the contemplated end, the former
facilitates our progress, designates the paths which are the least incumbered, and
leads us directly, and often without fatigue, to the object of pursuit. . . . [H]e who
has been uniformly the most methodical, though he may not have seen, heard,
read, and reflected more than another, has certainly acquired more, both in extent
and quality.58
Rutherford B Hayes considered Hoffman’s advice in his diary:
Hoffman . . . gives a number of resolutions proper for a law student to make on
setting out his journey into the dreary wilderness (the figure is true if not in good
taste) of the law. He prescribes a course of study, which, if adopted and faithfully
pursued, cannot fail to render a man an able lawyer. Now, why not adopt the res-
olutions, deo juvante, and pursue the course? . . . Method and regularity are nec-
essary in this, as in all great undertakings, for anything worthy the name of
success.59
In the antebellum context, the devotion to regimes among law students
not only grew out of the task set before them, but was coloured by expec-
tations imposed upon all young men by a changing society. In the past
two decades, social and cultural historians have probed the portman-
teaus and psyches of youths living before the Civil War.60 Their work
57 The epigram in Latin appears in the first American edition of Coke on Littleton. JH
Thomas (ed), A Systematic Arrangement of Lord Coke’s First Institute of the Laws of
England (Robert Small, Philadelphia, 1827) I, 5. Henry Venard, an antebellum law stu-
dent studying under Clement Vallandigham in Dayton, Ohio, paraphrased Coke’s daily
directions to a letter to a friend. ‘[I] would like to have you here to talk with for one of
the directions given to students by sir E. Coke is to read all Morning and talk all after-
noon and I can not follow that direction because I have no person to talk with . . . .’ Henry
Venard to William R Moore, 13 May 1850, William R. Moore Papers, Ohio Historical
Society. See also, Charles Sumner, ‘The Employment of Time. Lecture Before the Boston
Lyceum . . ., February 18, 1846,’ The Works of Charles Sumner (Lee and Shepard,
Boston, 1874), I, 184–213, 200–201.
58 David Hoffman, A Course of Legal Study, 2nd edn (Joseph Neal, Baltimore, 1836),
19.
59 27 Oct 1843, RBH Diary, I, 121.
60 See, Rotundo, American Manhood:; Rodney D Olsen, Dancing in Chains: The
Youth of William Dean Howells (New York University Press, New York, 1991); Robert
Wiebe, The Opening of American Society: From the Adoption of the Constitution to the
Eve of Disunion (Knopf, New York, 1984); Karen Halttunen, Confidence Men and
Painted Women: A Study of Middle-class Culture in America, 1830–1870 (Yale
reveals a generation of young people possessed by a self-consciousness of

epic proportions generated by a society absorbing the effects of the dis-
solution of social boundaries. Older Americans, alarmed at the unravel-
ling of the previous century’s mechanisms of control, sought to create
new means of inculcating responsibility and proper behaviour among
adolescents. The youth was warned that his life would consist of an
unending, solitary struggle against the corruptions engendered by the
desires of his mind and body.61 Lollygags and dillydalliers received no
quarter at the frontiers of antebellum adolescence.
In such an atmosphere, every episode of neglect warranted critical
evaluation as law students struggled to control all facets of their lives.
Thus, the evening spent chatting in the parlour was measured against the
unread volume of Kent left lying on the desk. This milieu of self-scrutiny
encouraged the belief that small lapses could contaminate an individual’s
character leading inexorably to disgrace, disease, dissipation, and disin-
heritance.62 Salmon P Chase abandoned any pretense of careful, regi-
mented study as the bar examination approached in December of 1829.
Chase admitted: ‘I read superficially but my object was rather to finish a
certain number of books before I applied for admission to the bar than to
acquire legal knowledge.’ The tactic, however, caused him considerable
concern.
I have given strength to a habit of superficial reading which was strong before. It
will not now be easy to eradicate it and substitute for it a habit of close attention
and patient reflection. Yet this must be done or my admission to the bar will do
me little good.63
In an enterprise like studying the law, achievement was difficult to mea-
sure, and the daily round of work largely devoid of any means of con-
firming legal ability. The construction of rigid, often elaborate schedules
detailing the metes and bounds of reading, eating and sleeping offered a
means of regulating the self and judging progress. Regardless of the con-
tents of the reading list, these regimes offered a refuge from anxiety. As
David Hoffman assured his readers,
University Press, New Haven, 1982); Mary P Ryan, Cradle of the Middle Class: The
Family in Oneida County, New York, 1790–1865 (Cambridge University Press, New
York, 1981); Carroll Smith-Rosenberg, ‘Sex as Symbol in Victorian Purity: An
Ethnohistorical Analysis of Jacksonian America,’ in J Demos and SS Boocock (eds),
Turning Points: Historical and Sociological Essays on the Family (The University of
Chicago Press, Chicago, 1978), 212–247; Allan S Horlick, Country Boys and Merchant
Princes: The Social Control of Young Men in New York (Bucknell University Press,
Lewisburg, PA, 1975).
61 See, Halttunen, Confidence Men, 25; Wiebe, Opening of American Society, 271.
62 See, Lewis Perry, Boats Against the Current: American Culture Between Revolution
and Modernity, 1820–1860 (Oxford University Press, New York, 1993), 194.
63 1–2 & c Dec 1829, Journal of Salmon P. Chase, I, 30.
86 Ann Fidler
Method places in our hands both a torch and clue, to guide us through the surest
and easiest ways: it agreeably impresses the mind with confidence, amidst the
greatest difficulties, and presents the most distinct and lively pictures of all that is
worthy of notice in our path; and finally brings us to the end of our journey,
improved, invigorated, and delighted.64
BLACKSTONE AS TOUCHSTONE:
THE CULTURAL ROLE OF THE COMMENTARIES
Popular representations of legal study along with strategies for coping

with reading the law provide a means of probing the socialisation of
those engaged in the enterprise of becoming an attorney. The process
through which young men learned to be lawyers was also shaped by the
reading of particular works in the law student canon. The urtext of ante-
bellum law students was William Blackstone’s ubiquitous Commentaries
on the Laws of England. Blackstone became inseparable from the prac-
tice of law because it presented a comprehensible and comprehensive
summary of that incomprehensible and incompressible system that
underpinned American legal activities—the common law. Before
Blackstone, Americans tried to learn the common law from works of
their sixteenth and seventeenth century legal forefathers. It was a daunt-
ing task that embittered and disgusted an entire generation of lawyers.
Thus, the arrival of Blackstone was hailed as a kind of miracle. Elevated
by a host of heartfelt hosannas, Blackstone became a fixture in the ante-
bellum law office, but like any familiar, albeit valuable furnishing, it was
cleaned, painted and re-upholstered many times as a variety of men tried
to nationalise, regionalise, individualise or accessorise its contents.65
Some even possessed the temerity to criticise Blackstone as the inculcator
of unwholesome political ideas or point out its general irrelevance to a
rapidly changing world of practice and procedure.66 Regardless of
renovation or reproach, however, Blackstone, in one form or another,
remained the linchpin of antebellum legal education. Its influence
endured beyond pupillage, providing practitioners with a span of com-
64
Hoffman, Course of Legal Study, 20.
65
See, Craig E Klafter, Reason Over Precedents: Origins of American Legal Thought
(Greenwood Press, Westport, CT, 1993), 31–47, for a discussion of how St. George
Tucker shaped his influential edition of the Commentaries.
66 See, ‘Study of the Law,’ in Michael H Hoeflich (ed), The Gladsome Light of
Jurisprudence: Learning the Law in England and the United States in the 18th and 19th
Centuries (Greenwood Press, New York, 1988), 201–213, 206–207 (First published in
The Southern Literary Messenger (1837) 3, 25–31); Julius S Waterman, ‘Thomas
Jefferson and Blackstone’s Commentaries,’ in DH Flaherty (ed), Essays in the History of
Early American Law (University of North Carolina Press, Chapel Hill, 1969), 451–488,
457–472.
mon ground on which the edifice of a national legal culture would be

constructed after the Civil War.
Because of its importance to the process of learning the law, the
Commentaries played a highly visible role in the lives of law students.
Blackstone served as a catalyst of professional identity, functioned as a
site of social and cultural communion for law students and furnished a
generation of lawyers with a rudimentary understanding of the nature
and operation of law. Other books, such as James Kent’s Commentaries
on American Law (1826–1830) and Timothy Walker’s Introduction to
American Law (1837), were widely read by law students and contributed
to the antebellum understanding of law. Neither Kent nor Walker’s
works, however, achieved Blackstone’s status as a cultural cynosure.
Charles Sumner wrote to a fellow law student in 1832:
Truly, the English commentator [Blackstone] is a glorious man; he brings such a
method, such a flow of language and allusion and illustration to every topic! I
have heard a sensible lawyer place Kent above him; but, in my opinion, sooner
ought the earth to be above the clear and azure-built heavens!67
Blackstone occupied the centre of a ceaseless discussion that included
panegyrics by Joseph Story, pot-shots by Thomas Jefferson and parody
in the form of Gilbert Abbott Beckett’s The Comic Blackstone (1844).
Despite the significance of Blackstone, the cultural relationship between
the antebellum legal community and the Commentaries remains largely
unexplored.68 In past historical studies of attorneys before the Civil War,
Blackstone appears as a prop. It rests in a saddlebag, on the desk or in
Abraham Lincoln’s case, apocryphally in the bottom of a barrel of junk.
Yet when Blackstone is seen through the eyes of law students, it tran-
scends its status as object and becomes a force with which to be reckoned.
Legal study either in an office or in a law school typically began with
a foray into the Commentaries. To get started, as one antebellum law stu-
dent put it, you had to ‘open Justice Blackstone & then, Crocket like, “go
ahead” ’.69 In an 1831 letter welcoming a pupil to his office, Philip
Doddridge advised the young man to begin reading Blackstone immedi-
ately. ‘This book,’ Doddridge wrote, ‘should be read with more ease than
67 Charles Sumner to Charlemagne Tower, 31 Jan 1832, Memoirs, I, 113. Sumner’s
appreciation for Kent deepened after a year of legal study. He declared in an 1833 letter
to Tower: ‘I have had from him [Kent] a great deal of elegant instruction. His
Commentaries are not wholly appreciated by the student upon a first perusal; they are
hardly elementary enough.’ Sumner to Charlemagne Tower, 12 June 1833, Memoirs, I,
119–120.
68
An exception is Robert A Ferguson who addresses the cultural influences of
Blackstone on the lawyer-writer, and the development of early American literature. See,
Law and Letters, 30–33, 92.
69
William McClintick to William S Gregg, 8 July 1840, William S Gregg Papers, Ohio
Historical Society.
88 Ann Fidler
any one in any language except the bible and by every one who would
wish to excell. Not a sentence should be left unstudied’.70 Blackstone was
the McGuffey Reader of the legal set, and as such its style, substance, and
imagery created a common legal framework upon which antebellum
lawyers secured their ideology and convictions concerning law and its
practice.
Four volumes comprised the Commentaries. The first tackled the
rights of persons and the role of government. The second dealt with
property law. The third looked at civil procedure and remedies, while the
final volume took on criminal law. The scope of Blackstone is broad and
its pages are laden with detail, but it presented complex information in a
structured, easily digestible fashion. The readability of Blackstone gave
heart to many law students who feared the dry complexities of the law. In
fact, some judged Blackstone to be too accessible. Law and Laziness took
aim at the congenial nature of the Commentaries.
That grim Sphynx with his riddles, Coke upon Lyttleton, no longer frowns at the
gates of the law and frightens away the children. . . . But Blackstone opens, invit-
ingly, an airy and ornamental portal to the traveller, in search of a profession and
tempts him to enter on the thorny path, and tangled labyrinths beyond. He has
made law fashionable; inundated the profession with young men of bad habits
and good families; and created the order of students of leisure.71
Blackstone’s position as the polestar of the antebellum law student was
not just a result of his way with words, but was also a product of the eco-
nomic realities of legal practice. Law books were expensive and as a
result most lawyers’ libraries were small. Without much capital to invest
in books, attorneys tended to purchase used editions of texts that covered
a broad range of subjects in a single volume.72 The Commentaries met
both criteria as it was considered to be a comprehensive work readily
available for secondhand purchase. A young man in search of a legal
career might have difficulty in finding a preceptor, the wherewithal to
pursue his studies, or a roof to sleep under, but a copy of Blackstone was
always within reach.
Blackstone had an influential role in the creation of legal identity, in
part, because its fame transgressed the boundaries of the legal world and
spilled into popular culture. Therefore, even before a law student turned
a single page, he was acquainted with the name and the fame of
70
Philip Doddridge to Waltman Willey, 5 Aug 1831, Western Reserve Historical
Society.
71 Law and Laziness, 21.
72 See, Harris, ‘Frontier Lawyer’s Library’, 244–245. Newmyer paints a different pic-
ture of lawyer’s book-buying strategies: ‘By publishing individual volumes on specific

subjects, rather than massive works like those of William Blackstone and James Kent,
Story made it possible for lawyers to buy only what they needed at a price that they could
afford.’ Newmyer, ‘Harvard Law School,’ 163.
Blackstone. For lawyers, a copy of the Commentaries was the icono-

graphic equivalent of the blacksmith’s anvil. An 1859 painting by David
Gilmore Blythe entitled The Lawyer’s Dream depicts an old man snooz-
ing away amidst the clutter of his office. A viewer knows that the figure is
a lawyer because in the foreground of the picture lies a large book with
the name Blackstone emblazoned across the cover.73 The prominence of
the Commentaries within society heightened the law student’s first
encounter with the work, often transforming it into a moment of per-
sonal significance. George W Van Horne wrote on the day he began his
legal apprenticeship:
language of mind is not adequate for the illustration of the emotions and aspira-
tions, which glow in my bosom, as for the first time I am honoured with an intro-
duction to the immortal Blackstone.74
Reading Blackstone was an outward sign of a commitment to the idea
of becoming an attorney. As the first weeks of legal study progressed, the
name of Blackstone appeared repeatedly in letters as law students sought
to establish their legal identities in the eyes of individuals who had
heretofore known them only in their mundane incarnations as sons,
brothers, or friends. Ros Buchanan, who studied law in Ohio, gave notice
of his new status in an 1836 letter to a college friend. ‘Here I come—clear
the track—I am no longer Ros—but ahem! Why Sir, I am Mr. Lawyer.’
Mr. Lawyer continued chastising his friend for failing to keep an appoint-
ment, saying,
You deserve banishment everlasting, and by golly, you shall have it. For with
Blackstone in one hand and a box of cegars in the other I will send you beyond
the region of Hen peck where you shall eat grass like an oxen, forever, and
forevermore.75
The mere mention of Blackstone served as a powerful identifier, but the
contents of the book were equally important to the development of a
sense of self as lawyer. In particular, the specialised vocabulary and
imagery found in Blackstone provided the means through which law
students could ground their legal identity. It would take many months
before a young man could present an argument before a tribunal, but in
the course of the first week of reading Blackstone, words such as non
compos or laches tripped off the tongue providing his first tangible
73
The Lawyer’s Dream, oil on canvas by David Gilmore Blythe (1815–1865) 61.6 ×
51.4 cm. (241/4 × 20 1/4 in.), 1859, The Carnegie Museum of Art, Pittsburgh, PA. The
link between Blackstone and the legal profession is symbolised by the large padlock and
chain that secures the book to the lawyer’s desk. The message is that Blackstone belongs
unreservedly to members of the legal profession who render its contents inaccessible by
their unchallenged possession.
74
Throne, ‘Diary of a Law Student,’ 169.
75 Ros Buchanan to William S Gregg, 20 Sept 1836, Gregg Papers.
90 Ann Fidler
connection to the profession. The technical vocabulary of the law came

in for considerable criticism by laymen and some lawyers. Timothy
Walker, in the 1844 edition of his Introduction to American Law,
observed that professionals like to
create a monopoly of their acquisitions, by employing a language not generally
understood, nor easily acquired; and when a phraseology, however barbarous or
inelegant, has been consecrated by time, it is very difficult to change it.76
In the initial stages of their professional journey, however, law students
were not inclined to ponder unduly the obscurity of law’s language. Like
the passwords of a secret society, the specialised vocabulary found in the
Commentaries provided law students with a sense of inclusion and the
authority of technical knowledge. These young men were discovering
what David Sugarman has called ‘the special power of lawyers to do
things with words’.77
Imagery found in the text gave students another means of transform-
ing their understanding of themselves and the role of the lawyer. For
instance, in Volume One, the most familiar and personal human rela-
tionships are categorised and put into a legal context. Law students stud-
ied a chapter on parents and children in which the affections and
aversions of family life were metamorphosed into particulars concerning
a range of enforceable duties and responsibilities. In the pages of
Blackstone, issues that many law students were intimately acquainted
with such as punishment, education and the extent of parental power,
were quickly and cleanly brought under law’s dominion. The imagery of
hearth and home as vessels of the law continued in another chapter focus-
ing on the realm of husbands and wives. Marriage, intones Blackstone, is
considered in no other light than a civil contract
allowing it to be good and valid in all cases, where the parties at the time of mak-
ing it were, in the first place, willing to contract; secondly, able to contract; and,
lastly, actually did contract, in the proper forms and solemnities required by
law.78
76
Timothy Walker, Introduction to American Law, Designed as a First Book for
Students, 2nd edn (U P James, Cincinnati, 1844), 2.
77
David Sugarman, ‘Simple Images and Complex Realities: English Lawyers and
Their Relationship to Business and Politics, 1750–1950,’ Law and History Review (1993)
11, 257–301, 293.
78
William Blackstone, Commentaries on the Laws of England (1765, reprint,
University of Chicago Press, Chicago, 1979), I, 421.
Gilbert Abbott Beckett parodied this famous passage in his popular satirical work of
1844, The Comic Blackstone: ‘To make a marriage three things are required;—first, that
the parties will marry; secondly that they can; and thirdly, that they do; though to us it
seems that if they do, it matters little whether they will, and if they will, it is of little con-
sequence whether they can; for if they do, they do; and if they will they must; because
where there is a will there is a way, and therefore they can if they choose; and if they
The influence of this perspective of marital relations is evident in a pas-

sage from the diary of Calvin Fletcher, an Ohio lawyer newly admitted to
the bar, who reflected on his marriage proposal of the previous day. He
wrote:
I will here suggest my reasons for these ingagements that I am about to fulfil so
that I shall be able here after to satisfy myself and if not myself others that may
have an inspection of this Book, that I deliberately went into the marriage con-
tract being sensible of all the disadvantages under which I labor.79
Contact with imagery of parents and wives as legal entities did not wring
all the sentimentality out of young male minds, but it did supply them
with a new understanding of the lines of power, duty and authority in the
institutions of marriage and family.
The Commentaries also formed a site of social and cultural commu-
nion for law students. Peter Zinn, Albert G Riddle and students of the
law schools at Cincinnati, Harvard, and Indiana did not all share the
experience of reading Espinasse’s Nisi Prius, but every last one of them
read Blackstone. From the provisions supplied by the Commentaries—an
emerging legal identity, a new vocabulary, and a different way of viewing
the familiar—law students fashioned a shared consciousness of the
process of legal study. Few students knew much about the actual life and
career of Sir William, but in antebellum law offices the historical man was
of no concern. Blackstone was removed from the context of his life and
refashioned as the law student’s particular friend. George W Van Horne
wrote of Blackstone in his journal as though the old fellow had dropped
in for tea.
Attended closely the companionship of Blackstone in conversation about the
Clergy of England, and before eve’g had the pleasure of relating to Mr. Ladd the
facts gathered from the interview with the learned gentleman.80
Law students thought of Blackstone as a benign old man—wise but a bit
old-fashioned. In this guise, Blackstone became part of the language of
frolic and friendship shared by law students. Blackstone, having penned
a few poems himself, might have enjoyed Josiah Scott’s doggerel descrip-
tion of the labours of a legal pupil. One stanza read: ‘I sometimes at the
lasses look,/ Sometimes hurrah for Jackson!/ Sometimes I read a musty
book/ Compiled by old Judge Blackstone’.81
don’t, it is because they won’t, which brings us to the conclusion, that if they do, it is
absurd to speculate upon whether they will or can marry.’ Beckett, The Comic
Blackstone (Carey and Hart, Philadelphia, 1844), 83.
79 4 Feb 1821, Diary of Calvin Fletcher, I , 24.
80 Throne, ‘Diary of a Law Student,’ 172.
81 RC Colmery, A Memoir of the Life and Character of Josiah Scott (Cott & Hann,
Columbus, OH, 1881), 15.

92 Ann Fidler
While the reading of Blackstone brought students together, it also

served as a means of making distinctions among them. In the world of the
antebellum law student it wasn’t enough just to read Blackstone, among
your peers what mattered was how fast you read it. I have labelled this
phenomenon as ‘Blackstone velocity quotient.’ Young men unsure of
their abilities and intellectual talents wanted a measurement that could
be communicated to others that might act to bolster self-esteem and give
a much-needed sense of progress. Many believed that the rapid con-
sumption of Blackstone was a portent of legal aptitude and future suc-
cess. Rutherford B Hayes noted his Blackstone macho quotient in an 1842
entry in his diary in which he claimed to be plowing through the
Commentaries at a pace of 150 pages per week.82 Albert G Riddle left
Hayes in the dust. He took only a week to read each volume.83
Blackstone assisted in the socialisation of law students not only by
encouraging the development of a legal identity and a sense of commu-
nity but by instilling a basic understanding of the nature and operation
of law. To glimpse the Commentaries’ role in the latter enterprise, it is
necessary to try and reconstruct the experience of reading Volumes One
through Four through the eyes of a prototypical antebellum law student.
The young man sits in an attorney’s office on the verge of opening up
Volume One. At that moment what does the youth know about the ways
of the law? For the law student, like so many laymen, the notion of law
possesses three functional dimensions—it is a compendium of rules writ-
ten down in a statute book somewhere that regulates actions, it is a dimly
realised consciousness concerning rights and it is a process which brings
together community members, lawyers and judges in an adversarial set-
ting. As the law student settles back in his chair and begins to read, he
quickly discovers that law is a complex mixture composed of a dizzying
spectrum of custom, authority, Latin phrases and people with tricky
names like Puffendorf. With each page he turns, the youth witnesses how
law surrounds the mighty and the minute. When he closes the final
volume, his general, unfocused ideas about the province of law give way
to inchoative understanding of the law as the rational, orderly engine of
society.
In reading the Commentaries, the law student passes through his first
stage of legal study—the Blackstone moment. He has seen that law pro-
vides pragmatic solutions to complex problems; that authority matters
to the correct interpretation of the law; and that law is a science and its
components are arranged in a manner consistent with its natural struc-
ture. The Blackstone moment was recorded by Rutherford B Hayes in an
1842 diary entry.
82
19 Nov 1842, RBH Diary, I, 108.
83
Riddle, ‘Fifty-Five Years of Lawyer Life,’ 42.
Blackstone’s’ style is so clear that his meaning is seldom obscure, and he is so per-
spicuous in the statement of the reasons for what he says and in his explanations,
that great exertion is not requisite to comprehend him. As it is all plain reading,
the attention is the only power especially exercised.84
The Blackstone moment conferred a sense of control and offered the pos-
sibility for mastery of complexities, but for most antebellum law students
it was brutally brief. The further law students ventured from the
Commentaries, the clearer it became that what was orderly and rational
was William Blackstone’s mind and that the daily law of town, state and
nation was bewilderment’s finest creation. Peter Zinn, a post-Blackstone
law student confronted with the task of understanding the practical
applications of the law of contracts, declared:
the head of contracts contains so many nice points of law, and the decisions are
so conflicting, that we often get entangled and almost wholly lost in the mist of
the many apparent contradictory decisions. Express and implied frauds—sym-
bolical, and delivery in fact—personal property in and out of possession . . .
afford a field of investigation as intricate and as difficult of exploration as the
swamps of Florida.85
Although the premise of a neatly packaged legal system was under-
mined, a residue of the Blackstone moment remained, providing a criti-
cal link between antebellum attorneys. The study of Blackstone gave
counsellors-at-law the materials necessary to make their peace with the
difficult and cantankerous conundrum known as the law. Law might
exhibit signs of being as pathless as a swamp, but the lawyer whose liveli-
hood depended on his ability to navigate among the mangroves and moss
needed to feel that there were some common principles to use in steering.
The belief that law at its core was orderly, rational, and necessary for
individuals and society in general was critical for the practice of law and
the development of the American legal profession.86 Evidence of the pres-
ence of this understanding of the basic nature of law and its operation
can be found in the large and small moments of antebellum law. It spilled
over into the structure and strictures of antebellum legal treatises, into
the philosophies and goals of the developing law schools, into the con-
tinued preference for Blackstone when it came time to educate the next
batch of lawyers, and into the countless number of times that antebellum
lawyers reached for their copies of the Commentaries when confronted
with a difficult problem. Blackstone was always there to be made use of
and when it no longer inspired the roaring flames of a novice’s reverence
84
19 Nov 1842, RBH Diary, I, 108.
85
20 March 1841, Zinn Diary, 166.
86 Grant Gilmore argued that the influence of Blackstone was the result of his ability
to convince others of the comforting idea that law was knowable and incontrovertible.
Gilmore, The Ages of American Law (Yale University Press, New Haven, 1977), 64–68.
94 Ann Fidler
at least it could coax a spark of respect for the book’s utility. Josiah
Quincy in his 1832 speech at the dedication of the Dane Law College at
Harvard stated:
If we were to say that all the improvements, which have been introduced into the
study and the science of the law since the middle of the last century, were the con-
sequence of the publication of the single work of Blackstone, we should assert,
perhaps, more than we could prove, though possibly not more than is true.87
Scholars who hope to understand the creation and sustenance of the legal
culture that flourished among nineteenth-century lawyers must take note
of Quincy’s words. As Robert A Ferguson observes:
These encomiums to Blackstone deserve careful attention because they point to
the source of the lawyer’s epistemological self-confidence, his peculiar ability to
convert general knowledge into design and then power into places where others
found only confusion.88
The socialisation of the antebellum law student did not produce a pro-
fession without rancour and disagreement. Once admitted to the bar, the
pressure of internal disputes, lay calls for reform, particular regional
legal concerns and the realities of practice in the local courts tended to
dilute the strength of the cultural comity acquired through legal study.
Yet the cultural lessons of law student days retained a place in the words,
thoughts and deeds of the men who populated the nineteenth century
legal world. Contained within a law student culture that linked the
Northern half of the country together through key legal works, disci-
plined study, and devotion to a common endeavour were the seeds of a
national legal culture that matured after the Civil War.
Listening to the voices of antebellum law students assists in the pursuit
of broad historical questions, but it also provides insight into one of the
many ways that law transformed the lives of individual Americans.
William McClintick, a Chillicothe, Ohio law student wrote to a friend in
1838:
You ask me how I like the Law, and all about it. To answer this, would be a task,
which at present I cannot think of undertaking. All about the Law! Why, man,
you are mad. I might as well attempt a description of the great Labyrinth of
Egypt. As to my liking it, this is something more tangible. I am much better
pleased that I expected to be and feel perfectly willing to continue a searcher into
Legal mysteries the rest of my days. The Law, sir, is glorious. Try it yourself.89
87
Josiah Quincy, An Address Delivered at the Dedication of Dane Law College in
Harvard University, October 23, 1832 (EW Metcalf and Co, Cambridge, 1832), 14.
88 Ferguson, Law and Letters, 31.
89 William McClintick to William Gregg, 28 April 1838, Gregg Papers.
Appendix
The Reading of Antebellum Law
Students
The title, date and place of initial publication, and subject category for
each book is presented on its first appearance in a reading list. Subject
categories are based on those used by Timothy Walker in his ‘Catalogue
of a Select Law Library,’ The Western Law Journal 1 (July 1844):
458–465, although where necessary, additional classifications not found
in the original have been furnished. Many of the books appearing in
these reading lists went through several editions. A number of the
English works were annotated or amended to reflect the needs of
American legal practice. Thus, an antebellum law student assigned to
read a work like Chitty on Contracts probably read one of the anno-
tated American editions printed in Massachusetts and Pennsylvania
between 1827–1860.
1. Albert G. Riddle. Student of Seabury Ford, Burton, Ohio, 1838–1840.

List represents books read in a two-year period.
Source: Albert G Riddle, ‘Fifty-Five Years of Lawyer Life, 1840–1895,’
Albert G Riddle Papers, Western Reserve Historical Society.
William Blackstone, Commentaries on the Laws of England (England,
1765–1769). [Preliminary Studies—Elementary].
Isaac Espinasse, A Digest of the Law of Actions and Trials at Nisi Prius
(England, 1789). [Common Law Procedure—Practice].
Charles Butler, Horae Juridicae Subsecivae (England, 1804). [Civil and
Canon Law].
Thomas Peak, Compendium of the Law of Evidence (England, 1801).
[Common Law Procedure—Evidence].
Joseph Chitty, Jr, Precedents in Pleading with Notes on Practice,
Pleading, and Evidence (England, 1836–1838). [Common Law
Procedure—Pleadings].
Joseph Chitty, Criminal Law; Comprising the Practice, Pleadings, and
Evidence with Precedents (England, 1816). [Crimes and Criminal
Procedure].
John Fonblanque, Treatise of Equity (England, 1793–1794). [Chancery
Law and Procedure—Principles].
96 Ann Fidler
Matthew Hale, The History of the Common Law of England (England,

1713). [Preliminary Studies—Historical].
William Hawkins, Pleas of the Crown (England, 1716–1721). [Crimes
and Criminal Procedure].
Matthew Bacon, A New Abridgement of the Law (England, 1736).
[Abridgements and Digests—General].
Salmon P. Chase, Statutes of Ohio and of the Northwestern Territory,
1788–1833 (United States, 1833–1835). [Statutory Law—Particular
States].
Riddles’ reading list also indicates that he studied a work by Powell.
Presumably this is John J Powell (1755?–1801) who wrote a series of
books on contracts, devises and mortgages. Riddle also read ‘Ch J
Swift’s, Treaties,’ a work whose full title, name of author, and date I have
been unable to locate.
2. Peter Zinn. Student of William Corry, Cincinnati, Ohio, 1841–1842.

List represents books read in a fifteen-month period.
Source: Peter Zinn Diary, Cincinnati Historical Society.
Blackstone’s Commentaries.
Timothy Walker, Introduction to American Law, Designed as a First
Book for Students (United States, 1837). [Preliminary Studies—
Elementary].
James Kent, Commentaries on American Law (United States,
1826–1830). [Preliminary Studies—Elementary].
Francis Hilliard, Elements of the Law (United States, 1835). [Preliminary
Studies—Elementary].
Joseph R Swan, Statutes of the State of Ohio (United States, 1841).
[Statutory Law—Particular States].
James Gould, A Treatise on the Principles of Pleading, in Civil Actions
(United States, 1832). [Common Law Procedure—Pleading].
3. Required Texts, Indiana University School of Law, 1843. List represents

books assigned for a twelve-month course of study.
Source: ‘The Law Department of Indiana University, at Bloomington,’
The Western Law Journal 1 (November 1843): 92.
Kent’s Commentaries.
Chitty on Pleading.
Joseph Chitty, Jr, A Practical Treatise on the Law of Contracts, not Under
Seal; and Upon the Usual Defences to Actions Thereon (England,
1826). [Personal Property and Contracts—General].
Henry J Stephen, Principles of Pleading in Civil Actions (England, 1824).
[Common Law Procedure—Pleading].
Appendix 97
Joseph Chitty, Bills of Exchange, Checks on Bankers, Promissory Notes,

Banker’s Cash Notes, and Bank-Notes (England, 1799). [Personal
Property and Contracts—Negotiable Contracts].
Thomas Starkie, Practical Treatise on the Law of Evidence (England,
1824). [Common Law Procedure—Evidence].
Joseph Story, Commentaries on the Constitution of the United States
(United States, 1833). [Constitutional Law].
Joseph Story, Commentaries on Equity Jurisprudence (United States,
1836). [Chancery Law and Procedure—Principles].
Joseph Story, Commentaries on Equity Pleadings (United States, 1838).
[Chancery Law and Procedure—Practice and Pleadings].
4. Required Texts, Harvard University School of Law, 1844. List repre-

sents books assigned for a two-year course of study.
Source: ‘Law School in Harvard University,’ The Western Law Journal 1
(January 1844): 184–187.
Kent’s Commentaries.
Chitty on Contracts.
Chitty on Pleading.
Starkie on Evidence.
Stephen on Pleading.
Story on Equity Jurisprudence.
Story on Equity Pleadings.
Story’s Commentaries on the Constitution.
Joseph K Angell and Samuel Ames, Law of Private Corporations,
Aggregate (United States, 1832). [Law of Persons—Corporations].
Simon Greenleaf, A Treatise on the Law of Evidence (United States,
1842–53). [Common Law Procedure—Evidence].
George Long, A Treatise on the Law Relative to Sales of Personal
Property (England, 1821). [Personal Property and Contracts—Sales].
Charles Abbott, Law Relative to Merchant Ships and Seamen (England,
1802). [Personal Property and Contracts—Maritime Contracts].
Samuel Marshall, Law of Insurance (England, 1802). [Personal Property
and Contracts—Insurance].
Joseph Story, Commentaries on the Law of Agency (United States, 1839).
[Law of Persons—Master and Servant].
Joseph Story, Commentaries on the Law of Bailments (United States,
1832). [Personal Property and Contracts—Bailments].
Joseph Story, Commentaries on the Conflict of Laws, Foreign and
Domestic (United States, 1834). [International Law].
Joseph Story, Commentaries on the Law of Bills of Exchange, Foreign
and Inland (United States, 1843). [Personal Property and Contracts—
Negotiable Contracts].
98 Ann Fidler
Joseph Story, Commentaries on the Law of Partnership (United States,

1841). [Law of Persons—Partnership].
William Cruise, A Digest of the Laws of England Respecting Real
Property (England, 1804). [Law of Real Property—General].
5. Required Texts, Cincinnati Law School, 1849. List represents books

assigned for an eight-month course of study.
Source: ‘Law Department of the Cincinnati College,’ The Western Law
Journal, n.s. 2 (November 1849): 96.
Walker’s Introduction to American Law.
Chitty on Contracts.
Gould on Pleading.
Greenleaf on Evidence.
James P Holcombe, Introduction to Equity Jurisprudence (United States,
1846). [Chancery Law and Procedure—Principles].
John W Smith, A Compendium of Mercantile Law (England, 1834).
[Personal Property and Contracts—Commercial Law].
PART II
Lawyers and the Liberal State

4
‘Finland’s Route’ of
Professionalisation and
Lawyer-Officials
ESA KONTTINEN
THE THEORY AND VARYING HISTORICAL LINES OF

PROFESSIONALISATION
The theory of professions was long based one-sidedly on Anglo-American

experience, Britain and the United States being known as the real ‘native
countries of professionalism’ and ‘native countries of the theory of pro-
fessions’. While Anglo-American theoretical work on professions earlier
yielded ‘universal’ models of various kinds—which were widely used,
often in a rather unreflective manner, in the analysis of educated occupa-
tions in other countries as well—awareness of diverging lines of develop-
ment has grown in recent years. As a result of this awareness, scholars have
taken seriously the need for more adequate theoretical concepts for
describing the various lines of the professionalization process (eg Freidson
1994, 5–6). It has been emphasised that careful analysis is needed to
understand the forms and development of professionalisation in individ-
ual societies (e.g. McClelland 1990). On a general level, in Western soci-
eties the main contribution of this search is a clear specification of two
great lines of development, the Anglo-American and the Continental one.
Following Randall Collins (1990, 15–18), these two routes can be
described as follows. A typical Anglo route was the formation of monop-
olistic practitioner groups operating in the market for services. An occu-
pation became a high-status profession by forming itself independently
of the state. Occupational groups struggled with each other in the
market for specialised services. These groups, which were effectively
organised and adequately qualified, succeeded in convincing the buyers
of services of their exclusive quality, and sooner or later they would
exclude the competitive groups and monopolise specific services. A spe-
cialised education was the usual exclusory criterion. This monopolistic
position gave these groups economic and social rewards. The privileged
position of a highly specialised and educated occupational group with
high status is called a profession.
102 Esa Konttinen
The Anglo model of professionalisation thus manifests free competi-

tion of occupational groups in the market of services. It is, then, quite
natural that occupational groups and their associations should be at the
centre of the theory. The state had, to a large extent, a legitimating role
as an official guarantor of the professional position. Occupational
groups even founded educational institutes of their own.
A typical Continental route was quite different. The primary driving
force behind the development of Continental professions was the
growth of the state. Office in state bureaucracy was the key here. On the
one hand, academic education and a university degree as a precondi-
tion for state office, and on the other hand, the connections of bureau-
crats to old status groups—above all to the nobility—gave the officials
high status. The nobility is here a model status group which gives its
aura to bureaucrats; then the credential revolution carries this aura
further and further to other occupations. In societies like France and
Germany, the bureaucratic state not only legitimated and controlled
professional posts, but even organised them and their educational insti-
tutions.
In the course of the nineteenth century continental societies, too, were
liberated, and a new type of civil society was able to develop. There was
now more room for independent occupational associations; as a result,
the Continental model moved towards the Anglo route. However,
bureaucracy, academic credentialing and a quasi-aristocratic lifestyle
were fused to a high degree. This characterises the Continental image of
a profession much more than its Anglo counterpart.
It is important to understand these descriptions as ideal types, as
Collins himself does: as guiding methodological principles rather than
factors predetermining the course of investigation. Collins says that in
any historical case, variations of these two types of condition may lie
anywhere on the continuum and involve mixtures of both types. For
instance, there are remarkable differences between the professionalisation
processes in Germany and France, both strong state societies. Professions
may also vary considerably in a given society. Therefore, Collins prefers to
talk broadly about socially idealised occupations organised as closed
associational communities. This definition of profession includes
‘bureaucratic office-holders’, ‘licensed market-monopolisers’, and ‘eso-
teric knowledge-holders’.
In what follows I analyse the professionalisation process in Finland
within this general scheme. I focus on the nineteenth-century Finnish
society, on the period when important professional structures were
formed, structures which constituted an important basis for later devel-
opments. Even today we can discern the influence of structural forma-
tions dating back to the early nineteenth century. This holds eg for the
social position of lawyers in the Finnish society of our days.
Finland’s Route of Professionalisation and Lawyer-Officials 103
I begin by analysing the formation of the Finnish professional field in

general, paving the way for the study of the legal profession. How were
professional and occupational fields structured in this society? How were
they determined by the main societal institutions, the leading classes and
the state bureaucracy? Which role did the professional field in general
and the legal profession in particular play in this whole? My general
argument is that this macro context or ‘professional macro system’ is of
central importance for the understanding of the overall development of
any individual profession in its early history.
At first sight it is clear that professionalisation in nineteenth-century
Finland is an example of the Continental line of development. A strong
central bureaucracy was built immediately after Finland was separated
from Sweden and annexed to Russia in 1809 as her Grand Duchy (the
position of Finland up to the year 1917, when Finland gained her inde-
pendence). Since then, the central bureaucracy has without question
been in a key position in the construction of a number of social institu-
tions in Finnish society.
Therefore, we must pay attention to the central bureaucracy and its
policies. However, this is not enough. To have a better understanding of
the dynamics of this society we need to have an overview of the positions
and characteristics of the old status groups in the power structure. A
careful analysis of these status groups is particularly important in the
case of Finland. This is because in Finland their interests were connected,
for specific historical reasons, exceptionally tightly with the professional
field. This dependency, for its part, shaped in a crucial manner some of
the main professional structures in this field. (See also Konttinen 1996a.)
THE BUREAUCRACY-CENTRED SOCIETY: A SOURCE FOR A

HOMOGENEOUS EDUCATIONAL BASIS FOR PROFESSIONS
There are good reasons for describing the early period of the Grand
Duchy of Finland as a bureaucratic society. The central bureaucracy, with
the Senate as its peak and a Russian Governor General as its leader, con-
trolled and organised the entire social life in an authoritative manner.
The Russian Emperor governed through the bureaucracy, which, how-
ever, had in many spheres of social policy a fairly wide autonomy. The
position of the Senate was strengthened by the fact that the Diet of Four
Estates was summoned together only in 1863 (after the Porvoo Diet in
1810). The political position of the Grand Duchy was very fragile, and
political and social life were strictly controlled by top bureaucrats in
an attempt to avoid giving Russia any grounds for reducing Finland’s
autonomy.
104 Esa Konttinen
Partly for this reason, the founding of professional associations was

not possible during this period. Occupational groups themselves were
weak, but also the origins were strictly controlled by the bureaucrats.
True, the first Finnish nationwide professional association, The Finnish
Society of Physicians, was founded as early as 1835. However, during its
early days it was not a unique professional association: its basic activities
consisted above all of practical matters like lending books for physicians.
Furthermore, the founding of this association had been proposed by one
of Finland’s leading bureaucrats.
It was the central bureaucracy that organised occupations. In some
cases a state organ (like the physicians’ Collegium Medicum) was estab-
lished to arrange the speciality. For a number of emerging professions,
like that of educated architects, a department of the central bureaucracy
itself functioned as an educational and training institution.
Market economy was underdeveloped; only a few per cent of the pop-
ulation worked in industry. Freedom of trade did not begin to develop
until the second half of the 1800s. As regards educated occupations, the
free markets for services were extremely narrow. Reflecting the centrality
of bureaucracy, public office was practically the only form of professional
career. Unlike in the more developed European countries, there were no
noteworthy private bases for professional markets in Finnish society.
Only wealthier noblemen could employ private teachers or clergymen.
Sometimes, as in the case of a handful of physicians, architects and
lawyers, professionals could earn additional income by selling their
services to private persons. Although a private basis for professional jobs
started to emerge at the end of the century, public office has provided
the basic occupational identity for a great number of professions and
professionals.
There was only one university in the Grand Duchy, the University of
Helsinki. It had its origin in Turku Academy, founded in 1640 and trans-
ferred to Helsinki in 1828. The main task of the university was to produce
educated personnel for public office—state officials, clergymen, teachers,
lawyers and physicians. There did not exist any private educational insti-
tutions for the education of professionals.
Thus, if the professional field was so undeveloped, why should one
understand this period as so important for the future professional devel-
opments, as I have argued? First, the fact that the field of professions with
their educational institutions was organised and controlled from a single
locus, the central bureaucracy, resulted in an apparent homogeneity of
professional definitions, a feature which was to characterise the Finnish
professional field for a long time. While during the same period (and also
in the second half of the century) particularly in the United States, but
also in Great Britain, there were plenty of different occupational groups
competing with each other for privileged professional status, in Finland
there emerged quite clear-cut professional definitions as early as the first

half of the nineteenth century. A specialised university education was
required of physicians, clergymen and teachers, as well as for practice in
state office and in court.1
Secondly, modern, uniform degree requirements can be traced back to
these circumstances. The importance of academic degrees to professions
can largely be explained by the need of the bureaucracy for rationally
qualified personnel. When the Finnish central administration was estab-
lished in 1809, there were few qualified personnel for its use, and the
central administration soon fell into crisis. As an attempt at a more ratio-
nal administration, specialised degrees for state officials were developed,
first in 1814 and more systematically in 1817 (Klinge 1989). It was
ordered that a university degree was a necessary condition for practice in
specialised posts in the state administration. These degrees, which
included the study of both general cultural subjects and specialised
juridical subjects, greatly contributed to the increased importance of the
modern university degree for practice in professional posts: they formed
a general model. The decision to make juridical subjects the main degree
requirements crucially influenced the future of the legal profession. The
occupation of lawyer-official in the service of the central bureaucracy was
to form the most important branch of this profession far into the future.
Even more importantly, the whole occupational field, its hierarchies
and composition, as well as the positions of a number of individual pro-
fessions in the field underwent a relatively stable development during this
period. To proceed with the analysis, we need to know that the early
nineteenth-century Finnish society was an agrarian one, in which the
main social institutions were close to each other, as were professions, the
bureaucracy and formal education. In this undifferentiated totality,
the old status groups—the leading estates—continued to have the
primary position.
THE BUREAUCRACY, SOCIAL CLASSES AND PROFESSIONS
If the central bureaucracy exercised a lot of power in society, then it is not

irrelevant to ask who was steering the ship. Indeed, as for early profes-
sionalisation in Finland, the class orientations of those in power were a
highly significant factor: a lot of power in internal matters remained in the
hands of top bureaucrats. Here we approach the legal profession as well.
1 It is true that there were rigid hierarchies in the posts of eg teachers and clergy pro-
fessions (Suolahti 1919; Hanho 1955), but these hierarchies were stable and determined
by the general social hierarchy of the society. The top positions of professions were in the
hands of the leading status groups, the nobility and the clergy, and there was little com-
petition between occupational subgroups.
106 Esa Konttinen
A key phenomenon here is that—following the earlier Swedish prac-

tice—top positions of the established bureaucracy were given by the
emperor Alexander I to the members of the nobility after the Finnish War
in 1809. The proportion of noblemen among of the Senators soon grew
to 65–70 per cent (See Mikkeli 1954, 42, Table 1). By this seemingly odd
decision concerning the recently defeated enemy (as well as by some
other decisions), the emperor kept the leading status groups loyal to the
mother country and determined to repel separation efforts.
For historical reasons, the Finnish nobility was a narrow and also a
relatively weak stratum. Since very early times there had been an excep-
tionally broad stratum of independent peasants in Sweden and particu-
larly in Finland, with the result that the land-owning base of the nobility
was weak (for a comparative perspective, see Anderson 1980; Blum 1978).
It was so weak indeed that state office became a more important source
of income and status than land-owning. During 1721–1803, only three
percent of noblemen were without public office in Finland (Wirilander
1974, 192). But in Sweden, practically only one post was reserved for
Finnish noblemen: that of army officer. In 1800, 93 per cent of the Finnish
noble office-holders served in the army (ibid, 185). It was thus unfortu-
nate from the viewpoint of this office-holding nobility that, after the
Finnish War in 1809, Finnish troops were disbanded by the Russian
emperor. The Finnish nobility fell into deep crisis. On this basis we can
understand how important it was for members of the First Estate to have
the central bureaucracy under its control. Risto Alapuro (1988, 25) has
stated that the central bureaucracy now became a stronghold for the
nobility. In these high posts of the bureaucracy noblemen could defend
the position of their estate.
In addition to the nobility, there was another old status group that
was important from the viewpoint of early professionalisation: the
Clergy, or the Second (or Learned) estate, as it was also called.
Clergymen formed the broadest professional stratum in the Finnish side
of the country from the seventeenth century onwards (on the grounds
for that, see Konttinen 1991a, 83–89). This stratum consisted not only
of clergymen, but also of school and university teachers. Before the
period of the Grand Duchy, the Finnish nobility had been involved in the
profession of army officer and estranged itself from university educa-
tion, and the whole range of education, from school to university, had
been left to the Church. Consequently, both leading groups identified
with specific professions. The nobility, in particular, had avoided pro-
fessions other than the military. This division of labour directed the
habituses of these leading status groups in divergent directions—a fac-
tor which deepened their conflict. But after the 1809 change, under the
control of Russia, this conflict could not take a violent form, but one of
peaceful competition.
What is important from the viewpoint of professionalisation is that

the main societal locus, or ‘the form of social existence’, of both status
groups were professions. Thus, in Finland the hierarchical relationships
of professions followed the hierarchical relationships of the social classes.
This fact had important consequences for the development of the profes-
sional field.
The competition between the leading status groups over material and
social rewards directly concerned the professions. After the nobility had
won the leading posts in the bureaucracy, the professional field was
divided into privileged and ‘oppressed’ sections. The professions of the
nobility—no longer so much the profession of army officer as that of
lawyer-official—were the winners, and the clerical profession was the
loser. The numbers of clergymen no longer increased and those social
fields, above all school education, that had been previously under the
absolute control of the Church, were now placed under the control of the
Senate. The position of school teachers was the worst of all. Because of
the old habitus of the nobility, the development of public schools was not
in the interest of the bureaucracy.
Having adopted modern principles—education and academic
degrees—as a precondition for entrance to higher social positions in the
bureaucracy and society, noblemen and other gentry-officials were also
learning to use these modern principles as social exclusion criteria. This
dual function of modern university education (which had already been
stressed by Max Weber, 1985, 576–579) was effectively put into use dur-
ing this period. Interestingly, earlier in the eighteenth century the univer-
sity had been remarkably open to the lower classes, such as sons of
peasants, artisans and burghers. But access by the common people to the
university was now experienced as a threat by noblemen and bureaucrats,
since the university was a route to higher positions in the bureaucracy—
now so important for noblemen, too. However, it was no longer possible
to formally restrict access by the common people to the university. From
a broader perspective, the leading position of the nobility was no longer
absolute. Thus, the principle means of guaranteeing positions in the
bureaucracy for the nobility and other gentry was by way of educational
policy, making it as difficult as possible for the common people to enter
the university. This exclusion policy was clearly put forward by some
leading bureaucrats, and it was systematically enforced particularly from
the 1820s until the beginning of the 1850s (see Konttinen 1996b). Largely
as a result of this policy, the proportion of the common people among
university students fell dramatically, and they made up only a small
minority of students until the last decades of the century.
This structural class tension produced a gentry university and a broad
gap between gentry occupations and non-gentry occupations like arti-
sans. An important structural feature resulting from this tendency was—
108 Esa Konttinen
together with the dominance of the bureaucracy—that non-gentry occu-

pational groups had no chance in this society to even compete for the
status of a proper profession. The field of educated professions really was
a separate field excluded from the competition of lower occupations.
This line of development differed sharply from that of the United States
and Great Britain, where there was an ‘open market’ for competition for
professional privileges and status. The case of the German states shows
that the central factor here is not only the bureaucracy itself. In the
German states of that period lower occupations as well as the middle
strata had fairly good chances of social ascent through the university sys-
tem. Here, too, the explanation can be found in the class system. The
social ascent was made possible by the so-called Bildungsbürgertum at
the head of the bureaucracy. This educated middle class had gained its
position of power particularly following the Napoleonic wars and broad-
ened the public sector and higher education. Doors were opened for the
lower middle classes as well (Titze 1983). In the Grand Duchy of Finland
the doors were closed on the common people by the bureaucrats.
LAWYER-OFFICIALS: AT THE PEAK
Owing to the social exclusion policies of the bureaucracy, the field of

educated professions remained narrow in the first half of the nineteenth
century. This class of gentry was divided into privileged and ‘proletarian’
poles. Deriving from the position of the bureaucracy in society, the nobil-
ity controlling it, and from the close link between the nobility and the
profession of lawyer-officials, it is to be expected that lawyer-officials
were amongst the privileged.
A critic of the central administration in the early 1900s gives us a
description of the early Finnish bureaucratic stratum (Nevanlinna 1907).
This bureaucrat, a gentry person with a law degree, was working for the
state bureaucracy. He had a large income, commensurate with his social
position in the bureaucracy. With all the symbols of the gentry—a uni-
versity education, abundant leisure time (four to five working hours or
less per day), his work under his own control, a gentry life style and great
prestige—he was at the very peak of society.
It was quite logical that legal education should become a very typical
education for members of the Senate (Konttinen 1991b, 511; Tyynilä
1992, 369). During 1809–1909 a great majority of the members of the
Senate and Senators were lawyers by profession. Data by Stenvall (1996,
57) show that those with a legal education had a strong, dominant posi-
tion particularly in the executive committees in the Senate from the time
its establishment until the end of the Grand Duchy (1917). For instance,
in 1850 13 out of the 17 top officials in these committees were lawyers,
and in 1900, as many as 33 out of 36. This dominant position of lawyers

at the top of the bureaucracy, in turn, strengthened the status of all
lawyers. Lawyer officials, as the core group of the gentry and the bureau-
cracy, could have much power and high status also for the reason that
the challenger (above all the bourgeoisie) of the new society were still
weak.
To give an example, it was originally these connections and structures,
created in the early period of the Grand Duchy, which formed the basis
for the fact that, after Finland gained her independence in 1917, so many
of the presidents of the republic have been lawyers by education. A legal
education was for a long time one of the most important qualifications
for higher posts in political life. In fact, as for the presidents of the repub-
lic, this situation has changed only in the last two or three decades, dur-
ing which legal education has lost its monopoly.
One special feature of the Finnish lawyer-official in the nineteenth cen-
tury is worth mentioning here. His work in the bureaucracy was charac-
terised by strong formality and formal procedures—in fact, especially in
the early period, it expressed strict formality rather than effective formal
rationality in the Weberian sense. This observance of formalities can be
partly explained by his weak qualification in the early period: it was an
attempt to make up for the lack of real qualifications. It was naturally
also a result of the history of the bureaucratic stratum and its poor edu-
cational standards. In addition, juridical studies at the universities laid
stress on legal paragraphs and the like. Furthermore, the emphasis on
formal procedures gave a bureaucrat an advantageous opportunity to
move from one post to another. Similar procedures, ie secretarial tasks,
were adapted for use in the non-specialised parts of the bureaucracy
(Nevanlinna 1907; Stenvall 1995, 83).
The political position of the Grand Duchy, too, favoured strict formal
legalism and the legal profession. The culture of political life during the
first decades of the Grand Duchy was characterised by powerful legalism.
Legal issues became a central legitimation basis particularly in matters
which were important in terms of the political position of the Grand
Duchy. This was not only, or even basically, a result of the position of
lawyers in the bureaucracy, but rather of the fragile political situation of
the Grand Duchy as part of Russia. Emphasis on law was a means for top
bureaucrats to secure the autonomy of the country. Attempts by Russia
to reduce the internal autonomy of Finland were repelled by appealing to
strict legal procedures. But this was possible only as long as this empha-
sis on lawfulness was successfully communicated to Finnish citizens as
well. A young bureaucrat expressed this attitude in his letter in 1845:
Is it not enough that our fragile independence is dependent on the regent’s more
or less humane attitude [. . .] In such a country as ours, forms are more important
than elsewhere. As long as it is considered essential to respect the form, the con-
110 Esa Konttinen
tent is respected as well—if the form is interfered with, the content will very soon
be altered as well.
The Vice-Chancellor of the university stressed during a dispute that

‘everywhere, in every situation, the juridical view becomes dominant’
(citations from Selleck 1961, 47). As a by-product of this emphasis, the
position of the legal representatives of this legalism was strengthened. In
certain competitive situations with rival groups, the bureaucrats them-
selves learned to make use of legalism to ensure their own position as a
status group (for an example of this, see Nurmio 1947; Konttinen 1991a,
136–141).
As a result of the bureaucratic structure and the interests of those exer-
cising power in it, as late as the 1870s the clerical and the legal professions
were many times broader in terms of number of members than any other
educated occupation (See Konttinen 1991b, 517). In the first half of the
nineteenth century, there were only a few dozen of formally educated
physicians and a few architects in the country (for teachers, as well as for
physicians, the situation had already changed by the 1870s). In terms off
the numbers of members, the clearest change compared with the situa-
tion in the eighteenth century was that lawyer-officials had ‘replaced’
army officers. The change was an expression of the changed importance
of these professions for the old status groups and for the bureaucracy.
The clerical profession had remained the core profession of the Learned
Estate, and lawyer-officials had become the most important profession of
the nobility and other office-gentry.
Early nineteenth-century Finnish society was still a society of old
estates in its very essence. The members of professions defined them-
selves as members of the estates and the gentry rather than as members
of the professions or the specialism in concern. This holds particularly
for the core professions of the leading status groups. For instance, lawyer-
officials identified themselves above all as gentry groups of officials and
nobility (those who were members of this estate). Distinct identities
based on occupational characteristics could to some extent develop
mainly within those professions which were outside the core of the lead-
ing estates—including, for example, secondary school teachers and
physicians. Receiving little support from the leading classes, these
professions were more dependent on other sources of status.
Interestingly, it was this context in which the core section of the Finnish
nobility began to adopt characteristics of modern society. The adoption
of university education—clearly a feature of modern society—was a rel-
atively painless change in orientation for them, following their crisis and
the weak landowning position underlying it. By comparison, in Russia
the landowning basis of the nobility was much stronger, and therefore
they were more traditionally oriented. Indeed, the Russian nobility
opposed the idea of making university degrees a precondition for state

office (see Wortman 1976, 40–42). In Finland, by contrast, noblemen and
other bureaucratic strata soon learned to make use of higher education
and degrees as social exclusion criteria for entrance to privileged social
positions (see Konttinen 1996b). As a consequence of adopting these
features of modern society, the posts in the central bureaucracy offered
a great number of noblemen and other members of old status groups a
convenient opportunity to adapt themselves to an emerging modern
liberal-bourgeois society.
TOWARDS A LIBERAL-BOURGEOIS SOCIETY AND THE

EMERGENCE OF PROFESSIONAL ASSOCIATIONS
In the second half of the nineteenth century Finnish society was still an
agrarian one in its very essence. In 1890, only seven per cent of the pop-
ulation was located in the industrial sector. However, new elements of
liberal-bourgeois society were strengthening in many areas of social life.
Again, the impetus for change came from outside.
The year 1855 was the turning point. Russia was defeated by Western
powers in the Crimean war, and she was forced to change both politically
and socially. Alexander II started deep social reforms in Russia. This wave
of liberalism immediately reached the Grand Duchy of Finland, and vari-
ous spheres of social life were liberated. Liberal persons were appointed
as members of the Senate, and the nationalists, called Fennocists, now had
an opportunity to act freely (it may be worth mentioning that they did not
demand the separation of the country from Russia). Soon economic life
was liberated and school education was developed to meet the needs of
broader social strata. The Diet of Four Estates was again summoned
together in 1863. However, the old political decision-making structure of
the Diet remained unchanged until the year 1905, when Finland got a
modern type of parliament with free, secret and equal elections.
The simple model of bureaucracy-centred societal development
changed into a much more complex one. Various political groups could
now compete with each other for the direction of the social development
of the Grand Duchy. Opportunities grew for the strengthening of a new
type of civil society (a recent study: Liikanen 1995). There had been ele-
mentary forms of independent civil society since the end of the eighteenth
century (Stenius 1987)—and also during the strict bureaucratic order—
but now liberalism allowed associational life to have a strong break-
through. However, free founding of voluntary associations did not
become possible until the beginning of the 1890s.
It was during the second half of the nineteenth century that one of the
most important structures of modern professions became reality in
112 Esa Konttinen
Finland. Modern professional associations came to birth. They were no

longer merely practical extensions of the bureaucracy. They were now
independent, in many cases active, and in some cases remarkably influ-
ential and successful in promoting their aims.
A few elementary forms of professional organisations had already
emerged during the period of the strict bureaucracy. Now, after the
liberal turn, this process could strengthen. The Finnish Society for
Physicians, originally founded in 1835, gradually became a more effective
professional organisation. The association arranged nationwide meet-
ings in which common issues were discussed. The institution of annual
meetings was also the next stage in the formation of another professional
association, that of secondary school teachers. The Pedagogical
Association in Finland was founded by permission of the Senate in 1864.
The Juridical Association in Finland had its beginning in 1862 and engi-
neers’ and architects’ common Technological Association in Finland in
1872 (officially in 1884). A number of new professional associations were
founded in the 1880s and the 1890s.
The original motive behind the founding of these associations was not
successful competition in the market of services with other occupational
groups in the sense emphasized in the neo-Weberian approach to the
study of professions, as was the case eg in the United States. The central
social structures of the Grand Duchy in the early nineteenth century pre-
vented such a competitive situation between occupational groups from
emerging in the Finnish occupational markets. This situation prevailed
until about the end of the 1880s. The bureaucratic order had made the
relationships between professional occupations comparatively clear-cut,
and the culture of competition was still weak in this field of social activ-
ity. Associations expressed the will of their elites to develop the special-
ism—in many cases scientifically. They also provided the opportunity
for members to participate in discussions about policies concerning the
specialism.
The associations of that time above all contributed to the strengthen-
ing of the identity of the members of occupational groups around their
specialism and the core group of the profession. For secondary school
teachers, this period saw a clear separation from the Clergy and the
building of identity around the science of education and educational
specialism at the university (Paunu 1954; Rinne & Jauhiainen 1988,
165–177). The professorship in educational science was founded at the
University of Helsinki in 1852, and there were close connections between
the professor and school teachers in developing educational subjects for
the teaching profession.
Associations and annual general meetings were important not only to
professional identity. They also influenced the various aspects of state
policy concerning the specialism. This was the central task of the teach-
ing profession from the second half of the 1850s onwards. In the changed
circumstances opportunities for professional and economic reforms
opened up. It has been stressed that teachers (together with educational
scientists) themselves were important agents of the reforms within the
teaching profession (Hanho 1955, 136; Rinne & Jauhiainen 1988, 169).
Their originally miserable economic position was improved on several
occasions in the second half of the century. Education as a profession was
also improved by means of teacher training and by stricter specialisation
in the science of education. As a result of these developments, teachers in
state secondary schools became esteemed professionals and ‘full mem-
bers’ of the gentry (the position of teachers in private schools was
weaker).
The case of architects (Salokannel 1993) and educated physicians
(Vuolio 1991) also prove that professional associations could be fairly
successful in their attempts to improve the social position and status of
their members. As for architects, it was above all the rise of the industrial
bourgeoisie at the end of the nineteenth century that offered them chal-
lenging new tasks. The years around the turn of the century were a period
of real triumph for private architectural firms. Indeed, in this country
with a strong state, the position of private architects became so strong
that in 1910 they proposed the abolition of the Department of Public
Buildings in the central bureaucracy.
During the last decades of the century, there were a number of basic
tendencies in Finnish society that influenced the dynamics of professional
groups. As part of the modernisation process, the functions of the state
became more specific and, as an expression of this, administrative func-
tions departed from professional ones. An undifferentiated situation
shifted towards more specialised institutions. For physicians, the profes-
sional functions of Collegium Medicum weakened, and in the reform of
1878 professors of medicine lost their earlier position in the state admin-
istration. This administrative differentiation, for its part, not only
allowed but even forced professions to develop their associations as
organisations for planning and using strategies in relation to the state.
THE FINNISH JURIDICAL ASSOCIATION
In the case of lawyers as well, a new association, The Finnish Juridical

Association (1862) and its periodical strengthened their awareness
around legal issues, which were defined as being of central interest in the
original rules of the association (Konttinen 1991b, 514). Here we can see
well the emphasis on legalism, referred to above. This emphasis can also
be seen as a tendency of the strengthening of the specialism in the pro-
fession. However, the functions of this association were clearly broader.
114 Esa Konttinen
In its early stage it functioned as a forum in which a broader societal elite

could discuss important legal issues and wider societal questions.
The importance of the bureaucratic field as a career domain for
lawyers increased until the end of the nineteenth century. The court sys-
tem had employed 45 per cent of all lawyers in 1879, but by 1898 the
proportion had dropped to 33 per cent, while the proportion of those
working in administration had grown from 36 to 42 per cent, respectively.
By contrast, business life continued to be of little importance. In 1898
only six per cent of lawyers made a living in business, mostly as bank
managers. (Konttinen 1991b, 515.)
The Juridical Association in its beginnings reflected the core status
position of the occupation of lawyer-official. Officials in the Senate
formed the core group of the association. Interestingly, lawyers employed
by the court system seem to have been a much less important group in its
central department in Helsinki. Membership was not limited to those
with a degree in law, but the members also included eg army officers, still
a high status occupation closely linked with the nobility. A few teachers
were also included. More than one third of the members of the central
department of the association in Helsinki were noblemen.
At that time, lawyer-officials did not need an organisation to promote
their economic and social position. They could secure social and
economic rewards through their positions in the central bureaucracy. In
the general departments of the central administration they had no
challengers for a long time. In contrast, in specialist sectors of the admin-
istration particular professions, such as architects and physicians had a
more prominent position.
Although identification with the specialism grew in importance in the
second half of the nineteenth century, the members of educated profes-
sions preserved their gentry identity. Both features lived side by side in the
professions. University education continued to have class determinants
and offered the members of educated professions cultural capital and
high status. The members of the gentry professions also represented the
gentry characteristics in their lifestyle. They were dressed in upper-class
style, associated with other members of the gentry, and often kept several
household servants. This cultural characteristics were maintained well
into the twentieth century among the old professions such as physicians,
lawyers or secondary school teachers.
PREPARING FOR COMPETITION
Partly as an expression of the sharpening competition in the services

market and partly as a result of the shaping of the identities of the
members of occupations around science-based specialism, professional
associations developed in the direction of stricter occupational mono-

polies maintained by educational criteria. Associations accepted as their
members only those who had the required university degree. As already
mentioned, during its early days the Finnish Juridical Association also
granted membership to individuals belonging to the non-juridical elite.
The change in orientation occurred at the end of the century, and at the
end of the first decade of the twentieth century there were only a handful
of non-jurist members in the association. The Association of Finnish-
Minded Lawyers, originally founded in 1898, restricted, in its original
rules, membership of the association to those with a law degree. During
this period, the association of architects refused membership to appli-
cants who did not have the required education. The result of these differ-
entiation processes was that the specialised scientific body of knowledge
grew in importance as a basic identity factor of the members of profes-
sions. More clearly than before, specialist education began to be used in
the competition for professional privileges among occupational groups.
The professional markets grew and became more specialised as a result
of economic, scientific and societal development during the last decades
of the nineteenth century. More markets for qualified technical and com-
mercial manpower opened up, and education for such occupations as
agronomists and nurses was developed by the state. As shown by our
overview of architects, the private bases for professions widened as well.
These processes brought to the occupational field more and more
groups that were comparable with each other. As a result, and of great
importance to professional and occupational dynamics, a competitive
situation developed and strengthened between them. This structural
process began to intensify in the 1890s, and since then the struggle among
occupational groups over the delimitation of various tasks has been a
basic structural characteristic of the Finnish occupational and profes-
sional field. There have been continuous disputes about the division of
labour between, for example, technicians and engineers, architects and
engineers, and the position of lawyers and other educated groups within
state administration. The grounding of professional associations’ mono-
polies in education can be understood as a preparation for increasing
competition. At the same time this process manifested itself in the
detachment of educated occupational groups from the traditional society
and their adaptation to the modern era.
As regards professional group dynamics, another factor, not following
from the occupational principle, was also of importance. As a result of
the strengthening of the nationalist Fennocist movement (which had orig-
inated in the 1840s), the struggle over the position of the Finnish lan-
guage divided the educated upper class in two: those who defended the
position of Swedish (which had been the language of the upper class and
had officially been used in higher school education and in official state
116 Esa Konttinen
affairs) and the supporters of Finnish. This struggle, which was a char-
acteristic feature of social life during the last decades of the century and
at the beginning of the twentieth century as well, divided all educated
occupations in two, and both sides had an association of their own. In
the medical profession, an association of the supporters of the Finnish
language, Duodecim, had a considerable influence on occupational com-
petition. The leaders of Duodecim used skilful double tactics in relation
to municipalities and the state (Vuolio 1991). Negotiating with each side
in turn, they succeeded in having an autonomous and protected position,
on which the almost mythical image of the municipal practitioner among
the Finnish people was to be partly based. Underlying this success,
however, was their Fennocist ideology and the resulting support among
leaders in the state and rural communes.
The founding of The Association of Finnish-Minded Lawyers in 1898
was also an expression of this language dispute. And since the Finnish-
minded were gaining victory in this struggle, together with the fact that
lawyer-officials were still at the top of the hierarchy, it is understandable
that the leaders of this association were securing high positions in the
future Finnish society. Indeed, three leading figures (KJ Ståhlberg, PE
Svinhufvud and JK Paasikivi) of the young association were later elected
presidents of the Republic of Finland.
PUBLIC ADMINISTRATION AND THE LEGAL PROFESSION
I have focused my analysis of the legal profession solely on lawyer-

officials, and bypassed jurists in the service of the system of courts and
other spheres of social life. In the Finnish case, indeed, this profession
triumphed and reached its high status precisely within this sector. It was
also the central administration that grew in importance in the recruit-
ment of those with a law degree during the nineteenth century. On the
basis of their primary source of income, only five percent of lawyers were
attorneys. (Konttinen 1991b, 515). Economic life was still underdevel-
oped and did not yet need a lot of specialised legal services.
However, a few decades earlier the system of courts had been the most
important employer of jurists. The growing importance of administra-
tion was connected with the broadening and ongoing specialisation
of civil administration. Heikki Ylikangas (1991, 32) has estimated that
the number of higher officials in the central administration was roughly
ten times greater in the last year of the Grand Duchy (1917) than in
1809.
Lawyers in higher office in the departments of the Senate had no chal-
lengers in nineteenth-century Finland. It seemed to be self-evident that
lawyers were recruited for the posts in the non-specialised departments of
the Senate. This practice seems to have been continuously strengthened

during the nineteenth century (Stenvall 1995, 57). In these posts general
administrative qualifications—knowledge and mastery of administrative
procedures—were emphasised, rather than knowledge of the contents of
special legal domains (ibid.). Accordingly, moving into a post in some
other department was easy for these office-holders. There developed a set
of complex rules for recruitment as a form of promotion. Naturally,
this was a favourable state of affairs from the viewpoint of these office-
holders themselves.
While these general procedural qualifications were emphasised in the
ministries, there developed another division of central administration
that emphasised specialised areas of knowledge: central administrative
boards, like the National Board of Health, the National Board for
Building, and so on. To the task of serving these organisations profes-
sional specialists of a given specialism were appointed, some of them
professors at the university. Thus, the position of lawyers in these organ-
isations remained relatively weak. For instance, in 1890, among the 63
higher officials in these boards there were only 14 lawyers (Stenvall 1995,
62).
During the first years of the twentieth century, severe criticism was
directed against the position of power of lawyers in the officialdom of the
ministries. In particular, the emphasis on formal procedural knowledge
and the neglect of specialist areas of knowledge were criticised (see
Stenvall 1995,72; Nevanlinna 1907).
It can be seen (Konttinen 1991a) that the breakdown, in 1905, of the
old political decision-making structure of the society of estates and the
establishment of the modern parliamentary system weakened the posi-
tion of lawyers in the highest political organisations. However, in the
higher posts of ministries their position remained relatively unchanged
until the country became independent. After that, during the decades
between the world wars, a steady decline took place. In particular,
humanistic, technical, agricultural and commercial education increased
in importance. However, in spite of these changes, the long line of jurist
dominance in the recruitment for higher office in ministries and admin-
istrative boards of the state apparatus is manifest even today (Stenvall
1995, 212–213; Ståhlberg 1983).
‘FINLAND’S ROUTE’ AND THE SUCCESS OF LAWYER-OFFICIALS
Finnish professionalisation has throughout its history been closely con-

nected with the strong state. This fact has greatly influenced the form and
content of professionalisation and particularly the development of the
legal profession. However, on the basis of our analysis it is clear that, to
118 Esa Konttinen
be able to understand the concrete forms and processes of professionali-

sation, the state cannot be studied in isolation but in the context of other
social structures and processes.
One lesson from the viewpoint of professionalisation is that the role of
the state has not remained the same during its long existence. In the con-
text of larger societal structures, its varying societal character has pro-
vided different frameworks for professionalisation. The first period of
the central bureaucracy, 1809–1854, was characterised by its ‘absolute’
position in societal policy-making. The bureaucracy had other fields of
social life under its strict control. However, the central bureaucracy must
not be understood as a neutral locus of power but, on the contrary, as
biased towards the interests and habitus of those in power. Generally
speaking, only those professions and institutions which accorded with
their interests and habitus could develop during this period. However, in
all this defensiveness of the old status group, one crucial modern element
of modernisation had a strong push: the modern curriculum in the edu-
cation of the professions. In the centralised system every true profession
ultimately had the same kind of educational structure. On the other
hand, under the strict control of the bureaucracy, another central feature
of modern professions, nationwide professional associations, could not
emerge during this period. Furthermore, we cannot yet speak about any
major free market elements in the professionalisation process.
As a professionalisation period, the second half of the nineteenth cen-
tury clearly differed from the first one. This was caused by the profound
change in societal dynamics. The central bureaucracy lost its earlier posi-
tion as the only locus of societal development. However, it was not the
broadening of free markets for services that formed the new basic ele-
ment in the professionalisation process, but the emergence of a new type
of civil society with new nationalist ideals. Nationwide professional
associations could emerge as part of this liberalisation process. In some
cases they proved to be quite effective in their policies aimed at strength-
ening their professional status and economic and social position. In these
new circumstances, the centrality of the state to professionalisation
could be seen, among others, in the fact that it was the professional
groups whose interests coincided with those of the new power holders
(the Liberals and the Fennocists) in the state that were able to promote
their position. The state still controlled and strictly organised the educa-
tional institutions of professions. From this period onwards, thanks to
the contribution of the Fennocist movement, more professional and semi-
professional services were brought to rural areas.
For the first time in a broader sense, free market demand for profes-
sions emerged at the end of the nineteenth century. This made it possible
for successful professional projects to be launched independently of
the state, as the case of private architects shows. A general structural
tendency in the professionalisation process, very typical of the modern

occupational field, was strengthening at the end of the century: competi-
tion over occupational boundaries with neighbouring occupational
groups. On the one hand this was made possible by the free founding of
voluntary associations, on the other hand by the ongoing specialisa-
tion—the continuous emergence of distinct occupational groups.
On a general level, Finnish professionalisation in the second half of the
nineteenth century manifested an increasing independence from the
structures of the old society of estates. The professions and occupations,
as groups with their specific identities based on the scientific specialism,
generally became a field of their own, relatively separate from the state
and the leading social classes. The members of the professions identified
themselves increasingly with the specialism in question. However, they
preserved for long the cultural capital they had gained as members of the
gentry. The old gentry character of educated professions remained, in a
symbolic sense, visible far into the twentieth century. In this process of
losing old class determinants, of preserving old status symbols, and of
constructing new identities around scientific specialism and the occupa-
tional group, the members of the educated professions became members
of the upper middle class.
The course of lawyer-officials from the old society to the emerging
liberal-bourgeoisie may have been the easiest among all occupations.
They had the support of the two central structures of society: the state
and the leading social classes. This support structure was formed as early
as the early nineteenth century in the construction of the central bureau-
cracy. And it could also be maintained in the second half of the century,
since legal issues and the legal profession were also in the interest of
the new power holders, the Liberals and the Fennocists. The prominent
position of lawyers in the state administration was self-evident. This
occupation had no real challengers in this agrarian country, where eco-
nomic groups were still weak. And once the higher administrative posts
had been occupied, it was easy to defend these privileged posts. Under
these circumstances, the occupation of lawyer-officials offered a number
of the members of the leading status group of the old society—the
nobility—a smooth transition to modern liberal-bourgeois society.
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5
Juridicalisation, Professionalisation
and the Occupational Culture of the
Advocate in the Nineteenth and the
early Twentieth centuries: A
Comparison of Germany, Italy and
1
Switzerland
HANNES SIEGRIST (TRANS G MUTTER)
In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the modern state occupied the
chief role in juridicalisation. In the process of codification, the state
enacted binding laws for its territory, settled procedures, homogenised
and systematised norms and doctrines, and enforced its statutes with the
help of its hierarchically structured administrative and judicial organ.
Along with this went the process of professionalisation, involving the
transformation of both the juristic professions and their functional roles.
The knowledge and opinions of the jurists were being homogenised as a
result of newly created and reformed occupational training and exami-
nations. The state regulated admission to the profession and had control
over the legal practice. The jurists gained a central role within society as
a functional and value-forming elite in the process of creating, develop-
ing and applying the constitutional law and as well as of enforcing the
concept of legality. Non-juristic influences were being forced back in the
course of the juridicalisation and professionalisation. The demands for
social control on the part of old levels of authority and of new social
groups were being restricted or brought into the realm of legality.
A comparison of the international and intercultural components of
juridicalisation and professionalisation reveals that the juristic functions,
roles, and professional behaviours were carried out according to each
system and legal culture. Similarly varied was the relationship between
jurists of the state, lawyers with private practices and legal laymen.
1
If not otherwise indicated, all references apply to Hannes Siegrist, Advokat, Bürger
und Staat. Sozialgeschichte der Rechtsanwälte in Deutschland, Italien und der Schweiz
(18–20 Jahrhundert) (Vittorio Klostermann, Frankfurt/Main, 1996).
124 Hannes Siegrist
Generally it can be said that, by means of juridicalisation and profes-

sionalisation, the bureaucratic authoritarian states curtailed the influ-
ence of lawyers on legal affairs and pushed legal laymen into a marginal
role. Liberal and democratic states, on the other hand, permitted their
lawyers and legal laymen more freedom, allowing them to gain some
influence in the process of juridicalisation. Differences in the extent to
which the constitutions of each nation were developed must be inter-
preted against this background.
In general, one can discern different types of juridicalisation according
to what role the lawyers occupied in this process. In the bureaucratic
authoritarian states and police-states of the early nineteenth century, the
professors and the jurists holding official offices claimed the leading role
in the process of juridicalisation and professionalisation, while the
lawyers were being disciplined by the state. In liberal societies, the lead-
ing role was shared by the official jurists representing the state and by the
lawyers representing the so called state-free social sphere. In democratic
societies, the lawyers, together with the so-called legal laymen, set the
standards. Depending on the type of professionalisation that was taking
place, the advocates developed a specific interest in juridicalisation which
affected the quality and quantity of supply and demand in the market of
juristic services.
Juridicalisation and professionalisation affected the processes of social
control, socio-cultural integration and political pilotage. In an attempt
to guarantee that arising conflicts would be solved in legal forms and that
the social circumstances would be stabilised, the state saw to it that func-
tions and responsibilities as well as structures and mechanisms were
being lawfully regulated. In this sense, law gained its importance as an
agent that contributed to the re-formation of society. Moreover, symbols
and rituals played a role, ensuring that the society, which had initially
been established on a legal-rational basis, was also now able to develop
into a legal community. Relatively complex societies suffered from a high
degree of social, cultural and political inequality and instability.
Therefore, it was necessary to have symbols with which one could iden-
tify, together with legal, occupational and social rituals, to support
the process of building a community. At the same time, the process of
juridicalisation and professionalisation also had in a certain sense a de-
stabilising effect: it brought about change in the existing circumstances
and awakened new desires. Juridicalisation and professionalisation con-
tributed therefore to a changing view of how society and law were per-
ceived and interpreted. They also led to the establishment of individual
and collective strategies supporting the transformation. The form of the
professionalisation and juridicalisation determined the lawyers’ perfor-
mance and their way of legitimising themselves. Being professionals who
dealt with central social values like honour, property, freedom and order,
A Comparison of Germany, Italy and Switzerland 125
the lawyers relied on being trusted by the people. The foundation on

which this trust was based was also determined by the form of juridical-
isation and professionalisation.
These points summarise the main problems which occupied the legis-
lators, jurists and legal laymen during the political-social changes and
the institutional and legal reforms of the nineteenth century.
By focusing on four selected aspects, these problems shall be further
illustrated in the following chapters. The first chapter deals with how the
profession of the lawyer was transformed during the nineteenth century
by comparing the situations of advocates in Germany, Italy and
Switzerland respectively. The second chapter, after having first looked at
the ratio of lawyers to the general population in specific regions, dis-
cusses the relationship between supply and demand in the market for
legal services, as well as the question of accessibility to law and legal
advice. The third chapter examines the emergence of a variety of social
types within the legal profession which developed as a result of the occu-
pational tradition, the legal and political regulations and the profes-
sional and social practices of the lawyers. Chapter four outlines some
aspects of the symbolic staging of law and the legal profession: the myth
of the law practice; the significance of professional and honorary titles;
the role of rhetoric during the ritual of a procedure; the law office as stage
for the lawyers to portray themselves; and the use of monuments and
public celebrations to represent the lawyers. This work is based on the
belief that in regards to juridicalisation and professionalisation substan-
tial timely divergences as well as regional and national differences
existed. This holds true, despite the considerable similarities in the devel-
opment of law and the administration of justice that prevailed in the
states and nations on European territory. 2
1. TYPES OF PROFESSIONALISATION
Lawyers offer legal service and service that relates to the law. They pro-
fessionally mediate according to their field-oriented knowledge, their
specific attitudes and the trust that is placed in them by society when
dealing with conflicts concerning central social goods and values. This
definition of the occupational and functional role of the lawyer is, in a
sense, independent of time and valid for all the societies that are here
being investigated. Nevertheless, variations developed as a result of the
specific historical and social processes in the individual states and legal
territories.
2 See for example Helmut Coing (ed) Handbuch der Quellen und Literatur der
neueren europäischen Privatrechtsgeschichte, 3 vols (each of them consisting in turn of a

number of volumes) (Beck, Munich, 1976) ff.
126 Hannes Siegrist
At the turn of the nineteenth century, as part of the profound political,

institutional, legal, social and economic changes that took place at this
time, the legal profession, which was at this point already a richly varied
occupation, was being fundamentally transformed. States, legislators,
bureaucrats, lawyers and interested legal laymen were in competition
with each other in an attempt to control the construction of the occupa-
tion. The legal profession was, on the one hand, an institution regulated
by procedural law, and on the other, a profession. This transformation of
the legal profession may be termed ‘professionalisation’. Its result is
reflected in the various types of the ‘profession’ that existed at the time.
Both the movement toward and the result of the professionalisation were
dependent on legal and professional models, social interests and needs,
common political and economic ideas about rules and order, as well as
on the distribution of power within each individual state. Of these
factors, the images and narratives about the profession and about society
affected just as strongly the professionalisation process as did the
involved interests .
In the early nineteenth century, three models of the profession served
as guidelines for the transformation and re-construction of the legal pro-
fession. These models were closely related to common social-political
and legal concepts. First, some viewed the legal profession (the term is
used here to include those professionals also labelled ‘Advokat’,
‘Rechsanwalt’, ‘avvocato’, ‘procuratore’ and so on) as an adjunct of the
constitutionally rationalised and standardised administration of law. It
was for them not more than a secondary authority, implementing the pol-
itics which guaranteed the public weal and the authority of the state. The
second group oriented itself on the model of a field-oriented ‘indepen-
dent profession’ that was examined and guided by a special ethic. It could
independently offer its services on the market. Historical models for this
version of the profession existed in the ancien régime, when society was
still organised by estates of the realm. However, the model had to be
adjusted to the needs and constraints of the state and civil society of
Europe after the French Revolution. The third group demanded the com-
plete de-regularisation of the profession. In this model, each citizen
should be able to take on the function of representing the law and of giv-
ing legal advice and maintaining a private practice. Just as other profes-
sions were de-regularised as a result of the abolishing the Zünften und
Gilden (guilds) and the introduction of liberality and economic freedom,
in which process they had lost their class privileges, so, they argued,
should the legal profession be de-regularised.
The first two models of the profession were setting the standard in
large parts of Europe between 1750 and 1850, in the first wave of the
transformation and re-definition of the lawyers’ and jurists’ occupation.
The initiative for juridicalising and professionalising the legal profession
came from the state and the political climate of the time. The question of
professionalising the legal profession presented a secondary aspect in
the general ‘institutional and legal revolution.’ Models of the liberal
independent profession of the advocate were only hesitantly and often
reluctantly accepted by the legislators. Even states which were de-
regularising numerous other professions and occupations and were
attributing to them the status of a ‘private business’ disapproved of a
liberally organised market and an independent professional business for
the legal profession. Exceptions to this reluctance were evident in France
after the Revolution as well as in Switzerland, where the legal profession
was de-regularised between 1790 and 1870.
The professional situation finally gained a stable footing in the next
step of its development around the year 1840. Three fundamentally
different legal-institutional types of the legal profession emerged: the
professional holding an official office (‘Amtsprofession’), the indepen-
dent profession (‘freier wissenschaftlicher Beruf ’), and the advocate
maintaining a private law practice (‘freies Advokatengewerbe’). The first
type involved the bearing of a public office and required the degree of an
officially examined profession. This category of the profession was the
result of ‘professionalisation orchestrated by the ruling class’. The state
made the legal profession similar to that of judges and of juridically edu-
cated high officials in terms of education and examination procedures.
The state also comprehensively regulated the social status and the pro-
fessional role of the lawyer. The legal profession was essentially defined
as advocacy at court and was declared a full profession within the system
of the constitutional administration of justice. The state structured the
market and the professional opportunities by appointing judicial dis-
tricts, by determining the Numerus clausus (the ratio of lawyers to pop-
ulation), and by implementing regulations for fees. The state guaranteed
its appointed lawyers a monopoly of function and a living standard that
was in accordance with their status, but made it difficult for them to per-
form other juristic as well as economic, administrative, cultural and
political activities. It also granted lawyers a monopoly of representation
before the court (Anwaltsmonopol), which guaranteed their formal supe-
riority over legal laymen and clients. Because the state restrictively
administered the market for legal services, it also controlled not only the
lawyers, but also access by its subjects and citizens to legal advice and
to justice. The state held lawyers back in their efforts to develop an
independent professional and educated identity and an occupational
autonomy by forbidding them until the 1840s to publicly discuss legisla-
tion as well denying their right to belong to and establish societies and
bar associations. Lawyers had little influence on the socialisation of
junior lawyers and on the development of law as a science. Their influ-
ence was limited because the practical and theoretical training of future
128 Hannes Siegrist
lawyers took place at state institutions, with the result they received
the education of a civil servant. Further, the lawyers could not act as
professors at universities nor set examinations. Their role was instead to
support the state by implementing (and not interpreting) its judicial and
general public interest politics. The state clearly dominated the four-
sided relationship that existed between state, law, clients and lawyers.
The second widely adopted model involved the shifting of the legal
profession into an independent profession. In the course of a ‘moderate
professionalisation orchestrated from above’, the training, examination,
and conferment of degrees was being lawfully regulated and delegated to
institutions of higher learning and to examination committees. In a few
German states, in some Swiss cantons, and in Italian and other Western
European states, lawyers actively participated in the qualification of
future lawyers. They acted as university professors or were masters to an
apprentice of the legal profession. Further, by being political figures in
legislative assemblies, by being legal publicists and commentators,
lawyers were able to play a part in contributing to the doctrine and theo-
retical field of law. After completion of the prescribed training and exam-
ination, graduates of law were in principle free to assume the profession
of the advocate. They could expand their professional field of activity by
taking part in the administration of justice as well as duties related to
education, the economy, publication and the church. Advocates were
forced to act independently in a relatively free market and cultivated, as
a result, a more open attitude towards the acquisition of income and
towards the needs of their clients. Advocates emerged for this reason as
universal experts in the field of mediation and as counsellors for citizens
who needed help with their various circumstances. This fact worked in a
specific way to intensify the juridicalisation of the relationship between
client and advocate.
The third model was that of the private law practice, which had little
or no regulations or procedures in place in regards to training, occupa-
tional practices, acquisition of income and status of the lawyer. This
model asserted itself in some areas which had not formerly belonged to
the Roman-legal territory and in areas in which the legal profession could
not fall back on a strong tradition. Private law practices were established
in other regions as a result of a politic that focused on de-regularisation
and de-professionalisation, in accordance with its market-liberal, liberal-
democratic and equality-promoting concepts. In this political climate, it
was assumed that each active citizen who was of age and entitled to act
should be able to choose his occupation freely and should be able to prac-
tice his profession within the realm of the common laws. In this system,
the life of the advocate was largely determined by opportunities and
restraints. Their position was relatively strong because of an increasing
demand for legal advice and other mediating services. The advocate,
however, had to be flexible to the needs of the market and to the needs of
the public sector. While balancing the demands of the law, the constitu-
tional administration of justice and the legal interests of the individual,
the lawyer had to find and define his own role. The trust which was
bestowed on him was mainly based on his individual social, economic,
cultural and political assets and on his knowledge rather than on the
prestige of an official professional title or on the collectively agreed upon
‘honour and dignity of the advocate’s status’. Like their colleagues in the
system of the ‘independent law profession’, these advocates adopted
civilian strategies to build their careers and tended to accumulate status
and position in the areas of law, regency, culture and economics. The
basic position from which individuals would be recruited for other, more
advanced work within the profession, and which also was influential on
other legal occupations, was that of lawyer. The legal profession did not
signify a caste. Lawyers understood themselves as legally qualified
experts in the mediation of legal, economic, political, social and cultural
problems.
Within the framework of a liberal bourgeois society, the establishment
of a professional identity was often carried out without the existence of
legal regulations to show the way; that is to say, it was accomplished
within a process that I have called ‘informal professionalisation’ or—if
this development was predominately brought about and influenced by
civilian groups—‘civilian professionalisation’. For example, market
forces together with controlling and sanctioning social mechanisms in
Switzerland made it possible for the educational level of advocates in
cantons (in which the legal education was not, or was only vaguely, regu-
lated) to be not substantially lower than in states where strict educational
and professional regulations existed.
Around the 1840s and 1850s, the ideal type of the occupation and pro-
fessional conduct, as described above, existed only in a few states in its
pure form. In most states, two or more forms of the profession of the
lawyer stood side by side. For example, the legal profession consisted of
two divisions: the official office of the lawyer for the courts (‘Prokurator’,
‘Avoué’, ‘Anwalt’, ‘Patrocinatore’) and the independent educated profes-
sion of the ‘advocate’. Some states allowed the combination of the two
roles within one person. The small number of appointed lawyers of the
court predominately took on the formal and ritual responsibilities of a
trial. Advocates, on the other hand, took on the legal valuation of the
case and acted, as well, as independent legal experts in the market for
juristic services. The significance of this functional and professional
differentiation was a recurring controversial topic among the contempo-
raries. For example, when the Prussian government attempted, in the
newly annexed Rhineprovince, to combine the profession of the advocate
with that of the lawyer for the courts (‘Anwalt’), in an attempt to
130 Hannes Siegrist
introduce the integrated Prussian model of the official office (die

Amtsprofession), some advocates and courts of justice opposed the
move. They argued that it was difficult to combine the training that was
rigidly focused on the forms of procedure with a similarly rigorous train-
ing on the subject matter of an action.3 In the year 1819, the Geheime
Staatsrat ( privy counsellor) Daniels, who was a former advocate in
Cologne, made a strong recommendation to the Prussian government to
maintain the profession of the independent advocate. His reasoning was
that this profession most suitably met the interests of the public as well
as the requirements of running a business. He argued that the legal pro-
fession would allow a ‘young man’ who was equipped with the necessary
theoretical and practical knowledge to test his ‘virtues and talents’. It
would enable him to concentrate, independent of his work as procurator,
on the scientific part of jurisprudence and on court practice. This would
permit the young advocate, who could not yet hope to be considered for
an official office, to advertise his talents publicly and to make himself
known in a favourable light. Daniels argued further that access to a larger
pool of available advocates would be beneficial to civilian clients, who
could thus more freely choose an agent.4
The two-part division of the legal profession, as discussed above, was
in the tradition of Roman and Canon law as well as of Napoleonic occu-
pational legislation that had been introduced into Western and Southern
Europe. Yet, the retention of the two-part division reveals a fundamental
conflict in the processes of juridicalisation and professionalisation: the
state was unable to impose its strategies against the habits and demands
of social and juristic elite groups. The division incorporated a compro-
mise between the authoritarian state, committed to its politics of profes-
sionalisation and justice, and the social elite, demanding law and the
dispensation of justice. This construction of the profession may also be
categorised as ‘moderate professionalisation orchestrated from above.’ It
was typical of societies in which parts of the aristocracy favouring de-
centralisation, civilian elites, clients and lawyers could demand a say in
the construction of law and the legal profession.
The question of how the above types and combinations of the profes-
sion spread themselves across European territory about 1840 shall be dis-
cussed next.
The model of the official office (die Amtsprofession) was valid without
restriction in the biggest German states like Prussia, Bavaria, Austria and
3
Nordrhein-Westfälisches Hauptstaatsarchiv Düsseldorf, Abteilung 2, Rheinisches
Behördenarchiv, Schloß Kalkum, OLG Cologne 11/1265, Institut der Advocat-Anwälte
in der Rheinprovinz, Cologne 29.9.1832.
4 Nordrhein-Westfälisches Hauptstaatsarchiv Düsseldorf, Abteilung 2, Rheinisches
Behördenarchiv, Schloß Kalkum, OLG Cologne 11/1015, Gutachten Daniels und

Boelling an Großkanzler Beyme, 1819.
some smaller German principalities as well as in the former Kingdom of

Lombardy-Venetia, of the House of Habsburg. Areas in which only the
model of the independent legal professions could be found (like Bremen)
were rare in Germany. The number of such territories was greater in Italy
(Papal State, Modena) and in Switzerland (some larger cantons). Around
1840, the profession of the lawyer solely in the form of an independent
business could only be found in some very heterogeneous and de-
centralised Swiss cantons, or in smaller cantons. At times, however, it
appeared as if the model of the independent law business would assert
itself generally in Switzerland. In the 1840s and 1850s Lucerne and
Geneva joined this group temporarily, as did the democratically-ruled
Zurich in the 1870s. Not until 1898–99 did Zurich, after a referendum,
again declare the legal profession a regulated ‘scientific profession’.
Numerous and various legal professions existed simultaneously in
most European states. In wide parts of Italy, in several medium-sized and
smaller German states as well as in the Prussian Rhineprovince, which
was a later addition to the Prussian state, the legal profession was divided
in two types: the official office (‘die Amtsprofession’) of the lawyer of the
court and the independent profession (‘freier Beruf ’) of the advocate.
This system no longer existed in Switzerland; here, by contrast, the co-
existence of the educated independent profession and the independent
business was quite common. In addition, the older combination of the
official office and the private law business still existed.
In many Swiss cantons, advocacy as a private business was officially
recognised and socially legitimate. In Germany and Italy, on the other
hand, legislation made it impossible for advocacy as a private business to
exist officially. Nevertheless, this category existed effectively in these
countries also since the code of procedure allowed so-called law consul-
tants (Rechtskonsulenten), commissioners of procedure (Prozeßbeauft-
ragten), or individuals exercising a mandate (Mandatierten) to appear
before the lower courts. Literate artisans who were knowledgeable in law,
teachers, and low-paid civil servants who, acting as advocates, operated
a private law business were to be found in all territories, although only in
small numbers. Still, the lawyers occasionally fought against them ener-
getically and called them dishonest, uneducated and money-hungry
‘Winkeladvokaten’ (pettifogging lawyers). The lawyers saw in them a
threat to law and order, to legality, and to the citizen who was seeking
legal protection. Lawyers strengthened their own professional image in
that they slandered that of the Winkeladvokaten.
It is noteworthy that in Europe in the first half of the nineteenth cen-
tury there were many routes to professionalisation, resulting in a variety
of professions and occupations. The regional distribution of the different
types of the profession reveals the dominant occurrence of certain types
in each of the (future) national states, of which each country produced at
132 Hannes Siegrist
least two distinctly developed models. For a while it appeared as if the

model of the official office (Amtsprofession) would assert itself still more
in Germany and in Italy. This changed, however, in the 1860s where, as in
all of Europe, the legal profession was changed in accordance with the
liberal spirit of the time; that is, the profession underwent a transforma-
tion which may be characterised as ‘liberal professionalisation’. In the
1860s and 1870s, during the general political liberalisation and construc-
tion of national laws for the legal profession, the official office, ‘die
Amtsprofession’, was transformed into an ‘independent profession’.
More and more Swiss Cantons in the late nineteenth and the early twen-
tieth centuries adopted the practice of transforming the ‘independent law
business’ into an ‘independent scientific profession’. Another practice
was to further standardise the already-existing ‘independent profession’.
Sometimes this simply meant that tendencies that were already infor-
mally established were legally sanctioned. The ‘independent legal pro-
fession’ resulting from the liberal regulation of the occupation was also
introduced in the Austrian-Hungarian countries and in Russia in 1868
and 1874 respectively. Along with the scientifically educated, examined
and certified advocates, who enjoyed some privileges yet did not hold a
monopoly for practising law, numerous independent advocates continued
to practice their business. In this sense, the circumstances were similar to
those in parts of Switzerland and to those in the United States of
America, where the legal profession had become independent as a result
of the de-regularisation efforts of the 1830s. This independent status of
the legal profession prevailed in Switzerland as well as in the United
States for some time, before it was again standardised under pressure
from educational institutions and of independent occupational associa-
tions in these countries.
2. MARKET POLITICS FOR LEGAL SERVICES AND

ACCESSIBILITY TO LAW
In the nineteenth century, governments, advocates and clients regarded

the ratio of lawyers to citizens, that is, the number of lawyers in relation
to the number of citizens, as an indicator of how intense juridicalisation
was as well as an indicator of the particular type of juridicalisation that
was being carried out. It was also regarded as an indicator of the avail-
ability of legal advice. This ratio is a point of reference, indicating a num-
ber of things: principles for piloting, strategies for controlling, the supply
and demand of legal services in the marketplace, distribution of power
and traditions. Generally speaking, the ratio of lawyers to citizens was
lower in states that employed the system of the Amtsprofession (the offi-
cial office) or, in other words, the ‘Konzessionssystem’ (franchise system)
than in those states that allowed private law practices characterised by

independent legal professionals, where supply and demand were regu-
lated by the market.
In the franchise system (Konzessionssystem), the state determined the
number of lawyers in such a way that, without encouraging a quarrel-
some disposition in people, the most necessary and valid needs of its
citizens and subjects could be met. The courts evaluated the demand for
lawyers and analysed the numbers in terms of utilising the courts and the
activities of the lawyers. Following this process of accounting, the courts
calculated the necessary number of lawyers needed to serve a given num-
ber of people, which was then approved by the ministry of justice. The
ratio of lawyers was low around 1840 in Prussia (excepting the
Rhineprovince) and Bavaria: 1:10,100 and 1:12,200 respectively. The aver-
age ratio in Prussia was approximately 1:20,000 in the Upper Scilesian
judicial district (Oberlandesgerichtsbezirken) and 1:6,000 in the Western
provinces, which were more urbanised and economically more devel-
oped. The ratio was even lower in the Habsburg Monarchy, where the
decline from East to West was still more pronounced: 1:20,000. The high-
est ration in the Habsburg Monarchy, 1:5,000, was found in highly pop-
ulated, urbanised and (relatively) economically developed Lombardy.5
Karl Czoernig, a high-ranking Vienna official who was very familiar with
the circumstances in Lombardy, called the advocates of Lombardy ‘hair
splitters’ and ‘trouble makers’. He argued that the individualistic, egotis-
tical and materialistic society of the North-Italian kingdom were lacking
in trust for their king, their government and for the organic makeup of
their society, and that the civilians, for this reason, would seek the advice
of advocates for any petty issue that arose.
The low number of lawyers in the Eastern- and Middle-European ter-
ritories points to a professionalisation engineered by the ruling class and
to a selective and restrictive juridicalisation strategy in these states. The
reason for the low ratio of lawyers to citizens was determined not only by
the lower demand for legal advice in areas that were less urbanised or
socially, educationally and economically backwards, but also by the fact
that the state artificially limited the availability of lawyers. Another rea-
son was that the state discriminated against large portions of its citizens
legally and administratively, namely the rural population and the socially
lower status groups as well as the non-German population. The state was
limited, however, in enforcing its strategies of juridicalisation towards the
traditional elite since some Austrian and Prussian regions adhered to the
system of patrimonial jurisdiction (Patrimonialgerichtsbarkeit).
5 Numbers for the Habsburg Monarchy around the year 1860: Alexander Brix,
Organisation der Advokatur (Braumüller, Wien, 1868), S. VII; für die Lombardei um
1840: Siegrist, Advokat, see n 1 above, p 90.
134 Hannes Siegrist
The ratio of lawyers to citizens was visibly higher in Central and

Western Germany, as well as in Italy, Switzerland and most Western-
European countries. Around 1840, the average for all German states was
approximately 1:6,000. The ratio in Württemberg (which had no
numerus clausus) as well as in Baden and in the Duchy of Hesse (which
had a numerus clausus) was between 1:6,000 and 1:10,000. The Prussian
Rhineprovince and the Monarchy of Hannover, where the legal profes-
sion was accessible but the number of lawyers and procurators
(Prokuratoren) was limited, were included in the group of regions that
had a ratio of 1:2,000 and 1:6,000 respectively. The ratio in most Italian
states and Swiss cantons was also around these proportions. The
German states Hamburg and Mecklenburg, in which an independent
legal profession existed, had a ratio between 1:1,000 and 1:2,000. In the
Monarchy of Saxony, where the numerus clausus was regulated very
loosely and where, at this time, many lawyers still occupied an office as
judge, the ratio was also between 1:1,000 and 1:2,000. In regions where
both types of the legal profession were customary, such as Naples/the
Monarchy of Sicily and Tuscany and the Swiss cantons of Geneva,
Lucerne, Tessin and Baselland, the ratio was 1:2,000.
After the liberalisation of the legal professions and the implementa-
tion of national legislation for lawyers (introduced in Italy in 1874, in
Germany in 1878, in Austria in 1868), which had the abolition of the
numerus clausus at its centre, the ratio of lawyers to population com-
monly decreased. The ratio decreased in Germany from 1:11,000 in 1880
to 1:8,000 in 1900 to 1:5,000 in 1920 to 1:3,000 in the early 1930s. In Italy,
the country usually wrongly accused of being an exception, the ratio
stagnated between 1880 and 1920 at the level of 1:2,000. The ratio in
Switzerland was always between 1:2,000 and 1:3,000. However, regional
differences remained, if only in a limited area, since the regions which
formerly had fewer lawyers improved their ratio. The number of lawyers
in areas with a traditionally high ratio remained steady despite a rela-
tively low growth rate.
In Germany where, until the 1920s, the ratio of lawyers to citizens had
been relatively low, while the transformation of the legal profession had
been especially distinct, critical voices appeared soon after the liberalisa-
tion. It was feared that the position of lawyers and the quality of the
administration of justice might suffer as a result of the changes. Some
divisions of the legal profession insisted that the numerus clauses should
be re-instated, but were unable to assert their claim even within their own
professional group. In the so-called Überfüllungsdebatte, a debate about
the flooding of the market with lawyers, supporters and opponents of the
numerus clausus likewise revived arguments, and models of the former
franchise system (Konzessionssystem) of the state were put forward. The
supporters of the numerus clausus did not interpret the rising number of
lawyers and the decreased ratio of lawyers to citizens as a chance for

juridicalisation, even though new occupational territory was opening up.
Rather, they viewed this development as a danger to their professional
and civil status and as a threat to the legal culture as it was affected by
the intensified business competition. In Italy, and especially in
Switzerland, the Überfüllungsdebatte—the debate about the flooding of
the market with lawyers—was less heated. This shows that the lawyers
in these countries, because of their older tradition of professional inde-
pendence and (sometimes) independent business activity, acted more
aggressively and more freely in the market than the German lawyers did.
The Swiss and Italian lawyers were prepared to adjust to the coming legal
requirements.
In all countries, most lawyers, because of increasing demands for legal
services by the socially insignificant and by the working classes, were
reluctant to become more closely involved in the (potential) mega market
until the early decades of the twentieth century. These groups were seek-
ing legal advice about labour disputes, accident insurance, withdrawal
notices, rental issues and family rights, fields of law that were not yet fully
integrated into the system. Because of their particular training, many
lawyers lacked familiarity with such areas. Traditionally, lawyers had
focused on the more lucrative area of private law, serving property
owners.
It can be argued that the professional and social advancement of the
lawyer of the nineteenth century was directly linked to the establishment
of modern civil law, which was primarily focused on the needs of pros-
perous property owners. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth cen-
turies, even liberal jurists repeatedly acknowledged the validity of this
fact. The expansion of the rights of defence lawyers also affected crimi-
nal law, which therefore increasingly became a mass business during the
nineteenth century. Still, the field of criminal defence, except for a small
minority of specialists, remained in economic and professional terms a
less interesting professional activity.
Some lawyers were directly responsible for propagating the belief
among the population that they, the population, were excluded from the
law and that the lawyers only reluctantly represented them. This belief
arose because lawyers were, in some areas of the law, less active and
demonstrated a disinterested attitude towards the problems and legal
needs of the lower classes and labourers. The assumption that the advo-
cates preferred representing the wealthy and the middle class rather than
the socially insignificant and lower class was widespread and resulted in
an emotional and ideological rejection of legal profession. This rejection
found its expression in the socialist demand for the abolition of the legal
profession or for the transfer of its ownership to the state, and for the
establishment of a commonly understandable law.
136 Hannes Siegrist
Unions, churches, women’s associations, and private and communal

charities all insisted that the lower classes be included in the process of
juridicalisation. Since the 1890s, these organisations had been establish-
ing legal aid offices for labourers and domestic servants, where they could
receive legal advice—for example, answers to questions about labour
contracts or liabilities—from knowledgeable legal laymen, or sometimes
from employed lawyers. The influence on the process of the juridicalisa-
tion of a small minority of lawyers committed to a social-philantrophist,
union-friendly and socialist conception should also not be underesti-
mated. They helped to advance the process with their engagement in
fields of legal advice, publication and politics.
3. SPECIALISTS AND UNIVERSALISTS
The process of juridicalisation and professionalisation in the nineteenth

and early twentieth centuries was in many ways determined by the inter-
ests and needs of the middle class, from which lawyers, judges and senior
civil servants were being recruited. Studies about the social antecedents
and the marriage circles of lawyers in the different countries reveal that
lawyers frequently came from overlapping social circles: the educated
middle class; the trade, business and industry bourgeoisie; the high ranks
of the civil service; and the independent professionals. Because of their
proximity to the middle class, lawyers enriched the legal culture with
their specific attitudes and expectations.
The social and professional advancement of lawyers in the nineteenth
and early twentieth centuries was closely connected to the rise of the mid-
dle class, alongside the expansion of the constitutional state and the sys-
tematic juridicalisation of more and more social institutions. The
professional-social role of lawyers was determined by the characteristics
and dynamics of the expansion of the constitutional state as well as by
the growth of middle-class society within each individual state. For
example, in Prussia, before the appearance of the German liberal legisla-
tion for the legal profession of 1878, the judicial commissaries
(Justizkommisare) were restricted to their role before the court and dur-
ing a procedure.6 Rudolf Gneist, a publishing pioneer for an independent
legal profession, who was familiar with the situation in other countries,
argued in 1867 that the Prussian judicial commissaries were insufficiently
active in terms of the administration of property and mediating credit,
and that they acted comparatively rarely as counsel of choice for families
6
Some judicial commissaries performed also functions of the notariate, which was in
Prussia compatible with the legal profession, unlike in most other European territories.
This function of the notariate was predominatly awarded to deserving lawyers.
and companies. He argued that ‘Winkeladvocaten’ (pettifogging lawyers)

were drafting large numbers of petitions, designing contracts, and
arranging commission dealings because of the inability of the commis-
saries to cover the needs of the public. He suggested that many trials
might be avoided if lawyers were present when contracts were being
drafted. Gneist argued that insufficient engagement on the part of
judicial commissaries in this type of service was leading to lawyers’
dependency on the state and to a break-down of trust in their relation-
ship with their clients.7
My collective-biographical research about the life and the profession
of lawyers in terms of their sideline economic activity8 in German, Swiss
and Italian cities has shown that German lawyers often acted less as
supervisory or administrative board members, as corporation trustees, as
administrators of property, or as other appointed executives than did
their Italian and Swiss colleagues. This difference remained in Germany
through the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, when a con-
spicuous minority of lawyers started to take professional advantage of
the rising economic trend and of the expansion of businesses. Still, the
figure of the lawyer dealing with business continued in Switzerland and
in Italy to be more common and more widely legitimised than in large
parts of Germany. This was due to the occupational tradition and to the
more flexible professional ethic of Swiss and Italian lawyers as compared
to the traditional role of the lawyer of the court in Germany, which
tended to remain static since he saw himself as the ‘acting organ of the
administration of law’.
Lawyers in Switzerland and Italy more often took on additional func-
tions in the administration of law,9 for example as judges in a secondary
office or as trustees in public organisations. The office of judge, because
judges were elected, was still accessible to lawyers in Switzerland at a
later point, while in Germany the posts of judges, even in the lower
courts, had been transferred into life-long positions for established civil
servants. The political changes and the specific rules for recruiting judges
to the lower courts (Prätur) led, in Italy, to improved communication
between judges and advocates.
Swiss and Italian advocates were generally more engaged in the func-
tional fields of ‘theory’, ‘culture’, ‘publication’ and ‘politics’ than were
7 Rudolf Gneist, Freie Advokatur. Die erste Forderung aller Justizreform in Preußen
2nd edn (Springer, Berlin, 1911 (1st edn Berlin, 1867), 64–74.
8 If one considers the function of representation and support at court as well as gen-
eral legal advice as fundamental functions of the legal profession, then all other activities
are secondary. However, sometimes the secondary functions within the whole field of
activity were more important than the fundamental function.
9 This does not include the notary’s office, since only northern Germany allowed the
combination of legal practice with that of the notary.

138 Hannes Siegrist
German lawyers. The political-legal and professional circumstances were

affected by the political activity of lawyers. Swiss advocates profited
relatively early on from the expansion of political rights which were a
result of liberalisation and democratisation, which some of them had
been fighting for. Disciples of protest, reform and revolutionary move-
ments, with a civil-liberal, democratic and nationalistic agenda, could
also be found in Germany; however, lawyers here were generally less
able to establish themselves successfully in politics. Up until the early
twentieth century, the role of the political advocate in Germany was less
common and less accepted than in Switzerland, Italy and numerous other
Western European and now also Eastern European counties.
This comparison of general tendencies in the various nations obscures
at times the significant regional differences that existed within national
borders. In German states, in which the legal profession was already, by
the early nineteenth century, completely or partially an independent
profession and where the political circumstances were more liberal than
in other states, patterns similar to those in Italy and Switzerland can be
found. The tendency to combine public office and functions existed in all
three countries. The professional and social practices of lawyers were
therefore dependent on the regulations of the profession and on the con-
stitution as well as on the social and political distributions of power: in
states in which the system of official office dominated and in which con-
stitutional society was less developed, the advocates tended to be highly
specialised. The life and ambition of this type of professional and field-
oriented advocate were primarily determined by his profession and by his
service to the administration of justice of the state. In states in which the
legal profession was an independent profession or even a private business
and in which the political order was more liberal, the ideal of the ‘uni-
versal jurist’ (‘Universaljurist’) and the ‘complete citizen’ (‘der komplette
Bürger’) arose. When in the early 1840s the southern German liberal
Friedrich List admired the situation in ‘constitutional states’ like France,
England and the United States of America, he was referring precisely to
this notion of the advocate. In these countries the advocates were not
viewed ‘as instruments of the state’ but rather ‘counsel of families and as
individuals’. In places where the individual and rights of the individual
were highly valued, advocates equipped with erudition, diligence, and
talent could reap not only the professional and private but also the pub-
lic trust of citizens. Thus satisfied, so argued List, the citizen would then
elect advocates into legislative assemblies, governments and the courts.10
The combination of different roles—such as advocate-professor,
advocate-publisher, businessman-lawyer, pensioner-advocate and
10 Friedrich List, ‘Advocat’, in Carl von Rotteck u. Carl Welcker (eds), Staatslexikon
oder Enzyklopädie der Staatswissenschaften, vol 1, 2nd edn (Hammerich, Altona, 1846),
362–377.
advocate-politician—was more common in states in which occupations

were relatively freely regulated. In such states, lawyers were allowed to
practise a variety of activities and mediating functions. The dominant
existing blueprint of the profession, together with economic, social and
political reasons, made this sometimes a requirement rather than a
choice. The accumulation of a number of these secondary roles within
one person led to the appearance of a new social type: the ‘universal
jurist’ or the ‘complete citizen’. The (more or less) ‘complete citizen’
gained a special significance in relatively open societies: that is, in soci-
eties in which the elite was regionally and professionally segmented, in
which bureaucracy was less pronounced, and which had a liberal or
democratic constitution and political culture. This type of jurist is found
relatively early in Switzerland and, since the late nineteenth century, also
increasingly in liberal Italy and in certain German regions. The ‘complete
citizen’ also established himself over time in areas of the Habsburg
Monarchy, in the new states of the region of the former Ottoman Empire
and finally in Tsarist Russia.11 The advocates in these states took on
numerous leadership positions in the nationalistic and liberal movements
and, in time, represented a significant part of the elite of the state. They
helped to shape the juridicalisation, the constitutional state and the
political culture. They created a ‘culture of the advocate’ which spread to
the whole of society. In other words, advocates—insofar as they played a
central role—created in professional, juristic, social and political terms a
functional and symbolic connection between values, attitudes, practices
and mechanisms.
The rise of the culture of the advocate was fostered by the fact that
lawyers played a significant political and field-oriented role in the impor-
tant phases of expanding the legal and constitutional states as well as in
the juridicalisation of social interactions. The modern legal culture
expanded in all areas of life as a result of lawyers’ practice of combining
legal, political and economic functions and roles. Critics, however,
11
Jörg Baberowski, Autokratie und Justiz. Zum Verhältnis von Rechtsstaatlichkeit
und Rückständigkeit im ausgehenden Zarenreich (Klostermann, Frankfurt/Main, 1995);
Charles E McClelland, Stephan Merl and Hannes Siegrist (eds), Professionen im moder-
nen Osteuropa (Duncker and Humblot, Berlin, 1995); Franz Kübl, Geschichte der öster-
reichischen Advokatur (Oesterr, Rechtanwaltskammertag, Wien, 1981); Wolfgang
Höpken, ‘Zwischen Bürokratie and Bürgertum: “Bürgerliche Berufe” in Südosteuropa’, in
Wolfgang Höpken and Holm Sundhaussen (eds), Eliten in Südosteuropa (Suedosteuropa
Gesellschaft, Munich, 1998) 69–103; Maria M Kovacs, Liberal Professions and Illiberal
Politics. Hungary from the Habsburgs to the Holocaust (Woodrow Wilson Centre Press,
Washington, 1994); Chara Argyriadis, ‘Da notaio ad avvocato. Metamorfosi del giurista
e trasformazioni sociali nella Grecia del XIX secolo’, in Aldo Mazzacane und Cristina
Vano (Hg.), Università e professioni giuridiche in Europa nell’età liberale (Jovens,
Naples, 1994) 371–388; Witold Wolodkiewicz, ‘La professione di avvocato nei territori
polacchi tra Otto e Novecento’, in Mazzacane und Vano (eds), 335–347.
140 Hannes Siegrist
warned that this mixing of the different spheres would contaminate the
law with non-legal conceptions and interests. Rival groups and democ-
ratic-egalitarian movements repeatedly accused advocates of seeking
hegemony by attempting to act as mediators and to take over élite-
functions, and of blurring distinctions and combining interests and thus
constructing an ‘advocate supremacy’. In states that had an ‘advocate
culture’, lawyers were made entirely responsible for deficiencies in law
and politics. In this sense, lawyers experienced a similar fate to that of the
judicially educated civil servants who, living in states with a ‘bureaucratic
culture’, were treated with hostility. These civil servants were seen as rep-
resentative of ‘bureaucratisation’ and of the mediation monopoly that
was bestowed by the state and were, for this reason, disliked. In societies
where advocates handled the interests of society in a less bureaucratic and
formalised way, providing personalised and informal client-focused
mediation, lawyers became, in a wider sense, mediation experts. That
this was not unique to small states nor specific to backward societies
could be shown by comparing them with the USA and France.
4. MYTHS, SYMBOLS, AND RITUALS
The habit of identifying the law with the lawyer was, at certain times,
also brought about by the ‘myths about the lawyer’. These myths con-
sisted basically of established historical images and narratives about the
advocate, concerning his role when dealing with questions of law and
freedom as well as guilt and redemption. Because of the ongoing trans-
formation affecting law and the profession as well as new social needs,
interests and experiences, these myths were repeatedly being questioned.
Lawyers were consequently forced to bring their myths in line with the
prevailing circumstances of their time. At first, lawyers liked to remind
the public of the biblical and antique myths, from Moses to Cicero, in
relation to lawyers and legislators. Then they referred to the role of the
advocate as the supporter of the legal Occidental-Christian civilizations
of the High Middle Ages and of early modern times. Finally, they empha-
sised the role of the advocate as pioneer of modern progress and the
constitutional state, as creator and protector of civil society, as helper of
citizens, as independent guarantor of freedom and as unconditional
servant of law and the general public interest.
The advocate’s effort to construct their myths was repeatedly dis-
rupted by criticism of other societal elites and professional groups.
Members of the aristocracy and clergy were afraid of losing their power
and influence as a result of the modern juridicalisation. They accused
lawyers of destroying the ancient law and the law of God and called them
usurpers and revolutionaries, as well as Rabulisten (manipulators of law)
and formalists. They further accused advocates of ignoring the tradi-

tional and Christian idea of justice, while they were performing their
questionable practices. On the other hand, the supporters of ‘profession-
alisation orchestrated from above’ opposed the idea of an independent
legal profession. They were seeking to fuse the myth of the servant of the
law with the myth of the strong state that was committed to the general
public interest. Depending on the time and on the individual country,
specifically inflected myths about the advocate developed against this
background. These myths determined the image that the lawyer had of
himself and that others had of him which in turn affected his professional
ethics and regulated his social status.
The rules and customary prescriptions outlining honourable, task-
oriented and morally correct conduct during a trial and in interactions
with colleagues, clients, judges and representatives of the state sought a
professional performance that adhered to the office and the status of the
advocate. These rules were determined by old professional practices, by
norms for the law of procedure, and by the disciplinary verdicts of the
ordinary courts, or by the rulings of disciplinary committees which
started to appear in Italy and Germany around the middle of the nine-
teenth century.
The rules and regulations were hesitantly developed further by the
jurisdiction of the disciplinary committees and in public discussions, but
in principle they remained outside the realm of rational negotiations.
The lawyers’ attempt to fit their professional-social performance to new
requirements and needs was, at times, made very difficult. As a result,
sub-groups of the legal profession adhered only in appearance to the
rules regarding their occupation. This trend gave rise to a double-sided
moral which was partially accepted. Despite their contradictory nature,
the rules of professional conduct together with the myths were effective
in symbolically integrating the occupationally, socially, culturally and
economically heterogeneous group of professionals at specific events.
Further, the identification of the citizen with the law and the lawyer was
frequently encouraged by these rules of conduct and by the myths.
During the transition to modern law, that is, during the emergence
of the constitutional state and a society that was based on a rational
contract, procedural law lost some of its magical character. The require-
ments of the new law of procedure supported rationalisation, yet allowed
rituals and a certain sacral tendency to remain part of the court pro-
ceedings. By observing the procedural and professional rituals, judges
and lawyers supported the idea that all participants involved in a conflict
and in a procedure could identify with the law and experience themselves
as part of a politically and culturally legitimate legal community.
Lawyers, independent of the construction of their profession and their
social status, remained experts in private and social crises and borderline
142 Hannes Siegrist
situations that could harm the individual or threaten common stability

and order. Finding themselves in the difficult role of mediator, lawyers
knew that the rationalised legal procedure and the systematised know-
ledge of law alone were not sufficient to guarantee social integrity and
that an emotional identification with symbols could not be omitted.
Mediating between socio-cultural groups and different interested parties
and mentalities, lawyers had to consider that diverse social groups would
respond to different symbols and that one group might experience a
specific symbol unlike another group. This explains why lawyers paid
particular attention to rituals and symbols in an attempt to soften the
dividing effects of conflicts and tensions among diverse parties. The citi-
zen’s trust in lawyers and the degree of his acceptance of the juridicalisa-
tion were influenced by the way lawyers transposed the formal-rational
law into practice when it involved conflicts between the state and society
or between any two rival parties.
In states or in legal territories where proceedings were conducted in
written form (especially in the early and mid-nineteenth century, but also
later), lawyers had fewer chances to present themselves to their clients
and to an audience. Written proceedings separated the participants of a
trial from each other, both temporally and spatially, since the relevant
parties were not present to witness the drawing up of the documents.
This written mode of procedure did not truly uphold a legal community,
as was demanded by civil law reformers and liberal-minded lawyers who
advocated that a procedure should be public and actively involve the rel-
evant parties. Public and oral proceedings, which were, depending on
each individual state, sooner or later introduced, met the demands of the
reform-minded citizens and lawyers much more closely. Judicial proce-
dure gained a new rational and symbolic significance with the introduc-
tion of public and oral proceedings: the liturgy of the proceedings
encouraged the construction of a legal community and legitimised the
practice of law. This situation—even though it was not always stated in
this manner—was one of the major topics among the jurists of the
nineteenth century, when they discussed the reform of procedural law.
During the liturgy of a procedure, all participants embodied a sym-
bolic role and represented a higher or transcendental idea. Juridical-
isation was fostered by enabling the audience to identify with the
symbols of law and with the performers of the rituals, as well as with the
lawyer and his complex role as servant of the law and as representative of
the individual. The lawyer’s activity was assessed not only on the basis of
his knowledge and the end result of the trial, but also on the basis of his
conduct: how well he played his role and how well he could articulate rea-
son and emotion.
After the introduction of oral and public procedure, the rhetoric of the
advocate gained new significance during the nineteenth century. In other
words, the staging of gestures and symbols, in combination with the use
of legal jargon which was supposed to support the legal findings and
encourage the formation of a temporary legal community between the
representatives of the relevant parties and the public, was becoming para-
mount. Being a communicative device, the lawyer’s oratory was built on
his understanding of emotions, which could be used to awaken feelings in
the addressed parties that could then be stirred in a certain direction.
Artful speech was more valued in France and in parts of Italy than it
was in most German states. For example, Prussia’s Frederic II rejected the
use of oratory during a procedure with the following words: ‘I don’t want
theatrical coups in justice!’ Such dislike for oratory dissipated when
Napoleon introduced oral proceedings into the courts of his conquered
German territories. Some advocates and legal laymen began to appreci-
ate the new form of procedure. For example, in 1814 the senate of
Hamburg decided to adhere to the practice of oral proceedings at its
commercial court. It ignored the complaints of a few advocates:
We Germans do not like to plead. It is against our language and nature. Also,
Germans are serious and more introverted, and it is equally a fault as it is a virtue
of the German people that the gift of rhetoric is seldom among them. It would be
better, therefore, if Hamburg would conduct its defence in the quiet of a study,
allowing a more mature thinking process, and if it would trade its war of speech
for a thorough knowledge in the form of clear writing. As everyone knows, this
opinion reflects the general German sentiment on the topic.12
However, this reference to the character of the German people, in an
attempt to explain their lack of desire to talk, did not convince the major-
ity of Hamburg’s advocates and merchants, nor did it justify the abolition
of the use of oratory in the courts. The German Rhineland, where French
law remained intact after Napoleon had left, preserved the use of oratory
in the courts. Liberal lawyers from other parts of Germany flocked to the
Rhineland in the 1840s to acquaint themselves with the promising pro-
ceedings at the Schwurgericht (the crown court) Oratory having been
rejected in large parts of Germany for a long time, was after the 1830s
successfully revived by the liberal reform movement and the jury court
was increasingly introduced into civil and criminal law.
However, judging by the way in which rhetoric was viewed around
1900 in Germany, even by lawyers who at times were loath to give it up,
the art of speech was regarded as a questionable tool and as a device that
interfered with an educated approach during a procedure. In his mem-
oirs, published in 1910, Fritz Friedmann, a Berlin lawyer, describes the
work habits of a number of well-known Berlin criminal defence lawyers.
12
Cited in W Treue und G Commichau, ‘Zur Geschichte einer Hamburgischen
Anwaltssozietät 1822–1972’, (1972) 17 Tradition. Zeitschrift für Firmengeschichte und
Unternehmerbiographie 49–82, at 51.
144 Hannes Siegrist
These lawyers had taken on large quantities of petty cases, and conse-
quently their defence during those trials, because of the sheer volume,
had been sloppy. One of those defence lawyers, Friedmann writes, had
handled small cases such as these by the dozen, neglecting, as a result, to
make legal arguments. Instead, he attempted to make his case by focus-
ing on the person, that is, he tried to convince with tears and sniffles.13
Acting like a preacher or a popular speaker, this lawyer lost the confi-
dence of the judges. Still, the popularity of such lawyers was not always
lost. The defence lawyer, Joseph Grommes (1826–1889) of Cologne, had
been immensely popular among the common folk of the city on the
Rhine. To be told that one was so bad that not even Grommes would be
able to acquit one14 (a frequent saying among the market women of
Cologne) was considered to be a most terrible insult. The Bavarian advo-
cate and writer Ludwig Thoma describes the habits of rural advocates at
around the same time. Rhetoric was a popular artifice among these rural
lawyers because it was expected by their clients and because it impressed
the audience. According to Thoma, rhetoric helped to overcome the gap
between the ‘educated’ and the ‘folk’ and, at the same time, offered a bit
of entertainment in a monotonous rural life. Thoma also tells of a few
advocates in Traunstein (where he had been a post-graduate judicial ser-
vice trainee) who tried to out-do each other by using coarse language so
that their Bavarian jokes gained a reputation.15
In Southern Italy, defence lawyers talented in rhetoric were not only
admired by the public but also by members of the circle of advocates. One
of these famous criminal defence lawyers was Nicola Amore (1830–1894)
of Naples. His style of pleading at the bar was compared by some to a
wild creek, forcefully pulling with it everything on its route over cliffs and
abysses down into the valley. Others compared his style to the eruption of
Vesuvius, carrying all obstacles along with its lava stream. Again, others
associated him with the famous French speaker Mirabeau. Amore was
regarded as an artist in his choice of defence strategy. His admirers
praised his well-structured oral pleadings, enriched with technical, scien-
tific and literary knowledge, in which he tended to build surprising twists
that enabled him to dramatise his case. It was said that Amore had
embodied hope for many, but horror for his opponents, whom he
attacked valiantly, not unlike the manner in which General Garibaldi of
the Freischaren had attacked his rivals.16
13
Fritz Friedmann, Was ich erlebte! Memoiren, Vol 1 (Pulvermacher, Berlin, 1910)
119f.
14
Ibid Friedmann, 158f.
15
Ludwig Thoma, Erinnerungen (Piper, Munich, 1980) 105.
16 Saverio Cilibrizzi, Nicola Amore. Principe del foro italiano e grande sindaco di
Napoli (Naples) 70–82.

The reputation of these southern-Italian advocates, who were called

‘orators’ (‘oratori’), was based on the older tradition of the occupation,
on a deep scepticism towards the state and the possibility of human
rights, and on an ideal of justice that was philosophically founded or
deeply rooted in the public culture. During the south-north migration,
this pattern spread to the northern regions of Italy, where it had been
originally just as uncommon and unwelcome as it had been in Prussia.
In Switzerland also, where advocates—because of the strong presence
of legal laymen in the courts—occupied a distinct role in making a sci-
ence out of law and in spreading the systematic legal concept, rhetoric
was in some cantons an accepted device. The judges in these regions did
not interfere much with rhetorical overplay in their court rooms. To
maintain their reputation as educated jurists, advocates agreed among
themselves to refrain at times from excessive use of rhetorical devices.
Professional and honorary titles identified lawyers as being trustwor-
thy, which was a necessary requirement, enabling them to perform their
work. Furthermore, their titles influenced the manner in which lawyers
were perceived by their clients and the public. In the early nineteenth cen-
tury, some states adopted the practice of granting lawyers distinguished
social and professional honorary titles, with the result that the old acad-
emic titles like ‘Doktor’ (used for the holder of a PhD) or ‘Lizentiat’
(Licentiate) faded in comparison. In Prussia (with the exception of the
Rhineprovince), the examined and appointed lawyers carried the titel of
‘Justizkommisar’ (judicial commissary); in Bavaria the title ‘Königlicher
Advokat’ (advocate of the King) was used; and in most other states, titles
like ‘Hofgerichtsadvokat’ (advocate of the regency court), ‘Advokat’
(advocate), ‘Anwalt’ (lawyer) or ‘Prokurator’ (attorney) were given.
Deserving advocates in Prussia received the title ‘Justizrat’ (judicial coun-
sellor) or in a few cases even the title ‘Geheimer Justizrat’, which were
titles that had originally been reserved for civil servants. Other states
bestowed deserving advocates with the title ‘Rat’ (counsellor).
Since the middle of the nineteenth century, the professional title of
‘Rechtsanwalt’ (lawyer) became more common in German states, and
in 1879, with the introduction of a new statute regulating the legal pro-
fession, it became standard throughout Germany. From this time on,
some German states abstained from granting older and industrious
lawyers additional titles. Württemberg and the Hanseatic towns quite
consciously never introduced the title Justizrat, being afraid that this
classification could lead to the belief that titles were indications of good
and bad lawyers.17 Prussia, on the other hand, continued to grant older
lawyers the title of Justizrat. Bavaria, following Prussia’s example, intro-
duced the title of Justizrat in 1886. The result of this was that lawyers in
17
W Kiefe, ‘Der bayerische “Justizrat” ’ (1921) Juristische Wochenschrift 35–38.
146 Hannes Siegrist
these states, who did not receive a title and who were by-passed by
younger colleagues, were suspected of having something wrong with
them. In 1894, a diligent 64-year-old lawyer in Cologne complained to
the president of the Higher Regional Court that he still had not been
nominated to become Justizrat because he had been sentenced in 1886 to
a disciplinary punishment by the disciplinary commissioners of the bar
association. He claimed that, because of this, his emotional state was
‘horrible’ and that he was now a ‘marked man’. Joy and peace had sub-
sequently become strangers to him and to his family.18 In some German
states until the end of the Empire, the granting of the title of Justizrat was
used as an instrument both to discipline and motivate lawyers. This title
for lawyers also helped to strengthen the trust of the audience in the legal
profession and in the administration of law. Professional titles like
Justizrat that were only bestowed on certain members of the profession,
however, were forbidden in the Weimarer Republic. Bavaria, on the other
hand, adhered to the practice of granting titles until the Supreme Court
of the German Reich decided against it in 1929.
Italy and Switzerland did not grant titles to promote members of the
legal profession as was done in Germany with the title of Justizrat.
Advocates refused to let the state interfere with their professional repu-
tation and social status. To be an advocate already imparted social glam-
our on the person in both countries. Even ministers, high civil servants,
and professors carried the title of advocate, a practice that would not
have been imaginable in Germany. The title ‘Avvocato’ was supplemented
by Italian advocates with titles for political offices, like ‘Onorevole’
(Member of Parliament), and with honorary titles granted by the state,
like ‘Cavaliere’ (knight), indicating the bearer of an honorary decoration
of the fifth class granted by the state. Some Italian advocates also carried,
in addition to their professional title, the honorary title of
‘Commendatore’, identifying them as bearers of a decoration of the third
class. Lawyers in Germany also belonged to the group that supported the
state and were, therefore, honoured with decorations. A few of them
received the Prussian honorary decoration Roter Adler-Orden, indicting
a fourth-class decoration. This honour was similar to that of the Italian
‘Cavaliere’, but there was no title used in addressing its bearer. Italian
advocates had a strong presence in parliament, government and adminis-
tration. For this reason they, unlike their German counterparts, had some
influence in the granting of titles. No such constitutionally organised
institution existed in democratic-liberal Switzerland.
The most important place for lawyers to have contact with their
clients, where they could demonstrate themselves as professionals and as
18
Nordrhein-Westfälisches Hauptstaatsarchiv Düsseldorf, Abteilung 2, Rheinisches
Behördenarchiv, Schloß Kalkum, OLG Cologne 11/990, Bl. 105/64ff.
representatives of the law, was their office. It became customary for

lawyers to receive their clients in their law office, sooner or later, all over
Europe. This was not only for practical reasons. In addition, it was based
on the continuously renewed professional rule that legal experts, inde-
pendent legal professionals, or professionals holding an official office
should not be required to pursue their clients, and that they should not
offer their services publicly as if legal advice was a commodity like any
other. Legal advice, it was felt, should be given at a suitable, appropriate
and neutral place instead.
The law office as distinguished ‘abode of the law’ was emphasised by
its furnishings. The occupational performance of lawyers was culturally
and professionally consecrated by the bookcases containing old and new
collections of law books, documents of legal commentaries and reference
books, together with the classics of legal literature as well as classical and
national fiction. The first visitor to knock at the door of the young rural
advocate Ludwig Thoma in Dachau in 1890 was a bookseller, one who
specialised in supplying the libraries of notaries and lawyers. He con-
vinced the novice of the legal profession that books were essential to an
advocate so that he could make a good impression upon clients. He
advised Thoma to buy the most important volumes and commentaries
about law as well as a collection of old verdicts. The young advocate
should in addition, according to the bookseller, acquire beautifully
bound official journals and gazettes of ordinances. Despite being out-
dated, he argued, these would look good in the office and would cost
Thoma little, if he paid by instalments.19
In his 1897 publication Handbook for the Lawyer, the Italian advocate
Domenico Giurati recommended a library for the advocate that was even
more comprehensive. According to Giurati, lawyers should not only be in
possession of the Corpus Juris, but should also have statute books and
collections of verdicts as well as encyclopaedias, such as the French ency-
clopaedia by Dalloz, the Enciclopedia giuridica, published in Milan and
the Digesto Italiano. In addition, Giurati recommended literature about
rhetoric and about the construction of pleadings at the bar as well as
some of the classics of the history of law and legal philosophy, such as
those by Savigny, Hugo and Sclopis. He finally suggested some classics of
jurisprudence: Cicero, Montesquieu, Rossi, Beccaria, Brissot, Nicolini,
Bentham, Bordeaux, Brougham, Hello, Casanova, Cormenin and a num-
ber of more recent specialised volumes by Italian authors.20 It was a given
19 Ludwig Thoma, Vom Advokaten zum Literaten. Unbekannte Briefe, ed and com-
mentary by Richard Lemp (Piper, Munich, 1979) 58–72.

20 For information about the authors see Michael Stolleis (ed), Juristen. Ein
biographisches Lexikon. Von der Antike bis zum 20. Jahrhundert (CH Beck, Munich,
1995).
148 Hannes Siegrist
for Giurati that the works by Homer, Virgil, Horace, Dante, Machiavelli,
Boccaccio and Alfieri should be found in the bookcases of any advocate,
as well as the classics of world literature from Shakespeare to Victor
Hugo, Cervantes and Goethe, and finally the works of the modern Italian
authors, such as Foscolo, Monti, Leopardi and Manzoni.21
The furnishings of the law office differed somewhat according to the
income, status, milieu, clientele, taste, needs, region and nation of its
occupant. However, the set-up of the office had to a certain extent to be
civil and functional. An illustration of this can be seen in the following
description, taken from the schedule of estate assets of an averagely
wealthy Bavarian advocate at the Regional Court:
1 sofa; 1 table with 9 different chairs; 1 desk on which are placed statute books
and encyclopaedias as well as 1 small pendulum-clock; 1 oven on which a statue
of a Black woman is placed; 1 book cabinet; 1 carved figurine on a stand; 1 more
sculpture representing two boys; 1 pendulum clock; 1 easel; 1 book cabinet. As
requested, this book cabinet has been sealed because it contains many volumes of
books about law. Approximately 21 pictures and photographs are on the wall as
well as 1 stuffed eagle.22
A law office equipped in this fashion helped to create a professional as
well as private atmosphere that fostered trust.
Attempting to ensure the solidarity of the legal profession and to
exhibit advocates publicly as leading exponents of law, culture and soci-
ety, advocates consciously staged congresses, funeral services and events
at which monuments for their fellow legal professionals were erected and
unveiled. By comparing these events on the international stage, it can be
seen that, in terms of the cultural set-up of social celebrations and social
clubs, significant similarities existed in European countries. At the same
time, there were also differences resulting from the specific characteristics
of each society and from the type of legal profession that prevailed.
Rome, the new capital of the centralised national state, functioned as the
monumental stage for the irregularly held congresses of Italian advo-
cates. In two federations, Switzerland and Germany, the national con-
gresses were held more frequently in the regional capital cities and were
less pompous. Italian advocates viewed their assemblies as actual con-
gresses of jurists and, in broad terms, as professional and field-oriented
conventions. The German ‘Anwaltstage’ (lawyer’s congress), on the other
hand, had the character of a convention held by a professional group,
even though common jurisprudential problems were at the heart of the
meeting. In Switzerland and in Italy, funeral services of high-ranking lib-
eral advocate-politicians were attended by the highest dignitaries of the
21
Domenico Giurati, Come si fa l’avvocato (Livorno, 1897) 191–215.
22
Staatsarchiv Landshut, 166N, 14, 159, Nr. 183/33, Nachlaßprotokoll Dr. Georg
Schreiner, 1.8.1933.
state along with people of civil prominence, while high society in some
German states avoided such events.
A specifically Italian speciality was the creation of monuments hon-
ouring advocates and signifying the identification of lawyers with the
profession, law and nation. In 1882, the Chamber of Lawyers in Naples
held an exhibition of marble sculptures featuring exemplary advocates
and jurists. The opening of the exhibition was attended by the Minister
of Justice, Zanardelli, and other distinguished dignitaries representing
politics and the economy. After the exhibition, the sculptures were per-
manently placed in the court house Castelcapuano, transforming it into
a ‘Capitol’ or ‘Pantheon’ of the great legal consultants and defence
lawyers of Naples.23 In 1897, the executive board of the Chamber of
Advocates in Florence collected money for the purpose of purchasing a
monument in remembrance of their late president of the board, the
national-liberal politician Augusto Barazzuoli (1830–1896). In 1898, the
board also organized a fund-raising event, collecting for the purchase of
a memorial stone for the former president of their board and politician
Adriano Mari.24 In a letter sent all over Italy in 1909, the board of the
Chamber of Advocates in Naples requested donations for a monument to
honour the advocate and minister Emanuele Gianturco. The letter stated
that Gianturco, an ‘athlete with superior eloquence’ who had fought a
‘forensic battle’ and entered an ‘honourable struggle for justice’, had
always remained a true advocate.25
The events involving the unveiling of monuments in the presence of
members of the political, cultural and legal elite always turned into cele-
brations of the civil jurists and advocates, who exploited this effect to
bolster their own identity and, at the same time, to demonstrate to soci-
ety the value of law, education, morals and a noble mind. By means of the
placing of these politicians and ‘principi del foro’ (advocate kings) next
to the deceased great jurists and politicians of the past, the myth of the
advocate was stabilised and the belief in justice strengthened.
V. CONCLUSION
In summary, it may be said that in the nineteenth century the problems

surrounding the connection between juridicalisation and professionali-
sation were frequently discussed, amid controversy, among jurists and the
public. My illustrations have shown that some insights into the ‘social
history of law’ can be gained by examining this problematic topic. The
23
S Cilibrizzi, 134f.
24
Archivio del ordine degli avvocati, Firenze, Filza 29, 1897, No 27; Filza 30, 1898, No
32.
25
Archivio del ordine degli avvocati, Firenze, Filza 39, 1909.
150 Hannes Siegrist
professional and social opportunities for lawyers were strongly depen-

dent upon the legal and political system of each particular society. A vari-
ety of types of professionalisation processes existed in Europe, resulting
in a number of professional and social types of the legal profession.
Correspondingly, specific forms of juridicalisation and of occupational-
cultural practices of the legal profession went along with this develop-
ment. Over time, the situation in the European states became more
similar. The legal profession had frequently been the object of the
codifying and professionalising politics of the state. However, lawyers
also developed during these processes their own functional and symbolic
strategies, thus determining what kinds of professionalisation and juridi-
calisation of social interaction took place and how intense they were.
6
From ‘Rechtsstaat’ to ‘Welfare-State’:
Swedish Judicial Culture in Transition
1870–1970
KJELL Å MODÉER
1. INTRODUCTION
On 1 January 1995 Sweden became a member of the European Union.

The referendum on this membership divided Sweden in two parts, those
for and those against. Those in favour of membership gained 52 per cent,
those against 47.5 per cent. Those in favour were generally urban, male
southeners. Those against were rural, female and came from the north-
ern part of Sweden. The referendum, however, also divided Sweden from
a cultural point of view. Sweden has, in postwar years given a political
impression of being a very homogeneous country. Sweden, as the arche-
type of the welfare state, did not need any international comparison. The
political culture was a very strong state-orientated and domestic one.
The ‘folk-home’-ideology meant a rural, social and small-scale model
transplanted into the modern urban Sweden.
The political discourse surrounding Swedish membership brought
new, supra-national aspects to the Swedish parliamentary system. The
homogenous front collapsed and suddenly showed a new divided front.
The conservative and the liberal parties represented a new radical plat-
form. They were in favour of the EU and wanted Sweden to participate
in constructing the future of Europe. The dominant Swedish political
party, the Social democrats, was divided. There was an outspoken section
of the party that wanted to uphold the traditional national welfare state
ideology. The board of the Social democrats, however, was in favour and
many voters trusted their leaders.
Membership of the EU has had an impact not only on the political life
of Sweden but also—and very much so—on the life of the legal arena. As
of 1 January 1995, the Swedish national legal culture has become a part
of a supra-national legal—and judicial—culture. The supra-national
European courts in Luxembourg and Strasbourg have a daily impact on
the Swedish Bar and judiciary. At the beginning of the 1990s the decade
was named ‘the decade of the jurists’. Such rhetoric has not only been a
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152 Kjell A Modéer
challenge to the more international orientated younger section of jurists,

it has also been a challenge for the Swedish judge, who up until now, has
lived in a very close, and national orientated judicial culture. Questions
like: ‘What is Swedish judicial culture?’ were previously not on the
agenda. Now, however, all new statutes from the EU and the European
Convention of Human Rights have to be taken into consideration in the
Swedish courts.
Sweden is, with the help of its representatives, bringing its judicial cul-
ture into the institutions of the EU. There is a need to identify the role of
the Swedish judge, and his/her cultural roots, briefly to identify the judi-
cial culture and to place it on the European map.1
2. SWEDEN AND LEGAL CULTURE
Legal cultures are always in transition. A homogeneous legal culture also

has continuity, a national heritage, built into its systems.
The two German professors of comparative law, Konrad Zweigert and
Hein Kötz, have defined the European legal systems in terms of legal fam-
ilies, the roman, the German, the Anglo-American, the socialist one (now
obsolete) and the Scandinavian. They found Scandinavian legal culture
specific, on the one hand because in these countries they did not find
modern codes as in Germany and France, but on the other hand they are
civil law countries with a legal system based on statutes. Roman law had
also played a role in the legal history of the countries but not as domi-
nating as that in the Roman law countries.2 This concept of families of
law (Rechtsfamilien) has recently been questioned in the legal discourse.3
But more specifically, how can you identify legal culture in a country
and what is the difference between legal culture and judicial culture.
Legal culture is the more general term. It tries to identify and describe
how the law influences a specific society and vice versa at a particular
time. Judicial culture however, focuses on the actors in a more specific
arena: the professional actors in the courtroom—judges, prosecutors,
attorneys and lawyers.
1 Cf Kjell Å Modéer, Den svenska domarkulturen—europeiska och nationella före-
bilder, (Lund 1994), also in SOU 1994:99. This work was published as a part of a legisla-
tive draft given in 1994 by a Swedish governmental committee.
2 K Zweigert & H Kötz (transl Tony Weir), An Introduction to Comparative Law,
3rd edn (Oxford University Press, Oxford, 1998, 276 ff.

3 Hein Kötz, Abschied von der Rechtskreislehre?, Zeitschrift für europäische
Privatrecht 1998, 493 ff. Cf the discussion on comparative law, eg Mark Van Hoecke and
Mark Warrington, ‘Legal Cultures, Legal Paradigms and Legal Doctrine: Towards a
New Model for Comparative Law’ (1998) 47 International and Comparative Law
Quarterly, 495 ff; Ugo Mattei, ‘Three Patterns of Law: Taxonomy and Change in the
World’s Legal Systems’ (1997) 45 The American Journal of Comparative Law, 5 ff.
Swedish Judicial Culture in Transition 1870–1970 153
This more specific culture also needs more specific analytical instru-
ments. Are the parameters you need to be able to identify and evaluate a
judicial culture others than when you are identifying a legal culture?
Judicial culture is to be sought within the judiciary itself; it is the inter-
nal culture of the actors in the courthouse. In the Anglo-American world
there is a huge literature of judicial biographers from Alphons Mason to
Laura Kalman and Gerald Gunter. This art of literature provides the
opportunity of looking at the single judge and his/her legal and political
philosophy and helps to establish a pattern. This art of literature, how-
ever, is a rare phenomenon in continental Europe, where there is no sys-
tem of case law and where the single actor as a civil servant by tradition
has been a part of a secret corporate body. So it is necessary to find other
parameters in order to identify a judicial culture such as that of Sweden.
This article is an attempt to identify and describe the parameters and
transition of this specific culture. Political scientists have already formu-
lated a model for the modern history of Swedish political culture.4 This
chronology in three parts will be used as a periodisation of the judicial
culture:
1. The idealistic civil-servant state 1870–1932
2. The corporativistic state 1932–1976
3. The party-bound (divided) state 1976–to the present.
3. DIACHRONIC PERSPECTIVE 1870–1970
This article will look at the period from the peak of the individualistic
liberal Rechtsstaat around 1870 to a similar peak of the strong social wel-
fare state in the 1970s.
The ‘Rechtsstaat’ was a product of Germany in the mid-nineteenth
century. It represented a state seeking to reduce the extent to which it
interfered in lives of its citizens. It represents the legalistic guarantees of
the society and the statutes as a rule of law. The role of lawyers in this
society was to protect the legal rights of the small and poor citizen
against the state. The perspective was individualistic, the goals and aims
idealistic.
The Welfare state on the other hand brought about a new look at the
case of ‘The citizen vs The State’. The perspectives were changed around.
The social state promoted collectivist and corporativist programmes.
The role of jurists became instead to support the state as ‘social
engineers’ when it constructed a new order in which the individualistic
perspective became more and more diffuse and jurists became more and
4
Jörgen Hermansson, Politik som intressekamp. Parlamentariskt beslutsfattande och
organiserade intressen i Sverige, (Stockholm 1993).
°
154 Kjell A Modéer
more pragmatic. From a political scientist’s perspective it was a transition

from a weak to a strong state, from individualism to corporativism, from
idealism to pragmatism. From a legal perspective emphasise shifted from
civil, private law to public law.
Those two state models also represent two forms of strong homoge-
neous cultures. The first one is an international archetype found all over
continental Europe in the last century; the other is extremely national.
Sweden even became a model for the left wing democrats in the US in the
1930s, the New Dealers.5
4. HISTORICAL FUNDAMENTS FOR SWEDISH JUDICIAL CULTURE
In trying to identify the roots of modern Swedish judicial culture one can
identify two international and one national phenomena, namely (1) legal
education and (2) the constitution as the contract between the citizen and
the Nation, the state, and finally (3) the hierarchical court system.
4.1. Legal education

The emergence of professional jurists was important in the absolutistic
era and in the National-State, in which national history, language and
culture were emphasised. In the mid-eighteenth century legal education
offered by the Faculties of Law was, for the first time, regulated by the
state. From that time a specific law degree was offered by the Universities,
a law degree with which young jurists might prove their authority.6 From
1749 the law degree became the entrance ticket to practice in the courts.
Legal education in Sweden was to a great extent an education for civil
servants, a school for judges, where within a couple of years students
became knowledgeable in law (lagfaren).
At that time judges were the only professional legal group in the court-
room. The Swedish code of 1734 stipulated that the representatives of the
parties in the courts should be wise and sensible but there was no claim
to be knowledgeable in legal matters. There still is no such requirement.
This is a product of rural times when the legislator considered it unrea-
sonable that parties in the district courts should have to have educated
and trained lawyers from the capital. This has had an immense effect on
the Swedish Bar, which up to 1900 principally was illiterate in legal
5 Gunnar Myrdal was a catalyst in this perspective.—Cf Kjell Å Modéer, The Runner-
up: A New Deal-Lawyer as Catalyst. [Unpublished manuscript, 1995, Stanford & UC

Berkeley.]
6 Lars Björne, Patrioter och institutionalister. Den nordiska rättsvetenskapens histo-
ria, Del 1, Tiden före 1815, Rättshistoriskt bibliotek, vol 52, Lund 1995.
matters. The erection of the professional Swedish Bar was a result of the
Rechtsstaat culture of the late nineteenth Century.
Legal education and legal science in Sweden in the late nineteenth
century developed under strong influence from Germany.7 The course of
study became increasingly more theoretical and scientific, and took four
years instead of two. Both from a qualitative as well as a quantitative per-
spective the education improved and became more scientific. Theoretical
questions were raised; political issues and aims were formalised into
statutes or legal definitions and rules.
From the seventeenth century legal training for young jurists was pro-
vided in the courts of appeal. It was an apprentice-system in which the
older judges served as mentors for the young clerks. This mentoring-
system (from the German ‘Auskultantensystem’) was transplanted from
Germany into the Swedish Courts of Appeal.8
In summary, Swedish judicial culture in the nineteenth century was
formed by legal education and training, by law professors at the Faculties
of Law and by senior judges in the Courts of Appeal.
4.2. The Constitution

The political theories developed during the Enlightenment discussed and
identified the role of the judge from a constitutional perspective. The
theory of separation of power, as introduced by Montesquieu in his work
The Spirit of the Laws 1748, had a great impact on several constitutions
from the American in 1787 to the Norwegian in 1814 and the Danish in
1849. It is important to emphasise that for Montesquieu the autonomy of
the courts did not imply strong political power for the judge. The judge
stood under the laws, as a passive implementer of the very detailed codes
of the time. First with John Marshall and the case of Marbury v Madison
in 1803 the American Supreme Court introduced judicial review as a pow-
erful political instrument. Following the introduction of more abstract
legal rules, with the doctrine of precedents the role of the continental
European judges developed from passive implementers to dynamic cre-
ators of legal rules and principles. The ‘separation of power’ principle
evolved from a relatively weak position to a strong one in political life.
Rousseau took a different position with his principle of the sovereignty
of the people. He preferred parliament as a democratic forum for the
political system. In his view the professional judges of the absolutistic era
had shown their shortcomings by being servants of the king and his
power. The British jury system was his model for judicial reform.
7
Jan-Olof Sundell, Tysk påverkan på svensk civilrättsdoktrin 1870–1914, (Diss,
Uppsala, 1987), Rättshistoriskt bibliotek, vol 40, Lund 1987.
8
David Gaunt, Utbildning till statens tjänst. En kollektivbiografi av stormaktstidens
hovrättsauskultanter, Studia Historica Upsaliensia 63 (Diss, Uppsala, 1975).
°
156 Kjell A Modéer
Montesquieu and Rousseau are, however, two representatives of the two

modern constitutional theories which are of great importance for judicial
culture. Montesquieu represents autonomy, political power and elitism.
Rousseau represents the concept of parliament, democracy and lay-
judges.
In Sweden the Constitution of 1809 brought an end to the absolutistic
regime from 1772. The separation of power principle was implemented
with autonomous courts and judges who could not be removed. There
were, however, still historical elements in the judicial culture. The king
still chaired sessions in the High Court of Justice. Swedish people could
still appeal to the King in Court, as they had done since the Middle Ages.
This was, of course, an anomaly for the French successor to the Swedish
throne, Jean Baptiste Bernadotte, who refused to chair sessions in the
High Court, and after him no king ever did. This constitutional rule was
abolished in 1909.
The Constitution of 1809 became the second oldest constitution of the
world. Throughout the 160 years or more that it was in use the judges,
through constitutional practice, gained a stronger position. A govern-
mental investigation in 1941 stated, inter alia, that judicial review was a
principle accepted in Swedish constitutional practice.
The 1809 Constitution was succeeded in 1974 by a new one, domi-
nated by the ‘sovereignty of the people’ principle. In its preamble it
stated, ‘All public power emanates from the people’. As will be shown
below, the new Constitution has had a significant impact on the develop-
ment of modern Swedish judicial culture.
4.3. The Court-system

Since the Middle Ages Sweden has had a hierarchical court system with
district courts at its base and the King’s court at the top. In the early sev-
enteenth century the court system developed the structure it has had until
recent times (with the reform of court organisation in 1970).
The lower district courts in towns (rådhusrätt) and in the countryside
(häradsrätt) were not professionalised until the end of the seventeenth
century. At that time enough jurists were educated in the universities and
trained to make it possible for the King to implement a reform that set up
a legally-trained judge in each district court. The judge should not only
have knowledge of the law, he should also have his residence in his terri-
tory (jurisdiction). Farmers were required to build courthouses and hand
over farms to the judges.
In the rural district courts most of the judges were laymen. They
formed the nämnd. Twelve farmers of the district took part in the court
sessions, chaired by the professional judge (häradshövding). The main
rule was that the unanimous opinion of the 12 laymen was the opinion of
the court, even if the professional judge was of another opinion. If just
one of the laymen, however, voted with the professional judge their vote
won.
In the district court we can identify one essential aspect of Swedish
judicial culture. The professional judge appointed by the king was
responsible for implementing the legal system, the written law. The lay-
men represented the local authorities, the customs and common sense. It
was a marriage between elitism and state control on the one hand and
democracy and proximity to the local environment on the other. This
culture was oral and open to the public and in earlier times the sessions
were held in the open air. It was a culture dominated by social control.
The members of the local society took part as audience in the sessions
which were held regularly three times a year.
By contrast the Courts of Appeal (hovrätter) and other High Courts of
Justice were professional courts. Not only from a judicial point of view
were they superior to the lower courts, but also appeals were made to
them, they administered all the courts within their jurisdiction (includ-
ing the training of young judges) and controlled the lower courts so that
they adhered to the king’s codes and statutes. This was, as in other con-
tinental European countries, a closed and secrete environment, a strong
hierarchic culture, filled with internal conflicts and disciplinary bullying
towards clerks and other subordinated judges. In the Court of Appeal
there were separate groups of judges, including members belonging to
the King’s council, members of the nobility and the learned members
(educated in law). The Court of Appeal was a King’s court with parallels
all over Europe, and the formalism and the social classes of the time
imprinted themselves on its culture.
Passing through those two judicial cultures was essential for the
careers of the members of the judiciary in Sweden from the seventeenth
century onwards.
5. THE COURTHOUSE: JUDICIAL ICONOGRAPHY AND

ARCHITECTURE
The courtroom and its frame, the courthouse, reflect the judicial culture
in its contemporary society. In engravings from the seventeenth and eigh-
teenth centuries, the European courtroom is drawn depicting the status
and dignity of the judges, sitting in their red robes and wigs, every detail
reflecting the society of its time both realistically and in symbols. You
cannot interpret those engravings without knowing the iconography,
either from roman and Greek mythology, as the figures of Justitia and
Prudentia, or in more concrete form, as the dog in the front of the
engraving symbolises the principle of public access to the courtroom.
°
158 Kjell A Modéer
The courtroom of the nineteenth century was one of the public arenas
for the Rechtsstaat. Another public arena was the Parliament. The idea
of representative democracy was concretised in impressive parliament
buildings all over the western hemisphere, constructed in neo-classical or
Palladian style. In Budapest, Vienna and Berlin, the parliament buildings
symbolised the power of the democratic legislator, in Berlin even devoted
to the German people; the motto ‘Dem Deutschen Volke’ was carved out
in the stone of the front gable of the building.
The courthouses were theatres for criminal justice. In Paris on the Ile
de la Cité the Palais de Justice, with roots back in the late fifteenth cen-
tury, was renovated during the time of Napoleon III to suit the modern
criminal justice, with jury and attorneys for the defence.9 The bench was
raised on a podium, the prosecutors, attorneys, defendant, witnesses and
the public—all had to use their separate entrances in the formal proce-
dure. The setting was traditional. The big hall for the meetings between
the actors and the audience. The staircase leading to the court immensely
high and wide, symbolising the high court as a legal cathedral of its time.
The huge courthouses, built in the same neoclassical style, were also to
be found in Brussels,10 London,11 Berlin and Leipzig.12 They were all
constructed between 1850–1870.
The courthouses are an important iconographic and architectural
parameter of the European judicial culture of the nineteenth century. In
Sweden there are hundreds of them. Most of more than 400 district
courthouses in Sweden were constructed in the period between
1870–1930. Together with the first generation of trained professional
architects (from the Institutes of Technology) the chief judges of the local
district identified the symbols for the sacred activities in courthouses.
The buildings were created as Temples of Justice.
The courthouse was built as a parallel to the parish church.13 The
architects also consciously combined the European view of the court-
house as a holy temple to Justitia, with national romantic elements,
typical for the period around 1900. Architects created the buildings as
icons for the professional work produced in them. They also helped
judges to identify themselves as icons for the liberal Rechtsstaat. This
9 Katherine Fisher Taylor, In the Theater of Criminal Justice: The Palais de Justice
in Second Empire Paris (Princeton University Press, Princeton NJ, 1994).
10
Pierre Loze, Le Palais de Justice de Bruxelles, Monument XIXe (Atelier Vokaer,
Bruxelles, 1983).
11 David B Brownlee, The Law Courts. The Architecture of George Edmund Street
(MIT Press, Cambridge,Mass, 1984).

12 K Klemmer, R Wassermann and TMWessel, Deutsche Gerichtsgebäude: Von der
Dorflinde über den Justizpalast zum Haus des Rechts (Beck, München, 1993).
13
Kjell Å Modéer, Det heliga rummet. Domstolsbyggnadernas roll i det civila samhäl-
let, Lakimies (Helsinki) 7–8/2000, 1060 ff.
idealistic view of the role of the judge was also supported by the consti-
tutional doctrine in Sweden at that time. It supported a metaphysical
view of the institutions of the state. To the professional judges were deliv-
ered powers from the king and the parliament, which made them special
civil servants. Like priests who received their vocation from God to enter
their profession, judges had to have a similar vocation when sworn in to
serve in court.
The courthouses from that period also were built as mansions for the
chief judge. In the cellar was the archive for judicial records and cells for
those who had been arrested. On the ground floor all the judicial activi-
ties took place, with the courtroom dominating at the centre. The secre-
tariat and rooms for attorneys and prosecutors were also located there.
On the first floor was the private home of the chief judge and his family,
with rooms for maids and servants, a setting totally reflecting the status
of the chief judge and his social responsibilities. On the second floor were
rooms for the clerks, who lived as members of the family up to the 1930s
without salary but with free food and lodging. There were also rooms for
the 12 laymen who often had to stay over night when the proceedings
endured late in the evenings. To sum up, the courthouse was a living
house filled with judicial, legal and social activities, a mirror of judicial
culture.
A quite new method of constructing courthouses was introduced in
the 1930s. In art and architecture the older emblematic national style was
replaced by functionalism. In Sweden this style was introduced in 1930,
at a great exhibition in Stockholm where this more strict style was
demonstrated for the first time. It was, however, not only an architectural
style that was introduced, it was also a new cultural style. The cultivated
citizen became a part of the Swedish bourgeoisie of the twentieth cen-
tury.14 Owner occupied houses (egnahem) and apartment houses built by
tenant-owned societies were to be found in newly erected suburbs in the
cities. The heavy, bourgeois urban lifestyle, draped in red velvet, thick
carpets and indoor palms, was replaced with a more functional and
‘bare’ style of architecture with big windows befitting a lifestyle much
more affiliated to nature and with furniture in bright natural wood mate-
rials. This new functional style was also to be seen in the models of pub-
lic buildings. The courthouses built from 1935 onwards were often
constructed in red or yellow brick and were influenced by this new style
on the one hand emphasising the surrounding nature (not social con-
structs) and on the other hand the more legal and bureaucratic functions
of the courthouses more than the social. The magnificent flats for the
chief-judges were abolished in the drawings of the new houses, although
14
Jonas Frykman & Orvar Lövgren, Den kultiverade människan (Liber, Lund, 1979)
221 ff.
°
160 Kjell A Modéer
not in all. The court administrators, the secretariat, its employees and
typewriters were the winners, when this new period started.
6. LEGAL PROCEDURE
An essential part of the judicial culture of Sweden is to be found in the

Code of Procedure. The Code sets the standard for the possibilities—and
obstacles—for the judge on the bench. In 1870 the judge totally domi-
nated the court sessions. He was the leading actor. He mastered the
sessions in every case by following the manual in the Code of Procedure
as a ritual; analogous to the sacred ritual that clergyman went through in
mass in church every Sunday.
There were also sacred elements in the Code of Procedure. The Court
messenger had to ring a bell up on the roof of the Court, to summon the
citizens to the open and public court sessions. The local clergyman had
to start the session by preaching a sermon. And in front of the judge was
placed the bible. All oaths were to be given with the ‘hand on the book’.
The Christian judge mastered all these elements. The judge, as a Swedish
civil servant, had to be a member of the Swedish state church.
The essential part of the Code of Procedure emanated originally from
canon law. The inquisition was used as the main principle of criminal
procedure until the advent of the new Code of Procedure in 1948.
The new Code of 1948 introduced not only the adversorial system in
the courtroom. It also introduced oral procedure in the Courts of Appeal
and in the High Court of Justice. January 1948 literally meant a revolu-
tion for the judiciary in those courts.
Still more important was that lawyers (and the Bar Association) and
prosecutors became important figures in the courtroom together with
the judge. For the Swedish judiciary this was a radical reform, and espe-
cially for the older generation of judges it was difficult to accept the
professional actors on the floor playing an independent role in the proce-
dure. It was, however, also a question of professionalism. Still around
1950 prosecutors were not trained in law and the Bar only accounted for
around 800 trained members. Around 1970, when the older generation of
judges had left the bench and a young, skillful, generation of prosecutors
and attorneys had entered the scene, a new modern judicial culture began
to be implemented.
To the modernities of the Swedish legal procedure from around 1970
belongs the role of the layman. There was, from a political (eg social
democratic) point of view, a suspicion towards the conservative-regarded
judiciary. One way to break up this elitist culture was to ‘democratise’ the
courts and to give more individual responsibility to laymen. The collec-
tive vote-system was abolished, the number of laymen was reduced to five
and each layman got a single vote. Some years later, from 1974, laymen
were also introduced in the courts of appeal. To these courts this was a
revolution as significant as that of 1948. Chief Judges in those courts also
publicly told the lay judges they were not welcome in Court. This part
of the reform is still controversial, which shows that there has been a
problem in adjusting to the modern judicial culture in the traditionally
more professional courts.
The result of this reform has been that the national organisation of
laymen regularly makes claims for legal vocational training. Parliament,
however, has consistently declined to permit the growth of a quasi-
professional group of magistrates. Many of the lay judges, however, feel
uncomfortable with this system. In a couple of cases, made public by the
media, lay judges have not managed to handle their new position, which
has resulted in cries from the media of lack of confidence in the court
system.
Formality is a part of the rule of law. It constitutes predictability, and
it is good for the public who need to have confidence in the judiciary.
Formality is a good thing both for a clever judge to interpret extensively
and for an immature young judge to use rigidly. Together with the
Constitution, the Code of Procedure is an important legal framework for
the culture of the judiciary.
The Code of Procedure also includes important ethical rules for judges.
In the judge’s oath, all the requisites of the judge are listed, such as what is
permitted and what is prohibited. The standards for the good judge are also
to be found in another historical Swedish legal document, The Rules of the
Judge (Domarreglerna) from the 1540s and since the codes were printed in
the early seventeenth century, also a part of the Swedish Code. These rules,
to a great extent, are taken from the Bible, from Thomistic ethical thoughts
and from the medieval European codes. ‘A good judge is better than a good
law, because he can always manage a convenient decision’, is one of the
often-quoted rules. Even if those rules are still reproduced in the Swedish
Code they have been looked upon as obsolete until recent times. The
European Convention of Human Rights and its Article 6 on parties’ rights
to a fair trial, however, has again made these historical rulings interesting.
7. LIBRARIES AND BOOKS: JUDGES AND LAWYERS INSTRUMENT
Printed legal materials in different forms such as textbooks, commen-

taries and precedents are another means of identifying judicial culture.
Which books were read by jurists at the time of the Rechtsstaat and how
did it change over time?
First some comments on the book collections. In the 1870s there were
very few public collections of law books in Sweden. Neither in the law
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162 Kjell A Modéer
faculties nor in the courthouses were any substantial book collections to

be found. The book catalogues that were kept show how these collections
consisted to a great extent of statutes and ordinances.15
Judges and lawyers kept books of their own. Private book collections
from the Rechtsstaat generations can be identified through book auction
catalogues. Even if they do not indicate whether jurists have read the
books, they indicate their interests within their cognitive structures.
The book collection of the permanent Law Commission has been kept
and shows the immense influence of France and Germany in the late nine-
teenth century Swedish legal culture.16
Legal science was an important part of the literature. Academic dis-
sertations appeared frequently among the books of the jurists. Cases
from the High Court of Justice began to be published in the 1870s, indi-
cating the need for this material in the courts. Also the first Scandinavian
law journal appeared towards the end of the nineteenth century.
The book collections went from being private to being public. As the
printed legal material increased, a judge was no longer able to maintain
his own professional library. In the postwar era the courts started to build
up their own libraries. This was also a change of culture, from an indi-
vidualist one, where the single judge worked at home with his own study
and library, to a more collectivistic environment where he went to work
in the morning, worked in his chambers and used the court’s library.
Rudolph von Jhering is an example of the influence of German legal
scientists upon Swedish jurists during the first decades of the twentieth
century. His work ‘Kampf ums Recht’ was mostly read by the idealistic
jurists. In 1941, during WW II—when neutral Sweden was under great
political pressure—a new translation made by a Swedish judge was pub-
lished. In a district court of Stockholm it is still to be found in the library,
however in an unfolded copy. . .17
8. MALE JUDICIAL CULTURE
Swedish judicial culture was traditionally male, and during the century
described, it remained principally male, even if increasingly more women
entered professional positions.
Until about 1900 women were excluded from the legal profession. The
first women who pursued a legal education graduated from the universities
around 1905. The first generation of women lawyers went to the bar, as all
15 eg in Göta Court of Appeal in the 1880’s the collection of books was listed on two
sheets of paper. Kjell Å Modéer, Historiska rättskällor. En introduktion i rättshistoria, 2

edn (Nergelius & Santérus, Stockholm, 1997) 164.
16 Today in the Law Library, Lund University.
17 Södra Roslags tingsrätt, Stockholm.
public positions of civil servants were reserved for male jurists. After
changes to the Constitution, those position were opened to women in 1923.
But even if, in theory, there was the possibility of women becoming
judges, it wasn’t until after WW II that female judges first entered the
scene.
The first female member of the High Court of Justice was appointed in
1968 (Ingrid Gärde Widemar) and the first female district court judge
(Anna-Lisa Vinberg, Gothenburg) in 1963.
Still in the 1970s men dominated recruitment to the judiciary.
During the last 25 years there have been great changes in the numbers
of women entering the profession, which has been more marked in the
public rather than the private sector. Female members of the Swedish Bar
Association still account for not more than about 10 per cent whilst
within the judiciary and among the state prosecutors there is a majority
of female professionals.
To a great extent the women who entered the Swedish legal profession
during this period up to 1970 had to adjust their professional careers to
the dominant male culture.
9. IDEALISM AND IDEOLOGY
One essential parameter of judicial culture is legal ideology.18 From an

ideological and philosophical point of view there was a radical change in
the 1910s as the professor of philosophy Axel Hägerström in Uppsala
attacked the idealistic philosophy, which for decades had dominated the
universities. Two Uppsala law students, Vilhelm Lundstedt [1882–1955]
and Karl Olivecrona [1897–1980], listened to Hägerström’s lectures, and
under his influence one decade later they became the most important
creators of the school of Scandinavian legal realism. The realists
abolished all forms of metaphysics in law. There were no rights (of prop-
erty, for example) in a traditional sense; Law was regarded as technical
facts operated by jurists. One consequence was that the Uppsala School
was critical to international public law and its inability to construct valid
sanctions to be implemented within the legal system in the nation state.
Two members of the School, both professors of civil law in Uppsala,
Vilhelm Lundstedt and Östen Undén [1886–1974], also played an impor-
tant role in political life from the 1930s onward.19 They were both social
democrats, and the Uppsala School fitted very well into the political
18
Cf Roger Cotterrell, ‘The Concept of Legal Culture’, & Lawrence M Friedman,
‘The Concept of Legal Culture: A Reply’, both in David Nelken (ed), Comparative Legal
Cultures (Dartmouth, Aldershot, 1996) 13ff and 33 ff.
19 Lundstedt was MP 1929–48 and Undén was Secretary of State 1924–26, 1945–92.
°
164 Kjell A Modéer
platform of modern Swedish social democracy at the time the party came
into office in 1932. The Social Democratic Party remained in power for
more or less 44 years.
Law students educated at Uppsala and Lund from the 1930s onwards
learned about this anti-metaphysical, anti-authoritarian and pragmatic
legal philosophy. They learned that law was a technique and that the role
of jurists was to be technicians, to help society in constructing a new
society as ‘social engineers’. Social engineering had nothing to do with
power, they argued. Jurists were simply executing the will of the legisla-
tor. For more than half a century this was the fundamental philosophical
platform of Swedish political and judicial culture.
By taking the ideologies as a parameter for measuring judicial culture
the result is, that there is an important delay in the incorporation of ideo-
logy into judicial culture. This has to do with the closed career system in
civil law countries, especially in Sweden. If you graduated with a law
degree in the 1930s you reached the peak of your career in the judiciary
some 25 years later. From that time (around the 1930s) young clerks were
placed on a career path that continuously and successively, with merits
such as ability and skill, took them to the higher ranks of the career. For
some years they dwelled in the political culture. Every judge with ambi-
tions of reaching senior positions had to work as secretary to govern-
mental committees working with drafts for future legislation. Many of
the contemporary judges in top positions spent several years as ‘social
engineers’ in this political world, during the time that Olof Palme served
as Prime Minister between 1969–1976. This period is of importance in
understanding the transition of judicial culture in modern Sweden.
10. POLITICAL CULTURE AND JUDICIAL CULTURE: THE SOCIAL

DEMOCRATIC GOVERNMENT OF OLOF PALME 1969–1976
During this period the modern national judicial culture was formed. It
was not a revolution; it was the result of a continuous ideological transi-
tion since the 1930s. By this time law students who had graduated in the
early 1950s had reached positions in the Department of Justice. This
department grew dramatically in the 1960s as a result of the immense
legislative work in different fields such as family law, labour law, con-
sumer law, social security law, rent control legislation and legal aid—all
fields in which Sweden pioneered legislation in which the state safe-
guarded the weaker party to a contract.
The Constitution of 1809 provided that the High Court of Justice should
consider every legislative change before bills were ratified by Parliament.
This form of ‘judicial preview’ was compulsory. Its purpose was to ensure
that the new legislation was in accordance with the Constitution.
In the 1960s there were recurring conflicts between the Law Council
and the Government. It was a cultural conflict, between the conservative-
regarded judiciary and the progressive politicians. In 1971 Parliament
adopted a law, stating that ‘judicial preview’ in the future did not have to
be compulsory. The government could decide if the proposed legislation
should be considered by the Law Council or not.
A quite new organisation of district courts in 1970 centralised
responsibility for the administration of the courthouses from the local com-
munities to a central authority in Stockholm. From that time on, all reno-
vations were made in the same functionalist style. New courthouses were
built like government agency buildings—anonymous, sterile and bureau-
cratic and senior judges were obliged to move out of the old courthouses.
The old prestigeous podiums for the bench were dismantled. The judiciary
was increasingly regarded more as bureaucrats than as civil servants.
Another way of getting rid of a conservative judiciary was to take away
power from them in terms of jurisdiction. New courts were erected for
special purposes. From 1929 the Labour Court became a model for other
courts such as consumer courts and tenants courts, in all of which the
parties were represented by representatives of the unions or other corpo-
rative organisations. Corporative and lay members were further means of
reducing the importance of the professional judiciary.
The older members of the judiciary felt uncomfortable with the new
political order. Many of the younger members, however, saw the possi-
bility of rapid advancement and adjusted themselves to the contempo-
rary political culture.
It was not only the judiciary that was the focus of reform. The Bar was
also a target for reform. One way to compete with the private Bar was to
open up law firms, driven by state money. From 1973 about 150 lawyers
were employed by the state to work in public law firms. The intention on
the government’s part was to successively raise the number of state
lawyers, but the depression became an obstacle and this reform was never
successful. Today state owned law firms have been abolished and its
employees have turned to private practice.
The new Constitution adopted in 1974 did not result in any debate at all
within the judiciary,20 in spite of radical changes to the position of the judi-
cial branch. Thereafter the judiciary retaind its autonomy, but it was regu-
lated by the ‘Administration and Justice’ section of the Constitution. More
important was that the separation of power doctrine was replaced by the
sovereignty of the people doctrine. To a great extent the judiciary became
executors of the legislators. Judicial review was regulated as an instrument
to be used only if legislation was evidently contrary to the constitution. The
20
Gustav Petrén, Domstolarna enligt 1974 års regeringsform (Svensk, juristtidning,
1975) 1 ff.
°
166 Kjell A Modéer
judiciary has never found this to be the case. The rulings in the Constitution
not only removed power from the judges, it also made them passive. A
Swedish judge has to follow the preparatory papers of the legislation given
by the government and Parliament when the statute is adopted. In these
papers the Zeitgeist, the ideology, the political purpose and the pragmatic
interpretation is to be found.
In summary, the political culture of the 1970s has played an important
part in the development of the Swedish judiciary. Swedish judicial culture
was homogenous and national. It also had an anti-idealistic character.
This judicial culture was a corporativist one.
11. CONCLUSIONS
In this article I have tried to describe the judicial culture by highlighting

some significant aspects of the culture.
— The ideological dimensions. These encompass not only strict politi-
cal ideologies, but more philosophical ideologies and professional
ones. The political ideologies of course, to some extent influence the
judicial culture, for instance by nominating or appointing the judi-
ciary, or as shown in the Swedish example, by letting the judiciary
take part in legislative work.
— Professional and ethical rules for the judiciary are given an official
position in judicial culture. They can be on the idealistic side, as
shown in the historical Rules of the Judge. They can also be more
pragmatic as in the rulings of the Disciplinary Committee of the
Judiciary.
— The legal dimensions. The Constitution and the Code of Procedure
constitute a legal basis for the judicial culture. Autonomy, authority,
status and formalism are all qualities of the judicial culture identified
in the Constitution and in the legislation as previously mentioned.
— The local environment of the judge. The importance of the court-
house, its decorative façades and architectural symbols, has been
emphasised. European as well as local (national) cultural elements
can be identified in the courthouses as an important part of the judi-
cial culture.
— Legal education and training. Continuity within a judicial culture is
also dependent on the career system itself. From the moment law stu-
dents begin their legal education they contribute to the legal system
and the judicial culture. Swedish legal education has, for a long time,
been orientated towards the public sector and the judicial career.
— The judicial career. The Swedish career-system is contrary to the
recruitment system of judges in the Anglo-American legal system.
Traditionally the career path takes Swedish judges into three differ-
ent environments: the district court, the Court of Appeal and the
Department of Justice, each with its own character and culture. The
district court with its closeness to the local social environment
including the laymen in court, the Court of Appeal with its more for-
malistic and collegiate work and the Department of Justice with its
more politically orientated tasks. From his/her time as a clerk to work
in the Department as an expert the judge is continually confronted by
other judges who more or less consciously influence him or her. The
career system in that sense is fostering what Max Weber called a
‘honoratiores’ system, a strict elitist culture.21
At last a reflection related to the future. In the light of the more demo-
cratic aims the Welfare State in Sweden has introduced into judicial cul-
ture it would not be surprising if, in the near future, as Swedish judges are
entering the European courts and their legal systems, these were a colli-
sion with other European judicial cultures, in which the separation of
power principle, political power and elitist attitudes—actually the
Rechtsstaat model—remain as dominating aspects parts of the judicial
culture. Perhaps the judicial culture of the Welfare state was just a his-
torical parenthesis. . .
21Max Weber, Economy and Society: An Outline of Interpretive Sociology (ed)

Guenther Toth and Claus Wittich (University of California Press, Berkeley, 1978) 784 ff.
PART III
Work and Representations

7
The Problems of Wealth and Virtue:
The Paris Bar and the Generation
of the Fin-de-Siècle
JOHN SAVAGE
In November of 1899, just a few weeks into the new school term, shouts
filled an amphitheatre crowded with law students as they subjected a
classmate to an aggressive verbal attack. On the entrance of the profes-
sor, the crowd quietened down but the student in question, the son of a
government minister, took the opportunity to shout ‘Vive la République!’
which led to an even louder chorus of rebuke and a chaotic situation the
professor was powerless to stop. Several more days of disturbances fol-
lowed.1 The student’s father, Georges Trouillot, had recently been given
a ministerial appointment in the new Radical Republican government
brought into office in the wake of the Dreyfus Affair. In fact, the timing
of the outburst points to the political overtones of the students’ display.
The incident was but one in a series of confrontations between republi-
can and anti-republican factions at the Law Faculty and throughout the
Latin Quarter, including a habit on the part of law students of starting
fights with the mostly pro-Dreyfusard students at the Faculty of Letters.
In at least one case, a law professor joined in the attack on a republican
student. It became a commonplace of the fin-de-siècle for the press and
public to see the Law Faculty as a bastion of conservatism and political
reaction.2
This incident points to how the image of the ‘République des Avocats’
is ultimately misleading. The association between lawyers and the early,
triumphant Third Republic does not square with the nature of the inde-
pendent legal profession in the late nineteenth century.3 By the end of the
century, nationalism and anti-Semitism had made inroads among stu-
1
Archives de la Préfecture de Police [APP] Ba 23. Report of 30 Nov 1899. The incident
is also discussed in Le Temps, 2 Dec, 1899, 3, which describes it as a ‘manifestation
nationaliste’.
2
L’Aurore, 22 Dec 1899.
3
Philip Nord, The Republican Moment: Struggles for Democracy in Nineteenth-
century France (Harvard University Press, Cambridge, MA, 1995), ch six.
172 John Savage
dents at the Law Faculty as they had among a number of groups in French
society. There was, however, another dimension to these tensions within
the Law faculty, one that can be brought to light with some additional
context. First of all, Trouillot, the minister in question, was not simply a
standing member of a republican government. He was probably best
known to the students as the author of a bill in Parliament that would
have opened up the profession of avocat to all holders of the degree of
licence, eliminating the requirement of being approved by the Order of
Advocates itself.4 Indeed, it is likely because of this that Trouillot had
recently been struck off the register of the Paris Order by its governing
council, an event that was followed closely in the press. Finally, his dis-
barment was overturned in court on the basis that the professional hear-
ings had not observed due process, causing an uproar among leading
advocates, who saw the sovereignty of their professional body compro-
mised.5
It might be argued that, for these law students, the Republic stood for
something more than just an abstract political ideology. For one thing,
the Republic meant the promise of social mobility, the ‘end of the nota-
bles’ in Daniel Halévy’s phrase, and the birth of a merit-based society.6
These goals were to be achieved largely through the democratisation of
education, a central focus of early republican policy. And while some of
the students in that amphitheatre were beneficiaries of this greater open-
ness, it represented a cultural problem to them. In general, compared to
their Anglo-American counterparts in this period, the French middle
classes had a more ambiguous relationship with the idea of social mobil-
ity. The rapid growth of industrial wealth during the mid-nineteenth
century did not eliminate the longing for aristocratic status that tradi-
tionally characterised the bourgeoisie. The resulting malaise made
examples of meritocracy in France more explicitly aristocratic. This
ambiguous sensibility, caught between ideals of wealth and virtue,
clashed directly with the republican rhetoric of social mobility that was
powerfully captured in Léon Gambetta’s idea of the ‘nouvelles couches’:
the rising new strata that would lead a society based on talent rather than
privilege. The practical problem faced by these young students, the chal-
lenge of being successful in an increasingly overcrowded profession, was
in a certain way analogous to a deeper problem raised by the Republic,
that is, the problem of the democratisation of elites. As this broader stu-
dent population demanded entry into the legal profession, leaders of the
Paris Bar were forced to reevaluate the boundaries of professional iden-
tity in fundamental ways.
4 Le Temps, 29 March, 1893, 2.

5 Gazette du Palais, 1898, vol. 2, 609.
6 Daniel Halévy, La Fin des Notables (Grasset, Paris, 1930).
The Problems of Wealth and Virtue 173
LAWYERS AND BOURGEOIS: ENTERING THE BAR
For a young man entering the Law Faculty in the late-nineteenth century,
the Bar represented an honourable profession, an occupation that
enjoyed a social status tied to the moral standards set by its leaders. Like
the bourgeoisie itself, there were barriers to entering the Bar that were in
part financial, but also linked to habits and mores, to a moral code that
excluded some aspirants and created a sense of value and identity for
those who belonged. Indeed, the advocate’s moral probity was deemed
crucial to justifying his unusual status as the only legal professional who
was not a state employee. As defenders of property, and civil society in
general, before the state, parallels between the specific traits of advocates
and a broadly defined bourgeois culture are not difficult to find. The
Order of Advocates was quintessentially meritocratic, but also had a
time-honoured tradition of providing free legal assistance to the poor, a
practice that could serve as a model of nineteenth century paternalism.
In addition to these features, one might add a professional culture deeply
ingrained with what Robert Nye has called ‘male codes of honor’.7 In
fact, issues of masculinity provide a key to understanding the curious
mixture of bourgeois values of moral probity and talent-based success,
on the one hand, and what can be thought of as aristocratic values of
honor, prowess, even heroism—all of which were associated with the
great orators of the nineteenth century French Bar on the other. Indeed, I
would argue that the tensions of fin-de-siècle bourgeois culture are
nowhere better illustrated than in the case of the legal profession, where
the important role of such codes of honour made membership far more
than an economic proposition.
For the sake of comparison, a world of difference separates the French
context from the situation of American lawyers. For example, in an arti-
cle that appeared in a magazine called The Law Student’s Helper entitled
‘My first year as a Lawyer—What money I made and how I made it’, the
author describes the difficulties of starting out in the profession in the
1880s. He tells of the ‘shabby’ room he was forced to use to meet with
clients, the various strategies used in letters to solicit business, and how
much of his income came from collecting debts. The article ends with
a fully itemised list of fees and expenses for that year.8 Detailing such
financial aspects of practice would be greeted with horror, and immedi-
ate sanctions, in France. Of course much of the difference between
this American account and that of an avocat has to do with the division
7 Robert Nye, Masculinity and Male Codes of Honor in Modern France (Oxford
University Press, New York, 1993).

8 The Law Student’s Helper, Jan–Feb 1893, 9–11.
174 John Savage
of labour among French legal professionals, the fact that others, avoués,
notaires, or agréés handled matters of money.9 But another major con-
trast is that the advocate was under the scrutiny of the disciplinary coun-
cil of his Order in ways that went well beyond American Bar associations.
Professional ethics were intimately bound together with standards of
bourgeois morality. The advocate was of course subject to more rigorous
standards of speech and behaviour than were required by the law. But the
efforts of the disciplinary council to ensure the independence of the
Order also focused on his personal and moral qualities. The notion of
dignité was by no means purely abstract. In practice, this requirement
meant, for example, that a young aspirant to the profession would be vis-
ited by a member of the Council of Discipline who would verify that his
place of residence was worthy of a practicing advocate. This examination
followed a number of set criteria, from the importance of having a ser-
vant answer the door, to the clear separation of work and living areas and
the size and content of the library. According to a typical description of
the period, the young lawyer needed
‘a parlor or a waiting room that is, if not luxurious, at least comfortable, an office
with a desk and library, with a sufficient number of chairs to seat several clients,
as well as the officers of the court who may accompany them’.10
The lawyer was also required to reside within the city limits of the seat of
the district in which he practiced. In Paris, this meant that lawyers plead-
ing cases in suburbs that were part of the Department of the Seine had to
live in the city, not the poorer outlying faubourgs. The importance of hav-
ing an acceptable cabinet was the most concrete requirement for a poten-
tial member of the Order, one that only young men of some means could
hope to fulfill. The advocate was formally required to own his own fur-
niture and thus restricted from dwelling in any kind of boarding house.11
Indeed, he was not allowed to conduct professional matters anywhere
else:
9 Avoué is generally translated as solicitor and notaire as notary. These were both
considered offices that were purchased from the state, putting these professions out of
reach of young men of modest backgrounds. The term agréés refers to those lawyers
admitted to plead before commercial courts, a lucrative practice forbidden to members
of the Order of Advocates. See Jean-Louis Halpérin, Les professions judiciaires et
juridiques dans l’histoire contemporaine (Institut d’Etudes Judiciaires, Université de
Lyon III, Lyon, 1992), 73.
10
René Lafon, Pour Devenir Avocat (Schleicher frères, Paris, 1899), 160.
11 Saint Georges, Les Chemins de la Vie: le Barreau (A. Mame et fils, Tours, 1900), 95;
Ernest Cresson, Usages et règles de la profession d’avocat, jurisprudence, ordonnances,

décrets et lois vol. 1, (L. Larose et Forcel, Paris, 1888), 63.
‘the advocate who accepts an appointment from a client in a café is wanting in

professional conduct, and the fact of having visited the client to receive money
constitutes inappropriate behavior (une inconvenance)’.12
These requirements, formally stated by the Council of Discipline, were
ostensibly meant to insure the advocate’s dignity and independence. The
association of moral qualities with the nature of the interior space of the
home further attests to the link between professional guidelines and
bourgeois status.13
For those young aspirants who could not present the Council with
evidence of a proper office, there was little chance of earning enough
money to finance one-self through the cases they might plead. In effect,
professional rules made earning a living difficult. Barred from any kind
of advertising or solicitation; untested, and largely untrained in the real
demands of the courtroom, the young stagiaire (intern) faced significant
obstacles in establishing a practice. In particular, young lawyers who
pleaded the cases of legal assistance were strictly forbidden from receiv-
ing payment of any kind. Even once they had in fact found a willing client
with a legitimate case, professional rules stated that fees could never be
requested in writing. Honoraria were to be offered spontaneously as a
‘present’ in exchange for the advocate’s aid, not as remuneration for a ser-
vice rendered.14 As a result, faced with a client who would not pay his
bill, an advocate had no recourse before the courts, since suing for fees
could and did lead to disciplinary hearings before the Council. It was well
known that clients familiar with this system were prepared to take advan-
tage of young interns.15 What is striking is that in these cases, the Council
did not seek to protect the lawyer, but enforced the rules that stopped him
from demanding payment. The advocate was barred even from dis-
cussing any aspect of the subject of honoraria with officers of the court
or prosecutors. Such an infraction was punishable by the most severe
sanction, disbarment.16
During the period of the stage, the advocate was not allowed to engage
in any activities that were deemed incompatible with his profession,
including serving as a clerk for a solicitor, or even giving Latin or French
lessons to private students.17 This meant that, in addition to the years of
12 Decision of Council of Discipline cited by Gaston Leroux, La Fronde,

15 Nov 1900.
13 Nord, The Republican Moment, ch 9.
14 Decision of 30 April, 1867: ‘L’honoraire offert par le client doit toujours constituer,
de la part de celui-ci, une rémunération essentiellement volontaire et spontanée’. Mollot,

Règles de la profession d’avocat (Durand, Paris, 1866), vol. 1, 79.
15 Lafon, Pour Devenir Avocat, 92.
16 Mollot, Règles de la profession, vol. 1, 77.
17 ‘La Presse Judiciaire Parisienne’, Le Palais de justice de Paris, son monde et ses
moeurs (Librairies-imprimeries réunies, Paris, 1892), 123; 128.

176 John Savage
study at the Law Faculty, no real income could be earned for at least
another three years.18 These practices demonstrate the implicit social
selection at work in the standards of the profession. Interns were allowed
to request their official admission to the Order’s register after three years
attending the stage. If they did not do so at that time, they were required
to request admission after five years as a stagiaire. At this point, the treas-
urer of the Order would inform the young man that he had to choose
between registering on the Order’s official roll, and thus being subject to
the patente, a tax levied on professionals and businessmen, or leaving the
practice of law altogether.
The residency requirement guaranteed that the Council of Discipline
could keep an eye on the members of their Order, including their finan-
cial situation, and make sure that their private lives were sufficiently
‘dignified’. This surveillance could be quite rigorous. The Council’s reach
extended well into the home of the advocate, and touched on areas hav-
ing nothing to do with professional life. According to a decision reached
by the Council of Discipline in 1880, ‘Particularly unfortunate scenes,
both within the home of the advocate and in public, with respect to a
quarrel started in a public house (brasserie), warrant severe punish-
ments’.19 As is made clear by a decision of 1887, social contacts could
also be subject to the approval of the Council:
‘To trouble the public peace by inappropriate acts, to frequent cafés with little
decency and in such a manner as to attract humiliating sarcasm, to degrade one-
self with certain company, is to face the most severe penalties’.20
These constraints extended to a rule against being seen at trade-union
meetings.
The power of the Conseil de l’Ordre can be understood partly in terms
of the importance of the young advocate having good relations with
senior members of the profession, as they were a crucial source of finding
work and gaining recognition. The opportunity to work with a well-
known senior advocate was highly prized, and could guarantee profes-
sional success. But it was not easy to find ways to get the attention of
these figures, outside of an impressive display of oratory before the
Conference du stage. How was a young advocate without connections
18 Paul Jacquemart, ed., Professions et Métiers, Guide pour le Choix d’une Carrière à
l’Usage des Familles et de la Jeunesse, vol. 1 ‘Les professions libérales’, (A. Colin, Paris,
1891), 158.
19 Decision of 13 July, 1880, quoted in Gaston Leroux, Sur Mon Chemin (E.
Flammarion, Paris, 1900), 183.

20
Decision of 2 Feb 1887, quoted in Leroux, Sur mon Chemin, 183. In the same deci-
sion, the Council declared its right to examine and appreciate, ‘documents officially pro-
duced against an advocate in a case of marital separation (séparation de corps)’. Several
other disciplinary actions related to morality are cited by Cresson, Usages et Règles, 88.
supposed to get his first cases? According to Mollot’s professional man-

ual, the clients were to find the advocate in his office; ‘what triumph
would there be without obstacles?’ he wrote.21 In practice, the nature of
legal procedure made a relationship with an avoué, or solicitor, impera-
tive. The challenge for a young intern was somehow to get the attention
of a solicitor who could then give him work. This could happen if he
turned his banal case of legal assistance into a brilliant legal argument,
though opportunities of this kind were in short supply. One solicitor also
recommended that the young advocate arrange to be seen in the main hall
of the Palais de justice, ‘with a briefcase that looks a bit heavy, filled with
anything, a melon if necessary’.22 The relationship with the solicitor was
to remain informal: setting up any type of formal agreement was strictly
forbidden.23
Starting in the 1860s, the rigidity of professional rules began to be chal-
lenged as increasing numbers of young men sought to enter the Bar. Law
faculties around France absorbed more and more students produced in
this period of growing access to higher education. According to a study
undertaken by the Ministry of Education in 1865, advanced study in law
was the goal of the single largest group of students at the secondary
level.24 The figure of the briefless barrister was certainly not new, he had
been a favourite subject for writers and publicists under the July
Monarchy in particular. But the phenomenon differed from that
described by Balzac in that a much smaller proportion of the young advo-
cates had independent means. They sought more often to earn their
living as quickly as possible, and were less likely to seek the title simply
as a mark of social rank, as was common among provincial notables in
earlier years, or with the goal of a political career in mind.25 In addition
to this, the figure of the ‘gentleman lawyer’ was dealt a severe blow in
mid-century with the imposition of the patente tax on all practising
advocates.
By the mid-1860s, several periodicals were founded in order to serve the
interests of the new generation of advocates. The editors of these journals
sought specifically to facilitate the entry of young men into the profes-
sion, given the great number of obstacles they were likely to encounter.
One goal was to publish the oratory of remarkable young lawyers in
21
Mollot, Règles de la profession, vol. 1, 74.
22
Le Palais de Justice de Paris, 147.
23 Mollot, Règles de la profession, vol. 1, 76–77.
24 15% of students in lycée hoped to study law (the largest single group); Patrick
Harrigan, Mobility, Elites and Education in French Society of the Second Empire
(Wilfrid Laurier University Press, Waterloo, Ontario, 1980), 32.
25
Lenore O’Boyle, ‘The problem of an excess of educated men in Europe: 1800–1850’,
(1970) 2(4) Journal of Modern History.
178 John Savage
order to publicise their talents and attract clients.26 These journals did
not hesitate to point to the artificial nature of the rules of the Paris Bar as
a major hindrance to young lawyers attempting to practise their trade.
One editorialist published a mock ‘letter to the bâtonnier’, the president
of the Order, satirising the naïve expectations of those first entering the
Bar and lamenting the difficulties of the first years of professional life:
Ambitious! Alas, yes, that has always been the worst of my faults. At 15, I
dreamed of being Demosthenes; at 18, Berryer; at 20, with all due respect, to
becoming bâtonnier; at 22, to being the great lawyer of my region; from there it
kept getting lower; at 23, I dreamed only of earning an honest living, at 24, plead-
ing once, any kind of case, so that my friends wouldn’t make fun of me too much.
. . .27
The parodic sketch of the young provincial getting his first taste of the
real professional world in Paris was mirrored in true accounts in later
years. Steered away from putting a plaque on his door, so that no one was
aware of his title or his existence, the young intern faced a visit by a mem-
ber of the Council of Discipline,
‘A man who came to see me explained very clearly that with my two straw chairs
and light wooden table, I was compromising the dignity of the Order, and he indi-
cated to me the minimum number of armchairs and quality of wood that were
necessary before one could begin to uphold the law and combat injustice’.28
What began as a schoolboyish joke on the part of a handful of young
lawyers foreshadowed issues that came to a head during the Third
Republic, when professional rules of conduct were formally challenged
due to their elitism. Critics attacked the Order not only in the name of
the clients they served, but also in the name of the republican ideal of
social mobility, for those whose professional ambitions were frustrated.
THE BAR AND THE REPUBLIC
By 1879, the Third Republic had fought off the most immediate threats
to its existence and had proven itself to be, at least for the moment, the
regime that divided Frenchmen the least. In this year, republicans finally
reached a majority in the Chamber of Deputies and began to push legis-
lation through under the guidance of Jules Ferry. Having survived the first
years of the new regime, these legislators went about the task of rethink-
26
See, for example Le Barreau, Journal du Palais 1, 16 Nov 1865. The journal’s goals
were applauded by the president of the Bar in its second issue: 1 Dec 1865, 125.
27
Modestin ‘Lettre d’un stagiaire à M. le Bâtonnier sur la profession d’avocat’, La
Conférence, 23, 5 April 1865, 738.
28 Modestin, ‘Lettre d’un stagiaire’, 739.
ing French society and political life from a republican perspective. While
historians have paid much attention to Ferry’s colonial and educational
legislation, less has been written about the vast reforms undertaken in the
justice system in this period. After the failed attempts to purge the mag-
istracy in the early 1870s, the legal system remained a bastion of conser-
vatism. It took years, for example, for the courtroom itself to display
evidence of the republican state. Only after the republican majority was
achieved in the Chamber of Deputies was a ‘humble plaster bust’ of the
republic introduced. One journalist described the reaction at the Palais de
Justice,
‘There were restrained smiles, hushed whispers and tragic gestures. This effigy
was a profanation whose arrival had, under the most unreal pretexts, been put off
for the previous eight years’.29
The greatest battle was over the removal of magistrates who were
named before the advent of the republican regime and whose positions
were protected by inamovibilité, life-long appointment to the bench.
True to their traditional distrust for judicial power, republicans felt that
previous attempts to purify the legal system had been too moderate, and
a number of leaders qualified the magistracy as a ‘third power’ that
threatened to offset republican gains in the legislative branch. What fol-
lowed has been described by Jean-Pierre Royer as a ‘judicial revolution’
between 1879–1883.30 One initiative focused on replacing standing
judges by introducing elections. This idea had the support of many radi-
cals as well as a good number of moderate republicans, who saw in it a
way to bring a direct popular voice in legal affairs. The decree of June
1882 establishing that judges at all levels would be elected by universal
suffrage is evidence of the generalised suspicion of the magistracy on the
part of republican lawmakers. The measure was adopted as being
the only policy consistent with the Republic, and gave satisfaction to the
Radical programme. Very soon, however, the weaknesses of the sweeping
law came to the surface. Critics objected that a huge number of offices
would be affected immediately, and these would then become open to
men of insufficient qualifications. Within just a few months, the measure
was reversed by the Chamber. The idea of elected judges had been popu-
lar in part because it offered a means to rid the nation of the magistrates
appointed by Napoleon III. By the following year, a new measure was
passed that addressed that issue directly. The law of 30 August 1883 set in
motion an aggressive purging of the magistracy, in which the simple
29 Achille Dalsème, A Travers le Palais (E. Dentu, Paris, 1881), 73.
30 The President of the Republic himself, Jules Grévy, compared the magistracy to a
barrel of vinegar, that ‘stubbornly remains vinegar, no matter how much good wine I
pour in..’. Cited by Jean-Pierre Royer, Histoire de la Justice en France (Presses
Universitaires de France, Paris, 1995), 580.
180 John Savage
denunciation of a judge for having anti-republican opinions was

sufficient to have him removed from the bench.31 In opposition to angry
objections from judges, who declared their independence to be under
attack, republican leaders responded that the principle of life-long
appointment was incompatible with the Republic itself, which demanded
direct accountability from its representatives. The result of the law was
that approximately one thousand judges were fired within just a few
weeks.32 Not a few of these, it can be pointed out, turned to the Bar as a
second career.
Attention to the problem of conservative standing magistrates in the
early 1880s naturally led to scrutiny of other aspects of the legal system
that seemed inconsistent with republican principles. At first, the Order of
Advocates was spared the scrutiny of the republican state, as the lawyers
were more often seen as a countervailing influence to the reactionary
bench.33 In addition to this, a favourable decision of the Council of State
over the issue of the legal identity of the Order of Advocates appeared in
1881. According to this decision, the Bar was not an établissement pub-
lic, since it had the right to be a party to legal cases with no need for prior
authorisation from the State. However, it was not to be considered an
organisation with a purely civil status either, since it could not accept or
hold funds in its own name.34 This legal ambiguity meant that it was
unclear whether the Order was under the jurisdiction of civil or adminis-
trative law, an uncertainty that leaders of the legal profession cited as
evidence of its special mission, and a status that was somehow outside
the categories of positive law. This logic was the key argument for the
absolute sovereignty of the Council of Discipline over its decisions for
decades to come.35
Nevertheless, republican attacks on the independence of the judiciary
made some lawyers nervous, and justifiably so. It was in Paris that the first
serious challenge to the legitimacy of the Order of Advocates appeared
since the Commune. In November 1883, a proposal to abolish
the ‘monopoly’ of the advocates was submitted to the Conseil Général de
Paris by a young council member and advocate, Joseph Henri Michelin.
31 Royer, Histoire de la Justice, 599.
32 Jean-Pierre Machelon, ‘L’Epuration Républicaine: La loi du 30 Août 1883’, in Les
Epurations de la Magistrature de la Révolution à la Liberation (Loysel, Paris, 1994),
87–103.
33
Dalsème, A travers le palais, 120.
34 C. B. [Charles Beudant], ‘Questions Administratives, jurisprudence de Conseil
d’Etat’, (1881) 49 Revue Pratique de Droit Français, 404–5.

35
Charles Dejongh, ‘De la Personnalité Morale de l’Ordre des Avocats en France et
en Belgique’, (1902) 29 Journal de Droit International Privé, 784. On the issue of the
Order’s sovereignty, see my dissertation, ‘Advocates of the Republic: The Paris Bar and
Legal Culture in early Third Republic France, 1870–1914’, (New York University, 1999),
ch 2.
He proposed to ‘suppress’ the Order of Advocates in the name of free

access to justice and in order to do away with the procedural
inefficiency of the present legal system. Michelin attacked this ‘worst of all
monopolies’, the advocate’s right to plead in court, that required a lawyer
not only to have a law degree, but to be approved by the Conseil de l’Ordre.
Discussion of the proposal in the municipal council was heated, to say
the least. To a chorus of protests from several of the lawyers present,
Michelin was defended by an associate who argued that ‘even the most
worthy plaintiffs rarely find an advocate to defend them, if beforehand a
certain sum of money has not been deposited’.36 Other colleagues were
incensed at this display of disrespect toward the Bar. One council mem-
ber responded that the claims were absurd, that the Order provided
defense at no cost and that lawyers did not even accept money for their
services. In response to this a man named Weber spoke up, first citing
cases of prospective members of the Bar being refused for their political
beliefs, and finally revealing that he himself had suffered from the
tyranny of the Order’s governing council, having been rejected from the
register due to his involvement in business dealings. Weber accused the
Council of Discipline of being more concerned with his ‘liberal’ politics
than anything else. After three sessions of discussion, Michelin’s state-
ment was finally approved by the comfortable margin of 42 to 15.37
The following year, Michelin was elected as a deputy to the National
Assembly representing the department of the Seine. He was a Radical
Socialist and sat with the group known as the extrême gauche intran-
sigeante. Like many of his colleagues, he soon became enamoured with
the populist nationalism General Boulanger. While Michelin was regis-
tered with the Bar, he did not practice law but rather devoted his atten-
tion to his political career and editing the radical journal L’Action. His
proposal to do away with the Paris Bar in the Municipal Council was
submitted to the Ministry of Justice, which then gave it to the parlia-
mentary committee that considered questions of civil procedure.
Meanwhile, he brought his motion to the National Assembly, where it
became the first of a series of attempts over the next twenty years to
curtail or do away with the Bar’s monopoly on legal services.
Michelin based his bill on two major ideas. First, that the lawyers’
‘privilege’ contributed significantly to the high cost of justice, as well as
the overly complicated nature of the legal system. A private individual
seeking to go to court over some injustice had to hire an avoué, as well as
an avocat, since the former had no right to plead cases orally before the
courts, thus doubling the cost of justice. ‘This state of things cannot last
36
Archives de Paris [AP] D 2 N1.48C 55. ‘Voeu tendant à la suppression du monopole
des avocats’, report of 6 Oct 1884.
37
AP D2N1.48 C 55 Conseil Général de Paris, report of 10 Oct 1884.
182 John Savage
any longer’, he declared, ‘Justice must, in effect, be organized in the inter-

est of those who use the system and not those who profit from it’.38
Secondly, Michelin brought out the political nature of the profession,
pointing to the case of former members of the Commune who had been
refused admission to the Bar, but also what he claimed was the conserv-
ative Catholic bias of the Conseil, which made one’s spiritual beliefs sub-
ject to their approval: ‘There is here an incontestable abuse and a very real
violation of the principle of freedom of conscience’.39 Michelin suggested
that the Bar be replaced by an open system of legal defence, where all
plaintiffs could speak for themselves before a judge or have someone of
their choosing do it for them. Advocates themselves could continue to
exist, but they would not be regulated by a professional body and they
would no longer have a monopoly on the practice of speaking in court.
The Bill was examined by a parliamentary commission which was to
decide its merits as a subject of debate in the Chamber of Deputies. This
was a decisive stage of the legislative process. Given the large amount of
legislation submitted by deputies, the commissions performed the
important function of triage to determine which proposals were worthy
of their colleagues’ attention.40 Within the commission, serious crit-
icisms of the proposal were again voiced by lawyers. The conservative
deputy Keller argued that
‘the corporation of advocates as it is organized offers guarantees of knowledge
and honor. In leaving these guarantees behind, precious for the public and espe-
cially for weaker parties (petits justiciables), we would be favoring the agents
d’affaires (‘businessmen’ acting as officious counsel) to the detriment of the pub-
lic good’.41
Despite the clear support of a number of members of the Bar for Keller,
the commission voted to prolong the life of the Bill and to present it on
the floor of Parliament.
The report that was drafted by the commission showed no evidence of
its internal disagreements, and was remarkably aggressive toward the
Bar, calling it an ‘arbitrary and abusive organization’, and referring to its
suppression during the Revolution in the name of ‘freedom of labor’ as ‘a
great act of patriotism and logic’.42 Colfavru, speaking before the
Chamber of Deputies in favour of Michelin’s Bill, was passionate about
the underlying justice of doing away with the legal profession. The Order
38
Journal Officiel, Annexe 498, 1 March, 1886, 1176.
39
Journal Officiel, Annexe 498, 1 March, 1886, 1176.
40 R. K. Gooch, The French Parliamentary Committee System (Archon Books,
Hamden, Connecticut, 1969), 156–7.

41
Archives Nationales [AN] C*II 853, Quatrième Commision d’Initiative
Parlementaire, 19 March, 1886.
42 Journal Officiel Annexe 670, 15 April, 1886, 1371.
of Advocates, he claimed, was an ‘anachronism’ that recalled the privi-

leges of the Old Regime,
. . . with the difference that [since the Revolution] political passions have had a
much bigger role in the conseils, which have stopped at no violence, and perse-
cuted the proudest of independent spirits to the point of ostracism. How many
men of character and talent have been rejected in this way or excluded from a
career that gave them assurances, as solemn as they were insincere, that it was
open to all men of learning, with no limitations on the person or his opinions!43
He argued that the only possible objections came from
‘certain advocates who have but a tepid affection for democratic institutions, and
who, with dubious personal motives, pretend to protect the interests of their fel-
low citizens while reserving the exclusive right to defend them’.
As for the agents d’affaire, Colfavru did not seek to whitewash their char-
acter, instead laying the blame for their existence directly on the Bar
itself:
‘it is the intolerance of the Council of Discipline that leads to the recruitment of
this phalanx, of whom the great number of advocates forego neither the assis-
tance nor the cooperation’.44
The commission’s approval of Michelin’s proposal encouraged similar
initiatives to be launched, as they had a much better chance of being
heard since they could be grouped together with the first bill. Vergoin, a
moderate republican, proposed a ‘transformation’ of the profession. His
bill focused on how internal resentments within the profession had taken
on a public dimension. He noted what he called ‘les bizarreries’ of the
Order’s rules, and again emphasised the sinister potential of the Conseils
de l’Ordre, ‘worrisome jurisdictions that are these secret tribunals . . .’.
which he saw as a danger to the public, but also ‘for the advocates them-
selves, alternatively subject to anonymous evaluations and inquisitorial
affronts from colleagues and equals’. Vergoin made plain that these sen-
timents were especially directed at the Paris Bar, ‘where the severity of the
council’s rules reaches its greatest intensity’. His proposal sheds light on
how lawyers were perceived as being out of step with the times and ulti-
mately even incapable of performing their basic function because of their
strange professional culture. The advocate was seen as a member of a
‘closed caste . . . condemned by its special rules to an isolation from practical life,
the consequence of which sometimes goes so far as to corrupt the sense of Justice
itself and the very notion of Truth’.45
43
Journal Officiel Annexe 670, 15 April, 1886, 1371.
44
Journal Officiel Annexe 670, 15 April, 1886, 1371.
45
Journal Officiel Annexe 1260, 18 Nov 1886, 519–520.
184 John Savage
Responses to the various Bills introduced in Parliament showed there

was widespread sympathy for the proposed measures. Even the main-
stream Le Temps, a newspaper commonly read by lawyers and business-
men, suggested that the spirit of the recent parliamentary initiatives was
not misdirected and that it was in fact time to open the doors of the
Order to a wider public.46 However, the next issue of the paper contained
a rather barbed response from Edmond Allou, a former bâtonnier who
was among the most senior members of the Paris Bar. He started out by
expressing shock at the ideas in the parliamentary proposals, and asked
sarcastically whether soon everyone would want to be allowed to practice
medicine. As for the idea of abolishing the Bar altogether, he wrote:
‘If we could succeed in realizing this strange progress today, I would wish as a
vengeance on our reformers a great trial with the defense led, naturally, by
officious counsel, and elected magistrates to judge it’.47
There was certainly no attempt by an ageing doyen of the profession
like Allou to justify his opposition to the democratic principle. He made
no bones about admitting that the corpus of lawyers did enjoy a mono-
poly over pleading in court, he simply justified this as being for the
public’s own good. Indeed, this sort of paternalist rhetoric is how many
older members of the profession met outside criticism. The comments of
members of the Bar reflect pride in their elitism, and an underlying dis-
taste for the democratisation of legal institutions. In his speech to the
young interns of the Bar in November 1886, the bâtonnier Martini
denounced the Order’s critics in these terms:
‘they sacrifice the public interest to that invidious and lowly spirit of false democ-
racy that seeks to curb everything, men and institutions, to its level of vulgar
mediocrity. They take umbrage at our Order: they want to do away with it, and
their dream is to debase our profession by opening it up to those unworthy of
practicing it’.48
But over time, leaders of the profession began to make a greater effort
to respond to their critics. Though the fundamental ideas changed little,
defenders of the Order sought to explain exactly how the Bar worked for
the public good. In a speech responding to the parliamentary attacks,
Charles Rivière emphasised that the Order of Advocates ‘is a public insti-
tution, invested with a high social mission’. He drew a distinction
between the Bar and other liberal professions over this idea of service
public. Because its function was so closely tied to the state, the Bar’s com-
46
Le Temps, 23 March, 1886, 1.
47
Le Temps, 1 April, 1886, 1.
48 Martini, De la suppression de l’Ordre des Avocats, 1886, 27. The speech also
appears in Bulletin de la société amicale des secrétaires and anciens secrétaires de la con-
férence du stage [BSCA], (1886) 26–62.
mitment to the public good was all the more manifest than that of physi-
cians, scientists, engineers or philosophers. Yet Rivière emphasized that
this link to the State had to be carefully circumscribed. The State should
have no role in naming or monitoring members of the profession. Here,
once again, the honour of the profession was at stake. Such increased
state control of the profession would represent, ‘. . . the end of our glori-
ous traditions, the ruin of the moral grandeur of our Order, the lowering
of our profession to the level of a vulgar trade’.49
Leaders of the Paris Bar insisted on the important contributions the
profession made to civil society. The best example of this, and the prac-
tice increasingly publicised by members of the Order, was the tradition of
providing free legal counsel to the poor. Senior lawyers invoked assist-
ance judiciaire as evidence of the selflessness and social conscience of the
profession. Starting in the early 1880s, for example, the bâtonnier would
invariably conclude his annual speech to the interns with a ritual enum-
eration of the cases of assistance, specifically presented as a justification
for the profession. But the issue of legal assistance was not so clear-cut,
since it could serve both as evidence of the Order’s mission of public serv-
ice, and also the exploitation of young lawyers of modest backgrounds.
In the last years of the century, it was the subject of the difficulty of enter-
ing the legal profession, as well as other professions libérales, that began
to capture the interest of publicists. In fact, interest in careerism led to a
proliferation of new publications that served as guides to the best pos-
sible occupations according to a young man’s talents, sensibilities and
goals. Career guides also stressed the difficulty of preparatory studies for
the work, its social standing and later possibilities for advancement.
Through the decades that preceded the First World War, career guides
emphasised the risks inherent in seeking a position as an advocate.
Authors noted that studies were long and expensive, and did not guar-
antee the ability to practise. ‘Les débuts’, as one book remarked, often
meant fifteen years or more.50 According to another author, by the time
the young advocate took his oath, he had cost his family 20,000 francs,
and wouldn’t earn any significant income for a good ten years after
that.51 All emphasised the need for some independent means in order to
become an advocate. Indeed, Cresson’s manual itself recommended an
income of no less than 6,000 livres in order to survive in the profession.
Although they stressed the great social prestige of the homme de loi, the
guides invariably warned that such rewards awaited only a tiny number
of aspirants, and the typical advocate could end up far less well off than
less ambitious professionals. Without a fortune, the advocate
49
Charles Rivière, De la Suppression de l’Ordre des Avocats: Réponse à la
Proposition Michelin (Imprimerie de Mougin-Rusand, Lyon, 1886), 13, 15.
50 Lafon, Pour devenir avocat, 78.
51 Jacquemart, Professions et Métiers, 153, 156.
186 John Savage
‘would always have more trouble balancing his budget than the typical minister-
ial assistant, however modest one may imagine the surroundings (appartements)
of the latter’.52
The guides never failed to mention the role of the Council of Discipline
among the obstacles faced by young lawyers. While such books tended to
make light of the rhetoric of professional manuals and the speeches of the
stage, they nevertheless underlined how these rules presented very real
constraints for the young advocate trying to earn a living. In one early
and extreme example, a presentation of the profession to young readers
published in 1881, the author went as far as to recount the story of an
impoverished young advocate who had a promising career ahead of him
after obtaining his degree from the faculty, but had been unable to get any
cases and lived in poverty. In desperation he threw himself at a client, but
was reprimanded by the Council for this act of solicitation, and ended up
starving to death in his lonely attic-room.53 In a serial published in the
1890s, another author devoted his efforts to exposing ‘the ravages that a
narrow and false conception of the profession of advocate can cause to a
pure and honest soul’. Accused of calumny by members of the Bar, no
less a figure than Raymond Poincaré came to the author’s defence.54 Such
stories could not have encouraged young aspirants to the Bar. The
prospect of earning the title of advocate and yet not being able to support
even a moderate existence was daunting, and the Bar’s traditional restric-
tions were presented as central to the task.
The theme of the overcrowding of professional life became fully articu-
lated at the turn of the century with the publication of a tract by Henry
Bérenger, former head of the student association of the University of
Paris. Bérenger lashed out at the general system of higher education that
he saw as ‘a veritable factory for producing proletarians.’55 He
denounced the promise of meritocratic social mobility under the
Republic as nothing but a sham, and contended that thousands of young
people were destined to a life of severe disillusionment after believing
they could accede to a higher station by preparing to enter the liberal pro-
fessions: ‘what good is this democratic dupery of liberal professions
accessible to the People?’56 Bérenger argued that rather than giving young
people an honest trade they could be proud of and that would earn them
a decent living, the Republican regime was simply generating bitterness
by feeding off of the inflated expectations of students, without even

53 Dalsème, A travers le palais, 78.
54 The author in question was Masson-Forestier. Le Temps, 9 Nov 1896, 3.
55 Henry Bérenger, Les Prolétaires Intellectuels en France (Editions de la Revue, Paris,
1901), 39.
56 Bérenger, Les proletaires intellectuels, 41.
giving them any practical expertise in return. Indeed, for Bérenger this
lack of ‘real’ or applied knowledge characterised the course of study for
all of the liberal professions, the implication being that the obligatory
diplomas were artificial requirements aimed at draining the savings of
middle class students.
Bérenger claimed that the worst of the liberal professions by far was
the Bar, where the greatest number of students imagined themselves to be
headed. He maintained that no more than one in twelve advocates earned
even enough to live on, and even these would make virtually nothing in
their first ten years of practice.57 The experience of years of poverty and
idleness presented a veritable social danger for this new class, which
Bérenger clearly meant to stand as a dark reflection of the much vaunted
nouvelles couches, where acrimony overtook precisely those young men
whose personal honour and devotion to their career had to be completely
above suspicion.58 Like Maurice Barrès, whose novel Les Déracinés
undoubtedly inspired him, Bérenger’s tract attempted to capitalise on the
frustrations of a middle-class that had been promised so much by the
Republic.
THE DEMOGRAPHIC EXPANSION
But how accurate was the notion of an ‘intellectual proletariat’, in par-

ticular as it applied to the legal profession? Were the numbers of young
lawyers in Paris really multiplying at a rate greater than that of the popu-
lation as a whole, the expansion of the economy, or than what had been
seen in the earlier periods? The statistics thrown around by publicists like
Bérenger were dubious at best, though they were often taken up by the
mainstream press and even lawyers themselves. Most importantly, how-
ever, such figures rarely attempted to show the evolution in context over
any significant period of time. Table 1 shows the progression of advocates
registered at the Paris Bar as well as the figure for the total number of
advocates in France. The three columns on the right refer to the corres-
ponding numbers of stagiaires, the young graduates of the law faculty
considering a career in the Bar.
These figures show the steady expansion of the Paris Bar starting in the
1880s and an overall increase of more than 150 per cent before the First
World War. More striking than this absolute increase, however, is the
dramatic shift in the weight of the Parisians as a proportion of the total
population of lawyers in France. From less than one in six in the early years
of the Republic, nearly one in every three French advocates were registered
57 Bérenger, Les proletaires intellectuels, 9.

58
Bérenger, Les proletaires intellectuels, 20.
188 John Savage
Table 1: Advocates and Stagiaires, 1872–1913
Advocates Stagiaires
% %
Paris France in Paris Paris France in Paris
1872 613 3,969 15.4 831 2,156 38.5

1875 701 4,025 17.4 772 2,277 33.9
1880 739 4,121 17.9 791 2,147 36.8
1885 832 4,279 19.4 1,043 2,567 40.6
1890 947 4,430 21.4 1,000 2,454 40.7
1895 1,035 4,426 23.4 967 2,393 40.4
1900 1,142 4,492 25.4 939 2,197 42.7
1905 1,247 4,638 26.9 919 2,202 41.7
1910 1,352 4,660 29.0 1,002 2,545 39.4
1913 1,583 5,023 31.5 905 2,288 39.6
Sources: Compte Général de l’Administration de la Justice, Tableau de l’Ordre

des Avocats and Annuaire des Professions Judiciaires et Juridiques.
at the Paris Bar by World War I.59 Indeed, the overall growth of the popu-
lation of lawyers nationally is roughly equal to that of the Paris Bar alone.
Outside of Paris, the profession was in stagnation,60and in many regions
the early Third Republic was a period of desertion of the Bar.61
59
It should be noted that no figure in the period preceding World War I approaches
the number of advocates per capita achieved in France under the July Monarchy. Jean-
Louis Halperin has found that relative to the general population, there was one advocate
for every 6,969 inhabitants in France in 1830, and one for every 8,519 inhabitants in 1900
(Halpérin, Les professions judiciaires et juridiques). However, it is crucial to emphasise
the important differences in the social composition of the Bar at these times. By the end
of the 19th century, the figure of the ‘gentleman lawyer’ who rarely practiced was in
decline. The amount of litigation had also increased markedly by the end of the century.
60
The number of advocates registered outside of Paris was as follows:
1872: 3,356 1895: 3,391
1875: 3,326 1900: 3,350
1880: 3,382 1905: 3,391
1885: 3,447 1910: 3,308
1890: 3,483 1913: 3,440
Source: Table 1.
61
Pascal Plas has found this to be the case in Limoges and the Limousin, for example.
‘Le Barreau, carrefour des elites locales: l’exemple limousin’ in Sylvie Gillaume, (ed) Les
Elites Fin-de-Siècle (Editions de la M.S.H.A., Bordeaux, 1992), 76 n 52.
At the same time, the number of Parisian stagiaires, after a weaker

period in the 1870s and early 1880s, remained approximately stable as a
proportion of the national total at about 40 per cent. This large figure
shows that those stagiaires who ended up in other careers were more
often found in the capital, as one might expect, given this population’s
common parallel interests in politics, government work, journalism or
big business. Until 1891 there were more interns than advocates registered
in Paris, whilst this was never close to being the case elsewhere in France.
Over time, however, the interns’ openness to other careers declined
significantly, with a greater and greater proportion entering the Bar, and
the stage gradually losing its position as a starting point for a variety of
elite careers. It is not possible to say with great precision what this pro-
portion was. However, it is clear that only a fraction of the stagiaires, no
more than one in ten, as Bérenger and others suggested, ended up prac-
tising at the Bar in the long run.62
The dramatic increase of Parisian lawyers as a proportion of the pro-
fession nationally is a key to understanding the importance of the Paris
Conseil de l’Ordre within the profession, and the conflicting interests
that led to tensions with provincial orders in later years. But did this
redistribution simply reflect a booming demand for legal services in the
capital? The above figures do not tell us anything specific about the rela-
tive availability of work for the advocates. The following table provides
statistics for the number of civil cases registered on the rôle, that is, the
calendar of court cases in both Paris and France, as well as the number of
cases argued before the Tribunal Correctionnel, the court that considered
minor crimes (délits), and the serious criminal cases before the Cour
d’Assises. This last category included the most spectacular and notorious
criminal cases. Yet although it received the most attention from the press
and epitomised the public’s notion of the lawyers’ work, the Assizes pro-
vided only a fraction of the number of cases available to advocates (See
Table 2).
This table is not an exact statement of the number of cases pleaded by
advocates in a given year. Many of the cases listed on the rôle, for exam-
ple, were rescheduled or abandoned. Nevertheless, the figures provide a
solid index of the litigiousness of French society and the demand for the
62 Given that the stage lasted at least 3 years and no more than 5 years, then the poten-
tial number of entrants in a given year should be about one fourth of the total number of
interns in that year. This leads to a figure of about 200–250 each year, yet there is noth-
ing close to this level, but rather something closer to 25 per year at the very most, that is,
about one-tenth of the total number of potential new members on the register.
Comparing this figure to the large proportion of students who declared their intentions
to pursue entry into the Bar suggests the significant degree of ‘self-elimination’ among
aspirants to the profession.
190 John Savage
Table 2.: Civil and Criminal Cases, 1870–1910
Paris France
Rôle Trib. Assises Rôle Trib. Assises
Cor. Cor.
1870 21,923 18,692* 302 138,999 142,520* 2,796

1875 23,347 19,919 586 163,180 167,214 3,736
1880 21,978 22,043 341 176,145 170,260 3,258
1885 31,987 n.a. n.a. 200,169 n.a. n.a.
1890 30,025 25,271 301 189,879 191,766 2,982
1895 26,198 24,830 306 182,686 196,295 2,526
1900 28,289 19,278 266 183,860 167,179 2,283
1905 34,921 19,208 236 188,859 173,804 2,236
1910 39,174 26,584 251 182,531 181,046 2,160
* figures for 1869.

Source: Compte Général de l’Administration de la Justice Civile et
Commerciale.
services of advocates from one period to another.63 The table demon-

strates that periods of stagnation in the demand for legal services, likely
tied to economic downturn, characterised the evolution of the case-load
both in Paris and in France as a whole. This lack of growth appeared first
in the 1870s, during the period of Depression that affected the whole of
Europe. After rising in the early 1880s, the number of civil cases declined
from a peak in 1887 and reached a low point in 1896. Thereafter, there is
again a healthy increase through the remaining pre-war years. Using this
information to create an index of the demand for legal services, it is pos-
sible to get a sense of the availability of work for members of the legal
profession by contrasting this series with that of the total number of
advocates. The resulting data is arranged in Table 3.
This table shows a relatively small difference in the number of cases per
advocate at the outset of the Third Republic when comparing Paris and
the rest of France. From the early 1870s until nearly the end of the cen-
tury, however, there is healthy growth in this proportion nationally, while
63
On the notion of litigiousness in French society, cf. Bernard Schnapper ‘Pour une
géographie des mentalités judiciaires: la litigiosité en France au XIXe siècle’ in Voies
Nouvelles en Histoires du Droit: la justice, la famille, la répression pénale (XVIème-
XXème siècles), (Presses Universitaires de France, Paris, 1991), 395–419.
Table 3: Work Index, 1870–1913
Total Total
Cases Work Cases Work
(Paris) Index (France) Index
1870 40,917 63.6* 284,315 72.0*

1875 43,852 62.6 334,130 83.0
1880 44,362 60.0 349,663 84.9
1890 55,597 58.7 384,627 86.8
1895 52,334 49.6 381,507 86.1
1900 47,803 41.9 353,322 78.7
1905 54,365 43.6 364,899 78.7
1910 66,009 48.8 365,737 78.5
1913 62,313 39.4 379,900 75.6
*advocate figures are from 1871.

Source: Tables 2.1 and 2.2.
Paris sees a drop of more than one third in the available cases per lawyer
by 1900. In the 1890s, there were just over half as many cases per advoc-
ate in Paris as in France, and in 1905 there were more than 80% more
cases per lawyer. Thus, more than the absolute numbers of advocates, this
relation demonstrates the important disparity between the situation of
the Paris Bar, despite its heavy proportion of the national profession, and
that of provincial advocates. The table also shows that the main change
over time occurred in the category of civil cases, which include commer-
cial cases heard by civil courts. At the same time, an increasing propor-
tion of the cases in this list, indeed those most likely to be available to the
youngest members of the profession, were not a source of income for the
advocates at all. Nor in general were they a source of future paying
clients. The legal assistance caseload was overwhelmingly given to advoc-
ates with little experience or clientèle of their own. This was especially
true in Paris, where all but a few cases were handed out to advocates in
their first few years of practice. The defenders were named by the bâton-
nier from the list of advocates registered in the stage. As the following
table shows, the number of cases of legal assistance increased fourfold in
the period 1875–1905.64
64 A similar increase occurred nationally, with the proportion of cases in Paris staying
steady at about one-fifth of that total throughout the period 1870–1914.
192 John Savage
Table 4: Legal Assistance in Paris, 1872–1913
1872 5,107 1895 14,447

1875 5,112 1900 17,400
1880 6,646 1905 20,565
1885 10,632 1910 20,675
1890 13,025 1913 23,547
Source: Compte Général de l’Administration de

la Justice Civile et Commerciale.
When the bâtonnier Martini declared to his young audience that their
role in legal assistance ‘never has seemed a burden to you’, he may well
have heard some shuffling in the ranks.65 Ten years later, the bâtonnier
Pouillet spoke of how these cases could lead to greater things, given
enough time: ‘. . . within their humble milieu, you will gain real popu-
larity, and your clientele will form, little by little, out of the recognition
of your clients from legal assistance’.66 He admitted, however, that this
waiting would be an economic burden for some, ‘it is not here that one
risks suddenly coming into a fortune’.67 By this time, even the leaders of
the Order admitted that this essentially free service was taken advantage
of by plaintiffs who were not always among the truly poor. It was not
only that the number of cases of legal assistance was growing, but that
they made an increasingly significant proportion of the total number of
court cases. Whereas, in the 1860s, cases of legal assistance had made up
only a small minority of the cases in the register of the civil court of the
Seine, this proportion grew dramatically in later years. By 1875, nearly
one-fifth of all cases before the civil court were the result of initial
requests for legal assistance. This figure rose to nearly 40 per cent in 1890,
and well over half of all cases in 1900, more than double the proportion
for France as a whole.68 This evolution illustrates the tremendous role of
unpaid services provided by young aspirants to the profession, particu-
larly in the Paris Bar.
65
BSCA 8, 1886, 40.
66
BSCA 18, 1896, 114.
67
BSCA 18, 1896, 116.
68
These statistics were compiled using the technique employed by Bernard Schnapper
for the whole of France, which showed the proportion reaching about one-quarter at the
same time. For Paris, statistics had to be adjusted to exclude affairs from the Tribunal de
Paix and Tribunal de Commerce. The specific results are as follows: 1875: 19.7%, 1880:
27.2%, 1890: 39.0%, 1900: 55.4%. ‘Rapport au Président de la Republique sur
l’Administration de la Justice Civile et Commerciale en France et en Algerie pendant les
Années 1881 à 1900’, Compte générale de l’Administration de la Justice . . ., v–xlvi.
THE PUSH FOR REFORM
By the turn of the century, demands for the reform of professional stan-
dards from within the Order itself joined the parliamentary initiatives.
Critics distributed pamphlets at the Palais de Justice or wrote articles in
the press that often focused on the economic difficulties of young mem-
bers of the profession. A pamphlet published by Antonin Oudart
deplored the huge amount of unpaid work given to young lawyers. Like
several of the parliamentary critics, he invoked the language of freedom
of labour to argue his case.69 Oudart noted also that the system was a
windfall for the lowly agent d’affaires, who were able to steer their clients
to the free services of an advocate, and then demand a fee they could keep
for themselves. It was indeed a common strategy for young advocates to
resort to collaboration with an agent d’affaires in order to find clients.
This tactic was just one of the ways that professional rules were bent and
even broken on a regular basis. According to a reformer named Jacques
Bonzon, reflecting on his years as a young advocate in the 1890s, for refer-
rals, the best bet was friendship with a judge, a prison guard or owner of
a large bar (ie a public house).70
The reality was that advocates did demand payment for their services.
The important principle was to avoid any public statement, or any record
of the transaction that could be used as evidence in court; the demands
had to be made within the sanctuary of the advocate’s office.71 The most
common way around the rules appears to have been a letter to the client,
declaring ‘il manque une pièce à votre dossier.’ If the confused client
asked which document was missing, some advocates would go further,
writing ‘il manque la pièce de vin [vingt = twenty] . . .’.72 Often lawyers
would not plead until the payment had been made. It also happened that
two opposing advocates agreed to stall a case interminably if one of their
clients had not made payment. Other tactics could be used to solicit
cases. Reports were common, for example, of lawyers who would
attempt to bribe courtroom guards to steer clients their way when they
had the chance.73 But such actions always carried the danger of being
found out. They were not ignored by the Council of Discipline, which
was active in punishing far less substantive infractions. The large number
69 Antonin Oudart, Situation du Barreau de France. 1902, 3.

70 Jacques Bonzon, ‘La Lutte Sociale dans le Prétoire’, in Les Echos Parisiens 1 July,
1911, 3.
71 See, for example, Le Palais de Justice de Paris, 131.
72 Leroux, Sur mon Chemin, 191. Jean de Bonnefon, ‘La Suppression de l’Ordre des
Avocats’, in (1901) 25 La France Judiciaire, 183.

73 Le Temps, 8 March, 1894, 1; Lafon also suggests this tactic to young lawyers, Pour
Devenir Avocat, 93.

194 John Savage
of cases touching on the advocate’s official place of residence in the last

decades of the century is evidence of the Council’s growing concern
about maintaining control over the expanding population of lawyers.
The Council was empowered to deliver one of a series of different sanc-
tions against advocates who were guilty of infractions. These included
formal reprimand, suspension for up to one year, and disbarment. The
most common form of sanction was avertissement, or warning. This
could be presented in writing or informally, as a non-lieu avec avertisse-
ment paternel. As Cresson writes, ‘when the mistake is excusable, it is not
punished in the legal sense of the word; a remark suffices, and this remark
is feared’.74 It seems he was right about this. Gaston Leroux, a young
advocate who became a court journalist and later a successful novelist,
wrote of the profound humiliation caused by the Council’s reprimands,
which became known to the world of the Palais de Justice. Leroux
described the case of a young stagiaire who had gone to plead a case in
the provinces, but had failed to pay homage to the local bâtonnier. On his
return to Paris, he found himself ‘dragged’ into the office of his own
bâtonnier and given a serious tongue-lashing.75
Leroux had had similar experiences as a young lawyer. He once gave in
and finally paid a plumbing bill for work that had never been done, since
the bâtonnier had called on him every week about it: ‘One can no longer
owe a tailor for three shirts without them sticking their noses into it!’76
For Leroux, the worst aspect of this intense scrutiny was precisely that it
compromised the lawyer’s sense of self-respect. Advocates would run to
the Council to relate rumours about a colleague, or demand they sanc-
tion a competitor. He denounced their desire ‘to intervene in the most
private affairs of the advocates they have “under their blade”, which leads
them to welcome story-tellers and back-room gossips, who lead them to
order inquests concerning events that have no bearing on the profession
of advocate, never distinguishing the man from the professional, which
allows them, in a word, all tyranny . . .’.77
The actions of the disciplinary council appear to have increased with
the growing population of lawyers at the end of the century, as leaders of
the profession recognised the difficult financial situation faced by many
younger lawyers. The fact that more cases went to appeal illustrates that
advocates were not only willing to defy the rules, but to challenge the
council’s right to carry out disciplinary action based on those rules.78
Professional speeches of this period took up the theme of patience as the
74
Cresson, Usages et Règles, vol. 2, 147.
75
Leroux, Sur mon Chemin, 182.
76
Leroux, Sur mon Chemin, 182.
77
Leroux, Sur mon Chemin, 180–81.
78
For example, Gazette du Palais, 1896, vol. 1, 118–120; 1898, vol.1, 653.
greatest of virtues for the young advocate. For leaders like Nicolet, bâton-
nier in 1878, the problem had been one of unrealistic and immature ambi-
tions that would soon give way to common sense.79 By the turn of the
century, the rhetoric was both more realistic and more pointed. While
assuring the interns before him that ‘the Council of Discipline is a family
court whose justice is above all paternal’, the bâtonnier of 1895 recog-
nized that what pushed young advocates to break the rules of the Order
was sometimes pure economic necessity.80 A few years later, the bâton-
nier Danet was direct and frank with the stagiaires in a way that his
predecessors would not have dared. His speech was a clear warning to
continue to observe the rules as described in the advocates’ professional
manuals:
The prolonged wait for clients, slow to show confidence in you, will lead you to
disillusion, at times even an inner rebellion . . . prefer waiting to compromise.
Know to resist all solicitations coming from unscrupulous intermediaries, who
are never disinterested and seek to exploit your inexperience: they can only
wound your dignity and compromise your honor!81
Danet was referring once again to the agents d’affaires, and his speech
shows an awareness that young advocates were tempted by the methods
of these outlaw professionals. Attention to the agents during the stage
only intensified in this period. Charles Rivière attempted to explain
the phenomenon to his audience, saying that while a few were honest
business people, others came to the practice out of frustration with their
vulgar lot in life:
‘they did not know how to keep themselves within the honest and mediocre liv-
ing that the future promised them, they abandoned their regular function and
threw themselves into what is called, in a phrase that is as vague as it is descrip-
tive, les affaires [business]’.82
Among the ‘types’ who turned to this occupation, he included ‘. . . the
advocate barred from the register of his order, his heart filled with a bit-
ter desire for vengeance, giving his hateful advice, pushing his clients to
the extremities of the Law . . .’.83
What sorts of practices were employed by the agents d’affaires? In an
article entitled ‘Les Affaires’, one jurisconsulte, as he referred to himself,
explained some of the strategies he used to get clients. Businessmen like
himself had the advantage over advocates, he wrote, in that they could go
79
BSCA 1, 1879, 37.
80 BSCA 17, 1895, 49.
81 BSCA 24, 1902, 108. The contrast with the message of Cresson when he served as
bâtonnier, which denied any sort of problems of this nature, could not be more stark;
BSCA 12, 1890, 31–63.
82
Rivière, De la suppression, 7.
83
Rivière, De la suppression, 7.
196 John Savage
out and find cases. Doing so effectively was simply a matter of creativity.
He recalled that in the mid-1880s, at the time of the legalization of
divorce, one agency made a fortune by researching all of the marital
separations (separations de corps) of the previous 15 or 20 years, and
sending out letters to them. For a time, the agency processed as many as
25 divorces per day. He recommended that anyone starting out should go
to their local shopkeepers and offer to take care of any debtors they were
having trouble with, in exchange for a percentage of the money recov-
ered. On the other hand, one could find the names of people being sued
through payoffs to bailiffs or clerks, and contact them with an offer of
services.84 Finally, he proudly recounted his most recent tactic:
A short time ago, one of my clients was deceased, Boulevard Voltaire. One hour
after the declaration of death at the mairie, the widow received the following
note: Madame, I have learned of the death of Monsieur your husband. His will
could be the cause of difficulties. It would be in your interest, Madame, to come
and see me immediately.85
Faced with a client with little money but a strong case, an agent d’affaires
could engage the process of assistance judiciaire, finding an advocate
who would do the early work on the case, and then take over and charge
a contingency fee if it was successful.86
Despite such abuses, the governing council insisted on the importance
of refusing any form of payment from the assisted party, even when they
won a judgment from the court. The bâtonnier Pouillet explained the
rules governing cases of legal assistance:
The advocate, in this case, can not only not request payment; but he cannot
receive any, in any form, even if his client, saved by him, acquires a fortune; even
if years pass between the court decision and the day payment is offered; even if,
in the meantime, (the advocate) has himself become poor.87
Rather than becoming more flexible with respect to such rules of con-
duct, the Council repeatedly chose to reaffirm them in the last decades of
the century.88 This inflexibility was the principal target of parliamentary
reformers like Maurice Vergoin and advocates like Paul Moysen, who
wrote the most influential pamphlet criticizing the Council of Discipline.
Moysen’s Réformes Pratiques was the object of much debate among
lawyers at the turn of the century. Declaring the traditions of the Order
antiquated and contrary to the interests of young advocates in particular,
84
Jules Gourbeyre, ‘Les Affaires’, in L’Avocat, Journal Hebdomodaire de Droit pour
Tous, 17, 4 March 1897, 2.
85 Gourbeyre, ‘Les Affaires’, 2.
86 Gourbeyre, ‘Les Affaires’, 2.
87 BSCA 8, 1896, 111.
88 AN AD XIXj 57, Decision of 7 Nov 1899.
Moysen called for a professional body that would be ‘more active, more
dynamic, less sterile in its results’.89
In a manner similar to Vergoin and his supporters, Moysen saw the
liberalisation of the profession as a means of saving it from itself. Already
Vergoin had argued that greater flexibility and realism were the only
antidotes to the threat from unregulated competitors: ‘the democratic
organization of the Bar being the only remedy for the invasion of the
agents d’affaires, the only barrier that can legitimately and victoriously
oppose their ever-increasing activity’. His vision of overhauling the pro-
fession was based upon the idea that the advocate was a mandataire, that
is, worked under a contract to provide services to a client in exchange for
a fee. Publicly recognizing this status would mean that advocates could
plead before all courts, including the commercial and administrative
jurisdictions that were closed to them so long as they were forbidden
from accepting the mandat. This softening of the least practical of the
Bar’s rules would be a boon to the profession, opening up new fields of
legal practice that were heretofore closed off. He pointed to the Tribunal
de Commerce as an example of the governing council’s ineffectiveness in
protecting the interests of the profession. Because of professional rules
governing ‘independence’, advocates were virtually excluded from this
jurisdiction. Complaints over its inaccessibility were not new, but there
was an increasing sense that the governing council was at fault for doing
nothing.90
Moysen also asserted the need to open up the Bar to business practices
that he saw as an unavoidable feature of the modern world, and dared to
suggest that lawyers be allowed not only to sue for honoraria, but that
they be able to charge fees on a contingency basis.91 Like other authors
who called for change, Moysen emphasised the difficulties for young
advocates. It was imperative to open up other jurisdictions to advocates
by relaxing the rules governing the legal mandate. The general decline in
the amount of available work for young lawyers coupled with the dram-
atic increase in the number of cases brought before the Tribunaux de
Commerce raised the anger of reform-minded lawyers. As several authors
pointed out, advocates were allowed to plead before these courts
throughout much of the South of France. In cities like Marseilles this
activity gave young lawyers an income of 25 francs per case, which often
represented their only imcome.92
89
Paul Moysen, Le Barreau de Paris, Réformes Pratiques (Wattier frères, Paris, 1898),
12.
90
Léon Oudin, Un abus judiciaire: le monopole illégale des agréés près les tribunaux
de commerce, étude juridique, (Paris, 1879).
91 Moysen, Réformes Pratiques, 25.
92 Lafon, Pour devenir avocat, 169n.
198 John Savage
A formal proposal was drafted by a group of reformist advocates seek-

ing a moderate position that would not compromise the dignity of the
Order, but nevertheless open up access to the commercial courts. In
response, the Council of Discipline of the Paris Order stood firm:
‘All mandates are contrary to the fundamental tradition of the Order . . . this
proposal written to the Council, however cautious it may seem, could expose
advocates to responsibilities they have always avoided, thanks to the even greater
caution of their tradition’.93
Thus, reformers within the profession around the turn of the century
often echoed the points made by parliamentary critics of earlier years.
Such critics were not always in favour of abolishing the Bar altogether.
Vergoin, for one, recognised that the changes he proposed for the Bar
were more than cosmetic. They would mean abandoning a fiction that
was at the heart of the advocate’s identity. But he tried to explain that this
should not be seen as bringing dishonour upon the legal profession, that
greater freedom meant dignity as well. Vergoin looked forward to the
time ‘when the advocate, free from that point to address all forms of liti-
gation without reservation, would become in the full and honourable
sense of the word, a businessman . . .’.94
L’OFFICE VIRILE
Throughout its history, the legal profession was spoken of as a masculine

profession, the art of oratory described as a distinctly ‘male talent’, in the
words of the bâtonnier Nicolet.95 Leaders of the Order spoke of it as a
confraternité. The language of brotherhood was linked to professional
ethics in that advocates needed to be able to trust each other, in particu-
lar to know that they had not withheld any case-evidence during a trial.
Within the language of honour and dignity, masculinity worked as a
mainly unspoken, but fundamental first principle. The bond among
confrères was reinforced throughout the period of socialisation in the
stage. Yet it was more than simply professional, it was tied to a rhetoric
of honour that harked back to medieval roots. Lawyers did not hesitate
to refer to the Order as a ‘knighthood’ (une chevalerie). In addition to
this, in the nineteenth century it was clear that the professional ideal of
indépendance was restricted to men, in that only they could be true legal
subjects, pères de familles. As we have seen, any man who was not mas-
ter of his own legal affairs, or even his financial situation, could not hope
to be admitted to the Order of Advocates.
93
AN AD XIXj 57, Decision of June 13, 1899.
94
Journal Officiel Annexe 1260, 18 Nov, 1886, 520.
95 ‘L’Impatience d’Arriver’, BSCA 1, 1879, 48.
But the masculine virtues of the advocate were most apparent in his
singular talent and exclusive function, public speech. In his book on the
legal profession, Henri Joly traces the ideal advocate back to ancient
Greece, emphasising above all the ‘robust chest and virile aspect’ of
Gorgias.96 The masculinity of the advocate had to do with the physical-
ity of public speaking, having a booming voice to fill a courtroom and
hold the attention of a rapt audience for hours on end. Great oratory also
relied on the supposedly male characteristics of reason, logic and clarity,
as opposed to subtlety, intrigue or prevarication: its directness, its very
publicity made it masculine. As one commentator put it, advocates are
men because their speech shows a measure of restraint, ‘men’s character
being less quick, more reflective than women’s’.97 Another author admit-
ted that women could sometimes speak well, but to a fault. They were
ultimately ‘too sensitive’ and especially too easily filled with ‘naïve good
faith’.98 Yet leaders of the Bar frequently spoke of the virility of the great
orators of the nineteenth century as a kind of fiery passion. In fact, since
the 1860s more and more commentators had decried the loss of these
qualities, and the decline of eloquence was often described in gender
terms.
Older members of the profession seemed to agree that this decline was
linked to the appearance of a new generation at the Bar. The young gen-
eration seemed more interested in getting through their studies as quickly
as possible and earning a living. In his study of the Paris Bar, Maurice
Joly noted that the young generation had a long way to go to catch up
with its predecessors. The hallowed advocates of past decades such as
Berryer (father and son), Dupin, Odilon Barrot or Marie had become
famous as lawyers by the age of 30 or 35 and then launched successful
careers in politics, which had been their main goal. As their professional
objectives became more mundane, Joly argued, the advocates’ blood
seemed to have cooled over the decades. ‘What seems to be lacking the
most in the advocates of this generation’, he wrote, ‘is that fire of the soul
. . . that passion and enthusiasm’. Their eloquence had lost its ‘virile
audacity’. Joly qualified the young generation as ‘l’école des affaires’,
who only seemed interested in the law as a form of business, a money-
making proposition and no longer a true vocation. As a result, they were
more dedicated to a greater technical mastery of the law, but their style
of speaking had become dry, uninteresting and hence less ‘virile’.99 By the
1870s, a chorus of voices joined Joly in deploring the death of eloquence
96 Henri Joly, Le Barreau de Paris (Paris, 1863), 7.

97 Raymond Arnstein, l’Avocat (Paris, 1883), 13.
99 Maurice Joly, Le Barreau de Paris, Etudes politiques et littéraires (Paris, 1863),
224–225; 237.
200 John Savage
at the Bar.100 In this sense, the democratisation and rationalisation of the

profession were perceived as a threat, not only to its moral dignity, but to
the masculinity of the Order.
In the mid-1880s, a small handful of women began to challenge this
all-male bastion, starting with studies at the law faculty. Increased access
to education had also been accorded to women, of course, with the estab-
lishment of a programme of études primaires supérieures for women
being a central plank of the platform of republican educational reform.
Yet while many women completed the bac-ès lettres, the most common
prerequisite to higher study in law, the law faculty had strikingly low
numbers of women students through the fin-de-siècle period (See Table
5). The first woman registered at the Paris Law Faculty in 1884. Like a
good proportion of those who followed, she was a foreigner, a Rumanian
named Sarmisa Bilcesco, who was ultimately awarded her doctorate in
1890.101 The first French woman to complete an advanced degree in law
was Jeanne Chauvin, a woman of 30 who already had degrees in letters,
science and philosophy before entering the law faculty. On the day of her
doctoral defense in 1892 a large crowd gathered well in advance of the
scheduled time, filling the hall and stairway outside of the examination
room. Professor Charles Beudant’s attempts to disperse the crowd were
unsuccessful, and he was forced to suspend the session until another
day.102
While some of these spectators simply came to see the oddity of a
woman-lawyer, many were fellow students angry about the precedent
that was being established. According to L’Illustration, crowds of young
men filled the amphitheater, ‘loudly protesting’ the event.103 In the con-
text of the demographic expansion of the period, many students saw
Chauvin as the beacon of a further overcrowding of the law faculty, and
the Bar itself. Chauvin’s thesis was certainly topical. It was later pub-
lished as ‘Etude Historique sur les Professions Accessibles aux Femmes
. . .’. During her defense, she endured some pointed questions from her
committee. According to one press account, Beudant wondered whether,
100 For example, Jules Jeanneney, ‘Sur l’Eloquence Judiciaire dans les Temps
Modernes’, BSCA 13, 1891, especially 133–4 on the dryness, and unpoetic nature of pre-
sent eloquence. According to the bâtonnier Barboux, in ‘Des Conditions de l’Eloquence
Judiciaire’, BSCA 4, 1882, 41: great eloquence is no longer really desirable in the court-
room, ‘une discussion toute pedestre, donnant les raisons commes elles viennent; une
langue sobre, nette, familière, à égale distance de la vulgarité et de l’éloquence, est
l’instrument naturel d’une société démocratique, éprise d’utilité et de sciences exactes, et
convaincue que, dans un discours comme ailleurs, on peut intervertir l’ordre des
facteurs sans changer le produit’.
101 AN AJ16 1690. Bilcesko did not seek admission to the Paris stage, but was admit-
ted to the Bar of Bucharest in 1891.

102 Le Temps, 3 July, 1892.
103 L’Illustration 2577, 16 July, 1892, 47.
Table 5: Women Students in France, 1875–1898
1875–1888 1888–1898
Law
certificat/bac 2 —
licence 1 4
doctorat — 2
Letters
bac 87 98
licence 2 7
Sciences
bac (all forms) 130 84
licence — 54
doctorat — 2
Medicine
officiat 4 28
doctorat 35 131
Pharmacy
2ème classe 1 11
1ère classe — 2
Source: Statistiques de l’Enseignement Supérieur.
in addition to the two known genders, she wished to introduce ‘le genre
neutre.’ Professor Larnaude remarked that what France really needed was
a higher birthrate. Chauvin replied that she felt sure the women around
him could provide him with more than enough babies.104 Yet she was suc-
cessful (‘le candidat admise’), and all members of the committee awarded
her with the highest mark, the boule blanche.105
Chauvin got her doctorate in order to teach law in an Ecole Supérieur
des Jeunes Filles. But after a few years of being unable to find steady work
she decided to practice law, and requested entry to the Bar in September
1897. This request presented series of complications. First of all, the fact
104
This retrospective account appeared in L’Eclair, 17 Nov 1900.
105
While it is tempting to see in Jeanne Chauvin an early heroine of the liberal femi-
nist movement, this is tempered by the fact that her dissertation was devoted to showing
that the subjection of women in the professions was the result of Jewish influences intro-
duced in the Middle Ages, see p 11 of the thesis. The subtitle was ‘. . . influence du
sémitisme sur l’évolution de la position économique de la femme dans la société’.
202 John Savage
that she had fulfilled the formal requirements for admission was made
possible by the educational policies of the republican state. As Chauvin
herself argued, in awarding the various degrees she had earned, ‘the state,
by a kind of tacit contract, has engaged itself to open the careers to which
they give access completely and without reservation’.106 For its part, the
Order was far from enthusiastic about the prospect of a woman in its
ranks. In a speech to the stagiaires in November of that year, Ducreux
chose the topic of ‘Women’s Rights in French Society’, which turned out
to be a conservative diatribe laced with references to the author
Ferdinand Brunétière. The speaker touched only in passing on the issue
of women in the legal profession, but left no doubt as to his feelings when
he claimed that, whether in politics or at the Bar, ‘the morality of a people
risks being lost when the public life of women begins’.107 Chauvin’s
request to practise law in 1897 marked a moment of confrontation
between the State and the Order over the issue of the sovereignty of its
decisions.
In late November, Chauvin presented herself at the official oath-taking
ceremony for new advocates. Ployer, the president of the Bar, submitted a
list of names to the court that did not include hers. Assisted by a solicitor
who requested that she be allowed to speak, Chauvin was given the floor
by the presiding magistrate. At this moment, another lawyer designated
by the Order jumped in to explain why she should not, arguing that since
‘the conditions for being registered on the tableau of advocates of the
Court of Paris (are) conditions of morality and dignity’, it was not pos-
sible for her to be admitted.108 For the Order, the issue was that Chauvin
had not been admitted to the stage, the training period that focused on the
‘moral qualities’ of the profession, and therefore she could not be allowed
to take the professional oath. On this point, the Order’s argument won
out, despite the contrary predictions of an experienced court journalist
like Albert Bataille, himself excluded from practice by the Council some
years earlier.109 The case of Jeanne Chauvin is thus a key to understand-
ing a number of issues faced by the Bar at the turn of the century. In addi-
tion to the anxiety over the demographic expansion in the profession and
the sovereignty of the Order with respect to the state, the admission of
women raised the question of the rationalisation of antiquated rules and
ideals related to the ‘moral qualities’ of the advocate.
In response to the Court’s decision, the former premier Léon
Bourgeois himself, assisted by a future premier who was a member of the
106
L’Illustration 2854, 6 Nov 1897, 364.
107
Ducreux, ‘Les Droits des Femmes dans la Société Française’ BSCA vol. 20, 1898,
given 20 Nov, 1897, 180.
108 Gazette des Tribunaux, 25 Nov 1897.
109
Bibliothèque Marguerite Durand (MD), Dossier Jeanne Chauvin.
Paris Bar, Raymond Poincaré, initiated a parliamentary proposal

demanding the admission of women to the Bar. They explicitly ques-
tioned the ability of the courts to initiate change when long-standing
practices were at stake, and suggested that legislative means were the
only ones that might yield results.110 Bourgeois’s argument was paradox-
ical. He used the Order’s own view of itself as a private body to claim its
obligation to allow women to practice law.
‘If the profession of advocate could be seen as constituting an extension of the
state, there would be serious reasons to exclude women. But this is not the case;
the advocate is not a fonctionnaire [civil servant], and the law has no business
knowing the gender of people who practice a profession (that is) in any degree
separate from (the state)’.111
Bourgeois was responding to one of the main arguments used against
the admission of women to the Bar. In certain exceptional situations,
advocates could be called upon to fill the role of substitut, in order to
complete the required number of magistrates presiding over certain kinds
of cases. Such events were rare, and largely restricted to small jurisdic-
tions where few judges were available. Since legally, women could not yet
act as judges, this role would be closed to them. Bourgeois’s emphasis on
the private nature of the profession showed that he felt the Order should
be treated the same as any other group in civil society.
Opponents of the measure treated the whole idea with derision.
‘Deputies are named to vote on serious laws, not on bedroom farces [des
canevas d’opérette]’, declared Massubuau, member of the anti-Semitic
faction. Yet arguments against the admission of women were not partic-
ularly sober. One deputy tried to use the sixteenth century prohibition
against wearing a beard or moustache at the bar as evidence that women
couldn’t be advocates.112 The most common objections had to do with
the appearance of feminine traits in the public sphere:
‘excellent minds could doubt the smooth functioning of Justice if, in the land of
old French gallantry, the advocate at the bar could make up for the lack of an
argument not only with the seduction of words, but her own person’.113
Apparently, judges would be incapable of objective decisions in the
physical presence of a woman. For its part, the press took up Chauvin’s
cause from the beginning, and columnists and caricaturists had a field
day speculating on the sexual tensions that would result in the courtroom
if women were to become lawyers. According to one journalist,
110
Annales de la Chambre, Documents Parlementaires SE 1898, annexe 469, 400–402.
111
AN C 7412, Commission de la Réforme Judiciaire, régistre 1, 1 April, 1898.
112
Fernand Corcos, Les Avocates, 18–19.
113
AN C 7412, Commission de la Réforme Judiciaire, régistre 1, 1 April, 1898.
204 John Savage
Chauvin’s name appeared in print 6,935 times in 1898 alone.114 Some

press accounts expressed ambivalence about the real impact of the legis-
lation, pointing out that women-advocates would be just as unlikely to
earn a living as men.115
Following on Bourgeois’s initial proposal, another Parisian lawyer,
René Viviani, took over the initiative in the next legislature and brought
it to term. He was assisted by leading figures of the left such as Millerand
and Poincaré, as well as lesser known deputies who had been involved in
previous legislation that challenged the Order’s monopoly, Maurice-
Faure and Trouillot. The law of 1 December 1900 finally opened the pro-
fession to women. Rather than give Jeanne Chauvin the satisfaction of
being the first woman at the Bar, however, the Paris Council proceeded to
admit Olga Petit, a Russian woman married to a lawyer, since she had not
been associated with the legislative initiative. The number of women who
actually practised law before World War I remained very small.116 But
their admission marked a very public defeat for the Bar’s claim to sover-
eignty and independence, and, for many older lawyers, more evidence of
the decline of the gendered ideal of professional honour. To them, the
admission of women to the Bar was merely a symbol of a longer decay of
the dignity of the Order, linked to the process of democratisation.
HONOUR AND VIOLENCE
In response to the first wave of parliamentary attacks on the outdated

rules imposed by the Council of Discipline, the outraged bâtonnier
Martini vowed that he would never allow his colleagues to become ‘vile
solicitors’.117 In the mid-1880s, the language of ‘careers open to talent’
and ‘traditional privilege’ had clearly identifiable political overtones. The
issue of the opening of the profession brought a response from the lead-
ers of the Bar that was sharply anti-republican in tenor. It showed that
they saw professional values as being deeply at odds with the democratic
ideals of the regime. Faced with attacks in parliament, Martini’s lan-
guage was defiant:
‘No matter what they say, this is not a question of abolishing a monopoly, our
institution cannot be condemned in the name of National Sovereignty, Universal
114 MD, Dossier Jeanne Chauvin.

115 La Liberté, 4 Aug 1899. According to L’Evenement of 2 July, 1899, ‘The bitterness
of the profession of advocate will not give sustenance to many young women, but it will
gnaw at the meager income of many young men’.
116 In 1910 there were sixteen avocates parisiennes, but most had not pleaded more
than a handful of cases. Les Echos Parisiens, 1 Nov 1910, 5.

117 Martini, De la suppression, 46.
Suffrage and the Republic, or the grand principles of freedom of labor and free-
dom of conscience’.118
Leaders of the Bar decried not only these public attacks, but what they
saw as a decline of standards of honour within the profession. They
warned that the greater involvement in business practices would com-
promise the very identity of the profession, and steadily lower its status.
One advocate linked this process to the Order’s experience after the
French Revolution,
What will happen when the mob replaces the elite, and when advocates plead as
businessmen, with the shop doors open, in the name of laws that protect freedom
of commerce! (With) the pursuit of cases falling into piracy and the client-trade,
those newcomers who first appeared long ago, following the first ruin of the
Order, will reappear, but made worse by the modern fury of the struggle for sur-
vival.119
The author remarked that a new form of eloquence would accompany
this professional degradation, one increasingly concerned with efficiency
and practicality. Indeed, the obsession with the decline of eloquence in
this period best illustrates the anxiety over the loss of a sacred profes-
sional identity:
‘One will speak as a dignified court bailiff, and those agents d’affaires who give
themselves license to criticize, will no longer denounce an oration for being too
literary. The word talent will have but one meaning . . . talent will be a currency
(une monnaie) . . .’.120
The proposals made by reformers from within the Bar at the turn of
the century, echoing parliamentary critics, show how the rhetoric of
honor and virtue that the lawyers’ professional identity was built on left
even many advocates unconvinced. But the reformist movement met with
similar responses. In answer to the wave of tracts and proposals of 1898,
the bâtonnier Ployer again evoked the evils of commercialism to his audi-
ence of young interns:
Do you wish to be bankruptcy clearing houses, business liquidators, or rent-
collectors? And do you think that the day after a trial, when the judge has paid
you off and applied a tax, you could still, taking up your robes, have before him
that freedom of judgment, that independence of language and that kind of equal-
ity of authority?121
But how did the younger generation of advocates take such injunctions
to observe the traditional rules? Certainly, at the level of the stage, there
118
Martini, De la suppression, 26.
119
Julien Munier-Jolain, Les Epoques de l’Eloquence Judiciaire en France (Perrin,
Paris, 1888), 193.
120 Munier-Jolain, Les Epoques de l’Eloquence, 194.
121 BSCA, 20, 1898.
206 John Savage
was a degree of cynicism, and getting the interns to attend regularly was
a perennial problem. But it is striking how little impact the reformers had
on the decisions of the Council. Paul Moysen reported that the response
to his pamphlet was overwhelmingly positive among lawyers. Virtually
all the letters he received were from members of the Bar who were in favor
of some professional reform.122 But Moysen’s own candidacy for the
Conseil de l’Ordre was not successful in the year his piece drew so much
attention.123 Why was it that demands for reform did not translate into
overturning the standing members of the governing council?
An analysis of the Council over the entire period 1870–1914 shows that
the average age of its members increased steadily. That is, when new
members were appointed, they tended to be very senior advocates. Earlier
in the 19th century, by contrast, it had been common for some members
to have practised for as little as 10 or 15 years. While at least six members
of the council had been registered at the Bar for less than 25 years in the
1870s, this figure fell to just two or three starting in 1880.124 Elections to
the Council took place each summer, and the ‘campaign season’ started
in the spring. The elections constituted perhaps the most concrete exam-
ple of sociability among lawyers in the Order. It was a time when, even if
for reasons of material interest, all embraced the rhetoric of confrater-
nité. Reformers tended to mock the annual ritual, which by all accounts
included a good deal of wining and dining: ‘It is in the springtime that
every advocate, if he doesn’t have enough cases to plead, at least has
enough to eat. Since, in the first days of July, the ballots are cast’.125 For
once, generational dependence was reversed, as more senior advocates
needed to count on younger ones for their vote. But each time there was
vacancy on the Council, the young proved easy to seduce. According to
Les Echos Parisiens, ‘the little act of “vote for me” begins in the same clas-
sic and gastronomic way’.126 For the candidates, election had a serious
side: being appointed to the Council was worth an extra 50,000 francs of
annual income, by one account.127
The Paris Bar was unusual in France in that elections were not open to
all members of the Order. Only advocates who had been registered for at
least ten years were allowed to cast ballots. This fact certainly accounts
122 Le Temps, 23 June, 1898, 3.

123 Le Temps, 3 July, 1898, 4.
124 These figures are derived from the lists of the Council members recorded in the
annual volumes of the Almanach National, 1871–1919.

125 Jacques Bonzon, ‘La lutte sociale dans le prétoire’ Les Echos Parisiens 1 July, 1911, 2.
126 Les Echos Parisiens, 25 Jan 1905, 4. In a later issue, the paper presented a moral
issue in mock-seriousness: should an advocate refuse invitations to dinner made by a can-

didate to the Council if he is not intending to vote for them? Les Echos Parisiens, 5 July,
1907, 5.
127 Bonzon, ‘La Lutte Sociale dans le Prétoire’, 2.
for some of the success of conservative candidates for the Council. But by
the turn of the century, the students that had completed their training in
the early 1880s were becoming mature advocates in positions of promin-
ence. The steady growth in numbers also suggests that the age pyramid
in the Order favoured this generation over their elders. Yet it seems that
by the time they had been on the register for 10 years, these lawyers, who
as youths had been accused of only being concerned with money, had
become defenders of the traditions of the Order. For all of the artifice of
the Conference du stage, the younger generation of lawyers identified
with their older colleagues, and embraced much of their rhetoric of hon-
our and dignity.
By 1901, the socialist deputy Jules Coutant, denounced the Order in
Parliament as being governed by ‘an almost total heredity and, most
often, the near impossibility for young men of working class families’ to
be admitted. The reason for this exclusion was not the difficulty of the
training, he argued, but the obscure and anachronistic rules of the
Order.128 Did the sense of identification with members of the Council
extend to younger cohorts of the turn of the century? The student
demonstrations of the period provide some insight into what the
profession stood for among its potential members. For one thing, student
violence and unrest were, in their own way, an expression of the
‘masculinity’ of the professions in this period.129 Frustration over the
lack of career outlets led to many of the outbursts that occurred in the
Latin Quarter in the 1890s and 1900s. Professors who were judged too
harsh in their grading were the object of a number of such demonstra-
tions.130
In January 1903, a group of mainly first year law students marched in
protest to their professor of Roman law, Jobbé-Duval. In addition to see-
ing Roman law as an impractical waste of time, the students claimed he
was being too hard on them, giving out the dreaded boule noire far too
frequently in their exams.131 Further, they reproached his tendency to
discuss issues in class that would not be included in the final examina-
tion. Unlike the explicitly political rallies of the period, resentment
toward this professor sparked demonstrations and rioting that lasted for
128 Jules Coutant, Journal Officiel, Documents Parlementaires de la Chambre . . .
Annexe 2253, Session Ordinaire of 12 March, 1901, 202.

129 Cf in the American case: Stephen H. Norwood, ‘The Student as Strikebreaker:
College Youth and the Crisis of Masculinity in the early 20th century’ (1994) 28(2)
Journal of Social History, 330–49.
130 For example, demonstrations against Professors Cuq and Bartin. Archives de la
Prefecture de Police [APP] Ba 23, reports of 27–29 Dec 1905 and APP Ba 1523, 20 Nov
1906. See also AN16 1796, meeting of 20 Jan 1898 where professor Lainé is bothered by
hecklers; AN AJ16 1798, meetings of 14–18 Nov 1912 when arson is committed in an
amphitheater due to overcrowding.
131
APP Ba 23. report of 15 Jan 1903. La Libre Parole, 17 Jan 1903.
208 John Savage
two full weeks, despite a significant response from the police. It can also
be noted that although the demonstration did not seem to be planned by
any student or outside organisation, it did follow a week of similar
demonstrations at the Faculty of Medicine. Most striking perhaps,
as professor Jobbé-Duval himself remarked, was that these were students
in their first year who had not yet faced him or any other
professor in an examination.132 Like the medical students they were
imitating, these law students were reacting to the general atmosphere of
overcrowding in the Latin Quarter they felt had a direct impact on their
own futures. It was not the specific experience of failing an examination
that led students into the street, but the sense that the professors were
more demanding than they had been in the past.
In 1905, third-year students threatened to riot if the hour of their civil
law course was not changed, as many of them worked afternoons as
clerks for notaries or solicitors in order to get some knowledge of legal
procedure.133 The incident demonstrates how anxiety over the transition
to professional life was often behind the students’ actions. But students
did not direct their anger against the rules and restrictions of the Bar.
More often, students blamed republican policies of openness that led to
overcrowding in higher education. In the context of an increasingly
difficult job market, that which had been considered the domain of upper
class privilege, the licence de droit and the social status that went along
with it, seemed increasingly cheapened.
These references to student violence return us to our point of depar-
ture, the conflict over the Dreyfus Affair. It is striking in the upheaval over
Captain Dreyfus how little was heard from the Bar, given its strong stance
as a collective institution in opposition to the imperial regime of
Napoleon III. By the turn of the century, the intellectuel universel seems
to have replaced the heroic avocat of earlier times in such public contro-
versies.134 As it has often been pointed out, the Dreyfus Affair was about
more than anti-Semitism; it was, in a certain way, a referendum on the
Republic. L’Affaire especially brought out all of the hidden anxiety of the
middle classes over the rapid change in social life of the fin-de-siècle
decades. This anxiety was often expressed over issues of masculinity and
personal honour. As Robert Nye has pointed out, the Republic itself was
thought of in gendered terms, as its birth out of the defeat at Sedan cre-
ated a kind of imperative of virility.135 But by the 1890s, the image of the
Republic was that of a prostitute, la gueuze: masculinity had lost out to
money. It seems that the same revulsion at the monetary aspects of the
132 Le Petit Bleu, 22 Jan 1903.
133
APP Ba 23. report of 7 Nov 1905.
134 See Christophe Charle, ‘Le Declin de la République des Avocats’, in Pierre
Birnbaum, (ed.), La France de l’Affaire Dreyfus (Gallimard, Paris, 1994), 56–86.

135 Nye, Masculinity and Male Codes of Honor.
profession are what led advocates to oppose the admission of women to

the Bar. Proponents of that measure consistently cited the United States
as a model for the acceptance of women lawyers, without understanding
that the American lawyer-businessmen represented the worst fate for the
French avocats. As we have seen, the monetarisation of the profession
was not only seen as a threat to the advocate’s honor, but also as the loss
of his literary artistry, both of which were deeply tied to a sense of man-
hood.
In France, the notion of an ‘educated intelligence’ as a foundation of
middle-class identity was arguably more important than it was in either
Britain or the United States.136 Education and professional expertise
served not only to secure distance from lower class occupations, but also
to emulate and appropriate aristocratic codes of honor and virtue. In the
Latin Quarter, anti-republican violence expressed students’ fears over
tightening standards and increased competition. For many students, the
law faculty did not just represent the opportunity of a good bourgeois
occupation. A career at the Bar meant being above money, outside of the
throng of mere bourgeois. The sense of a proletarianisation of the liberal
professions meant a cheapening of their value to young hopefuls.
Within the Bar, the reformers of the turn of the century sought to put
the profession ‘in step’ with the modern world. Invoking the language of
openness and freedom of opportunity, they attempted to challenge the
sheer inertia of the Bar’s traditional rhetoric. Yet just as they had rejected
the project of meritocratic opening of higher education as law students,
the generation of the fin-de-siècle refused arguments cast in terms of eco-
nomic liberalism for professional reform. The rhetoric of freedom of
labour did not sway the majority of the advocates, despite the remarkable
obstacles posed to professional practice by the reaffirmation of tradi-
tional rules. In this way the continued ‘privilege’ of the Bar went hand in
hand with the social ‘privilege’ of the law student.
Rather than promoting a republicanisation of the legal profession, the
demographic shift of the late nineteenth century galvanised a backward
looking rhetoric among lawyers, a nostalgia for a past, pre-democratic
era. Young lawyers embraced traditionalism even as the wave of new
lawyers continued to surge, and until World War I career guides issued
warnings away from entering the profession.137 It was for these reasons
that the most radical of the reformers, Jacques Bonzon, showed little
136 Burton Bledstein, The Culture of Professionalism: The Middle Class and the
Development of Higher Education in America (Norton, New York, 1976). Harold

Perkin, The Rise of Professional Society (Routledge, New York, 1989).
137 Jean Lievin, Les Meilleurs Professions pour faire Fortune après la Guerre (les
Éditions pratiques et documentaires, Paris, 1916), 10; 24. Louis Debray, Rapport
présenté au nom de la Commission d’Etudes sur les mesures propres à éviter l’encom-
brement de la Faculté de Droit de Paris (Paris, 1910).
210 John Savage
interest in trying to effect change through the mechanism of the Bar itself.
Bonzon wrote that such changes had to come from outside intervention,
namely through legislative action.138 Hence the ambiguous modernity of
the 19th century Bar, defender of the citizen-individual before the state,
the advocate also claimed a professional organisation that dates from
the eighteenth century. The experience of the avocats suggests that, in
their case at least, the fin-de-siècle saw a cultural persistence of the ‘Old
Regime’.
138
Jacques Bonzon, La Réforme du Barreau (Edition des Echos parisiens, Paris, 1905).
8
Text and Subtext: French Lawyers’
Fees in the Nineteenth Century
JEAN-LOUIS HALPÉRIN(TRANS M MACFARLANE)
Nineteenth-century French lawyers have left us little evidence as to the

amount of their fees.1 Their predecessors under the Ancien Régime had
already resisted attempts by the royal authority to impose a fee scale on
them or at least to make them provide their clients with receipts.2 After
Napoleon reinstated the ordres d’avocats,3 the French Bar succeeded in
developing a ‘disinterestedness ethic’ according to which fees were of
minimal importance to any lawyer worth his salt.4 On the basis of legal
texts which did not impose a fee scale on lawyers, contrary to what hap-
pened in the case of avoués and notaires’ and an interpretation rooted in
tradition, the Conseil de l’Ordre de Paris established a whole ‘fee theory’
1 Literature on fees up until 1914 deals almost exclusively with the issue of the admis-
sibility of the lawyer’s legal action for payment of his fees. This is true in particular of the
doctoral thesis in law by the lawyer H Labouret Des honoraires des avocats (Dufréney,
Lille, 1906).
2 P-J-J-G Guyot, Répertoire universel et raisonné de jurisprudence (Paris, 1784) t. I,
‘Avocat’, 796; D Dalloz, Répertoire méthodique et alphabétique de législation, de doc-

trine et de jurisprudence (Paris, 1846) t. V, ‘Avocat’, 459–463, recalls the main attempts
made by the royal authority to legislate on lawyers’ fees, from the 1274 decree (setting a
maximum of 30 livres) to the 1579 Blois decree obliging lawyers to provide a written
receipt for their fees. Rejecting this provision, Parisian lawyers went on strike in 1602;
this episode led to the publication of the Dialogue des avocats, by A Loisel. Cf DA Bell,
Lawyers and Citizens (Oxford University Press, Oxford, 1994) 45; J-L Gazzaniga, ‘Jalons
pour une histoire de la profession d’avocat des origines à la Révolution française’, in Les
Petites Affiches, 70 (12 June 1989) 28–29.
3
MP Fitzsimmons, The Parisian Order of Barristers and the French Revolution
(Harvard University Press, Harvard, 1987). Abolished in September 1790, the ordres
d’avocats were re-established by the decree issued on 14 December 1810. This text stip-
ulated, among other authoritative provisions, that lawyers would mention their fees at
the foot of their accounts and would give a receipt for their fees for oral arguments (s 44).
This provision never gained acceptance among lawyers and was abandoned in the decree
issued on 20 November 1822, which governed discipline in the profession throughout
the nineteenth century. The disciplinary council of each Bar was expected to uphold the
‘principles of moderation, disinterestedness and integrity on which the honour of the
ordre des avocats was based’.
4 Cf in particular L Karpik, Les avocats. Entre l’État, le public et le marché. XIIIe–XXe
siècle (Gallimard, Paris, 1995), Bibliothèque des sciences humaines, 158–160.

212 Jean-Louis Halpérin
which became the norm in almost all Bars and gained partial acceptance
among judges. There were no restrictions on fees, which lawyers were free
to set at their own discretion for each client and each case. Thus, the Bar
was a ‘liberal profession’ with greater independence from the state than
officers of the court (avoués and notaires), who were government-
appointed and subject to a fee scale. The contract between a lawyer and
his client was neither a contract for the hire of services nor a power of
attorney; this commitment was presented as an ‘innominate agreement,’
a ‘service’ or an ‘office’ which created a legitimate obligation to provide
fair compensation.5 Not only did this compensation termed a ‘fee’ and
not a ‘salary’ have to be modest, but it was also supposed to be freely
offered by the client. As the finishing touch to this intellectual construct
aimed at reinforcing the lawyer’s independence from his client, lawyers
were prohibited from bringing an action to prosecute clients who refused
to pay their fees. Following a letter from the president of the Ordre de
Paris in 1819, the Conseil de l’Ordre threatened to disbar any lawyer
who took legal action in order to obtain his fees, and the legality of this
disciplinary decision was gradually acknowledged by courts during the
nineteenth century.
Contrary to what many nineteenth-century French lawyers thought,
this concept of fees was not peculiar to the French Bar. While German
and Italian lawyers had been subject to a fee scale, English barristers were
not, and they also defended the prohibition of legal action in this area.6
However, it is possible to acquire a relatively good knowledge of barris-
ters’ incomes.7 Investigation seems more difficult in the case of French
lawyers, and we have first to attempt to gather all available numerical evi-
dence about nineteenth-century lawyers’ fees. Based on these few quanti-
tative data, it is possible to speculate further as to whether or not there
was an economy or a market associated with the legal profession during
the 1810–1914 period.
Rather surprisingly, the best evidence we have available about the
amount of nineteenth-century French lawyers’ fees is of a judicial nature.
Despite the threats of disbarment hanging over lawyers who took legal
action in order to obtain their fees, several cases did arise which led
5
M Mollot, Règles de la profession d’avocat, 2nd edn (Durand et Pedone-Lauriel,
Paris, 1866) t. I, 6–15 and 115–122. In 1842, the date of the first edition of his work, this
lawyer started to collect the rules and accepted practices of the lawyer’s profession,
basing himself on the decisions of the Conseil de l’Ordre of the Paris Bar.
6 J-L Halperin (ed), Avocats et notaires en Europe. Les professions judiciaires
et juridiques dans l’histoire contemporaine (LGDJ, Paris, 1996) ‘Droit et société’,

242–243.
7 D Duman, The English and Colonial Bars in the Nineteenth Century (Croom Helm,
London, 1983) 144–146, quoting in particular the figures of a parliamentary committee

in 1850.
French Lawyers’ Fees in the Nineteenth Century 213
lawyers to discuss their fees in the presence of judges, which is precisely

what the conseils de l’ordre wanted to avoid in order to prevent the
judiciary from exercising any control over financial relations between
lawyers and their clients. Although only some of these legal decisions
have been published, they provide a varied selection of situations and
invaluable information on fees. Further delving into court records may
provide valuable additional information in the future.
The most common situation, likely to spark proceedings relating to a
lawyer’s fees, resulted from the duality of the professions of lawyer and
avoué.8 In civil cases, parties were obliged to appoint an avoué as their
representative before the court of first instance as well as the Court of
Appeal. The avoué, who was responsible for all pleadings, was his client’s
legal agent and was paid according to a fee scale which was set by regula-
tion in 1807. In this situation, the litigant had first to approach the avoué,
and it was not unusual for the latter to choose for himself the lawyer
responsible for arguing the case. The avoué sometimes paid the lawyer his
fees and then included them in the bill of expenses he presented to the
client. As nobody challenged the avoué’s right to take legal action against
a recalcitrant debtor, a legal challenge concerning an avoué’s claims
against his party could lead to discussion about the lawyer’s fees.
Throughout the nineteenth century, judgments and decisions main-
tained that, as the legal agent, the avoué was perfectly at liberty to choose
the lawyer, advance fees for his client, and then request recovery of the
amount paid.9 The only issue that might cause difficulties was that of evi-
dence in the absence of a written contract.10 This ‘hypocritical’ system
8 This duality, which is comparable in certain respects to that between barristers and
solicitors, was based on texts from the Consulate and the Empire, which had revived a
tradition from the Ancien Régime. Taking advantage of the law passed on 28 April 1816,
which enabled them to make money out of the right to introduce their successor to the
Ministry of Justice, avoués bought their positions, and avoué posts were subject to a
numerus clausus. J-L Halperin, ‘Les avoués au XIXe siècle, des rentiers de la Justice?’
Histoire de la Justice, 4 (1991) 99–120.
9 J-B Sirey, Recueil des lois et arrêts [hereinafter S], 1829, 2, 286 (Limoges, 10 August
1829); 1830, 2, 159 (Bourges, 26 April 1830); 1832, 2, 581 (Toulouse, 11 May 1831); 1833,
2, 128 and 484 (Montpellier, 12 March 1832, and Toulouse, 20 March 1833); 1839, 2, 230
(Paris, 22 November 1838); 1841, 2, 271 (Caen, 30 December 1840); 1846, 2, 191 (Colmar,
22 January 1846); 1887, 2, 97 (Aix, 26 May 1886).
10 S 1853, 1, 370 (Applic. 2 May 1853: in the absence of an express agreement between
the lawyer and the avoué, there is mention of a quasi-contract in a dispute between a
lawyer and the heirs to an avoué); S. 1869, 2, 304 (Tribunal de Nîmes, 2 December 1868);
Dalloz Périodique [hereinafter DP] 1879, 2, 95 (Poitiers, 21 January 1879, referring to
business management). On the subject of this development in case law, cf Répertoire
encyclopédique du droit français, by Fernand Labori (1889) t. II, ‘Avocat’, 82. M Mollot,
op. cit., t. II, p 261 refers to a decision by the Conseil de l’Ordre de Paris in 1860, impos-
ing a penalty for the lawyer’s suit against the avoué as an indirect way of violating a pro-
fessional duty.
was likely to satisfy all professionals. In material terms, the avoué was
sure of recovering his funds, and the lawyer relied on the avoué’s guaran-
tee. Symbolically, the avoué obtained legal confirmation of his role as
dominus litis, which made many lawyers dependent on his choices, while
lawyers preserved the distinction between their ‘noble’ profession and the
duties of avoués, who were paid set fees.
There are other, less common, hypotheses which could lead the courts
to consider a lawyer’s fee claim: in the case of a counterclaim for
compensation by a lawyer who was being sued by his client, who was
simultaneously his creditor,11 when a deceased lawyer’s heirs sought to
rebuild estate assets,12 or, very exceptionally, when the heirs to an estate
challenged a mortgage taken out as security for payment of a lawyer’s
fees.13 Finally, lawyers sometimes took the initiative and went to court
themselves in order to recover outstanding fees. This action, to which all
creditors could have recourse under common law, was in no way contrary
to legislation, even though it ran counter to the professional practices
proclaimed and defended by the Paris Bar. From the first half of the nine-
teenth century onwards, lawyers from Marseille, Grenoble and Nantes
brought actions for recovery of fees, with the judges’ approval and appar-
ently without fear of disciplinary action being taken by their ordre.14 A
few lawyers then relied on these favourable precedents to make legal
claims for their fees, running the risk, particularly in Paris, of legal action
being taken before the Conseil de l’ordre. Although this kind of action
was infrequent, it bears witness to the resistance among judges and a
number of lawyers to the tradition defended, more or less fervently, by the
Paris Bar authorities.15
11 S 1845, 2, 655 (Dijon, 24 Jan 1842), DP 1846, 1, 161.

12 DP 1892, 2, 287 (Lyons, 5 Nov 1891).
13
DP 1890, 2, 281 (Agen, 4 March 1889). This case was exceptional in more ways than
one: a servant, designated residuary legatee by his master, had been accused of murder-
ing him; the servant was acquitted, but the bequest having been revoked on grounds of
ingratitude, the legitimate heirs of the deceased then discovered that the property of the
estate was mortgaged up to the hilt in the lawyer’s favour, which led to a lawsuit.
14
S 1834, 2, 377 (Aix, 12 March 1834, referring to a Marseilles lawyer); S 1839, 2, 152
(Grenoble, 2 May 1838: in this case, the client accused the lawyer of betraying him by not
travelling to Grenoble). As early as 1870, a tribunal de paix in Paris considered the toler-
ance of ‘many provincial Bars’ with regard to actions for the recovery of fees to be com-
mon knowledge (DP 1870, 3, 78).
15 S 1853, 1, 114 (Applic. 4 Jan 1853: the Paris Court of Appeal had allowed the legal
action brought by the lawyer on whom the penalty of a warning had been imposed by the
Conseil de l’Ordre; the Cour de cassation rejected the appeal on the grounds of excess of
functions against the disciplinary decision); DP 1853, 2, 149 (Orleans, 28 Jan 1853: the
trainee lawyer, who had taken his clients to court, had been subject to disciplinary
action); S 1861, 2, 529 (Bordeaux, 10 April 1861: a lawyer from Angoulême had taken
action against several of his clients before the justice of the peace and had been disci-
plined by the Conseil de l’Ordre; the court of appeal quashed the legal action).
Most of these court decisions provide us with figures indicating the

amount of lawyers’ fees. In a few cases, fees are under 100 francs.16 Fees
of 100 francs and especially 200 francs are very often quoted.17 Above
that level, higher amounts had to be justified by a special situation which
was verified by judges: the lawyer’s claim against his client could be the
balance of an account relating to several cases, or fees over 1,000 francs
could be explained by the nature of the case, especially when it was a
criminal trial in the cour d’assises.18 In most cases, fees were not consid-
ered to be excessive by judges, who took into account ‘the difficulties of
the case and the significance of the interests involved’. Sometimes, judges
referred consideration of fees to the lawyers’ disciplinary council or pro-
ceeded themselves with the taxation of costs.19 Although judges were
sometimes nostalgic for the ‘stern and honourable’ practices of lawyers
in days gone by,20 they all acknowledged the licitness of actions for recov-
ery of fees and felt that lawyers were entitled to fair compensation for
services rendered to clients, since the Bar’s former principles of generos-
ity were no longer in tune with legislation and common practice.21
16 S 1829, 2, 30 (Rouen, 17 May 1828: 80 francs paid to two lawyers who were con-
sulted and advised against pursuing legal action); S 1830, 2, 159 (Bourges, 26 April 1830:
80 francs for defence fees); DP 1853, 2, 149 (Orleans, 28 Jan 1853: the trainee lawyer
claimed 48 francs and 85 centimes for several trips and for having consulted documents
at a notaire’s office; court costs had increased the claim to 220 francs).
17 S 1829, 2, 85 (200 francs in fees) and 286 (100 francs for arguing a case); S 1833, 2,
128 (200 francs in fees); S 1841, 2, 271 (200 francs in fees); S 1858, 2, 187 (200 francs in
fees for arguing a case on appeal); DP 1870, 2, 778 (200 francs in fees for arguing a case);
DP 1879, 2, 95 (100 francs in fees).
18 S 1833, 2, 484 (Toulouse, 20 March 1833: 2,400 francs in fees for numerous written
statements in a separation of property case); S 1839, 2, 152 (Grenoble, 2 May 1838: 1,200
francs in fees for travel and a defence before the Grenoble cour d’assises; the case led to
a judgment of dismissal by the Cour de cassation in 1839, S 1839, 1, 474); S 1853, 1, 114
(Req. 4 Jan 1853: 171,000 francs in fees claimed by a lawyer from a railway company for
arguing 174 cases and making 291 settlements); DP 1876, 1, 161 (4,290 francs for several
cases on behalf of a wine merchant); DP 1890, 2, 281 (Agen, 4 March 1889: 2 000 francs
in fees judged to be ‘very adequate payment in the cour d’assises’); DP 1892, 2, 287
(Lyons, 5 Nov 1891: 3,000 francs in fees, a figure given for several cases in the accounts
of the deceased lawyer); S 1903, 2, 5 (Caen, 1 March 1902: 940 francs in fees for various
cases).
19 S 1834, 2, 377 (Aix, 12 March 1834: referral to the conseil de l’ordre); DP 1868, 4,
248 (Crim. 11 Feb 1867: the magistrates of the cour d’assises had sovereign power to
reduce the lawyer’s fees); DP 1890, 2, 281 (rejection of an extra payment of 3,000 francs
on the acquittal of the accused, who were servants of modest means); DP 1892, 2, 287 (a
reduction from 3,000 to 2,000 francs due to the scant resources and the age of the client).
20 S 1830, 2, 159 (Bourges, 26 April 1830).
21 S 1861, 2, 529 (Bordeaux, 10 April 1861: the magistrates defend the action for recov-
ery of fees, which they consider preferable to ‘secret practices’). As noted in the
Répertoire Labori (op. cit., 1889, t. II, ‘Avocat’, at 82), such a precedent created a curi-
ous situation: the same lawyer could be allowed to take legal action to recover his fees
and be subjected to disciplinary action for so doing. Although the Cour de cassation had,
Judges were clearly not shocked at the amounts involved in these trials,
which suggests that such amounts were in keeping with lawyers’ everyday
practice.
Comparable figures appear in the other, more scattered, documents
which provide evidence of the amounts of French lawyers’ fees in the
nineteenth century. First of all, there are disciplinary decisions by the
conseils de l’ordre of the various Bars. Thus, in Lyon, the records of the
deliberations of the Conseil de l’Ordre show fees ranging from 50 to
1,000 francs from 1871 to 1896;22 in each case, it is not the amount of
these fees that is challenged, but rather the unscrupulous way in which
they were claimed by the lawyer. The same holds true in Dijon, for more
modest amounts.23 Disciplinary decisions by the Paris Bar, reported by
Mollot to back up the disinterestedness theory, also refer to fees ranging
from 45 to 1,000 francs.24 Unfortunately, we only have a very small num-
ber of private documents dealing with lawyers’ incomes. Not all lawyers
kept accounts: taxes did not apply to professional income, but were
levied via the patente on the rent of office premises; many of them
destroyed their own archives, and very few have left written evidence
about their fees. The case of César Colmet Daâge, who had a notebook
of fees which was studied by his great grandson, Félix Colmet Daâge, is
quite exceptional. We thus know that this great Parisian lawyer, who, at
his death in 1866, was the senior member of the ordre, generally charged
300, 500, 800 or 1,000 francs for arguing cases and that his fees for a case
came to 3,000 francs only three times in nine years.25 We also know from
the personal papers of Waldeck-Rousseau, who was a prominent busi-
ness lawyer before becoming president of the Council in 1899, that he
made on average 80 to 100 francs on each of the 300 cases he pleaded
annually from 1875 onwards, and that his fees could reach 10,000 francs
per year for a major business company.26 A letter in 1899 from Labori,
one of Alfred Dreyfus’ lawyers, indicates 5,000 francs in fees for Zola’s
in 1853, legitimised this independence of legal action and disciplinary proceedings, the
Bordeaux court had been more logical by nullifying disciplinary proceedings against the
lawyer involved, in 1861.
22 Record of deliberations of the Conseil de l’Ordre de Lyon (preserved at the Bar of
Lyons), 9 July 1872 (discussion on fees ranging from 50 to 500 francs for the defence of a
soldier before a court martial), 12 Nov 1878 (1,000 francs as a retainer in a criminal case),
13 May 1879 (550 francs in fees for concluding a trial with a settlement).
23
Record of the deliberations of the Conseil de l’Ordre de Dijon, 29 April 1832 (50 or
80 francs in fees in a lesser criminal case), 16 Aug 1835 (113, 50 francs in fees for two argu-
ments and documents in separation of property proceedings).
24
A Mollot, op. cit., t. II, 254–268.
25 F Colmet Daage, Malaise au Palais (Paris, Messein, 1953) 34–35. The same author
states that, in the mid-nineteenth century, a Parisian lawyer, even a trainee, was not
allowed to argue a case for less than 100 francs.
26 P Sorlin, Waldeck-Rousseau (Arts Thesis, Colin, Paris, 1966) 152–153.
defence and 20,000 francs in fees received from Mathieu Dreyfus.27

Dupin reportedly received 50,000 francs in fees from the Duke of Orleans
for advising him in a settlement with the Théâtre Français, and Billaut
reportedly received 12,000 francs for arguing in a parricide case in
Limoges, in 1850.28
Other evidence, which is far more imprecise and should be treated
warily, deals with the annual incomes of fairly well-known lawyers. From
1852 to 1858, for instance, Jules Favre reportedly earned from 150,000 to
300,000 francs a year.29 Another prominent Parisian lawyer during the
Second Empire allegedly started out with an annual income of between
16,000 and 20,000 francs, which later reached an average of 50,000 and
then 100,000 francs.30 At the beginning of the Third Republic, Barboux
reportedly had an annual income of a mere 12,000 to 15,000 francs in fees
before becoming president of the Ordre de Paris in 1880–1881.31 In 1909,
Viscount D’Avenel, in his Histoire économique de la propriété, des
salaires, was of the opinion that there were no more than about ten
lawyers in his day who ‘regularly earned 100 000 francs a year’, about 15
who earned between 50,000 and 100,000 francs, about 30 who earned
between 30,000 and 50,000 francs, and about 60 who earned between
10,000 and 30,000 francs, while the rest earned no more than 10,000
francs a year.32 The same author estimated fees to be between 50 and
2,000 francs, the average commonly charged being between 300 and 400
francs. These figures tally with those mentioned in other sources and
confirm the validity of the sample provided by court decisions. Noting
this wide range of fees and incomes, D’Avenel wrote: ‘. . . here as else-
where, prices obey economic laws, which are totally independent of
people or things’. Consideration of the nature of the economic laws
which would have determined their amounts is essential to the study of
French lawyers’ fees in the nineteenth century.
27
Y Ozanam, ‘L’avocat de Zola et de Dreyfus: Fernand Labori (1860–1917)’ [forth-
coming in Histoire de la Justice, 1998].
28
A Damien, Les avocats du temps passé (H Lefèbvre, Versailles, 1973) 377. The
author cites the case of a Versailles lawyer who claimed 30 francs for defending a
gardener brought before a criminal court in 1869.
29
P-A Perrod, Jules Favre, avocat de la liberté (La Manufacture, Lyons, 1988) 167.
30 A Damien, ‘Avocats’ in J Tulard (ed), Dictionnaire du Second Empire (Fayard,
Paris, 1995) 90. This is probably Bétolaud.

31 R Allou and C Chenu, Les grands avocats du siècle (A Pedone, Paris, 1894) 345.
32 G D’Avenel, Histoire économique de la propriété, des salaires, des denrées et de
tous les prix en général depuis l’an 1200 jusqu’à l’an 1800 (Paris, 1909) t. V, 251–256.
Good examples of provincial lawyers’ incomes, averaging from 6,000 to 7,000 francs a
year, are provided in the thesis by P Plas, Avocats et barreaux dans le ressort de la Cour
d’appel de Limoges de la Révolution française à la seconde guerre mondiale (doctorate
in history, Paris IV, 1997) 1190.
‘The lawyer’s knowledge, eloquence and integrity are not goods; when
called upon by misfortune and poverty, they are given freely; they are not
sold’: these were the noble sentiments taught to young lawyers by
Cresson’s manual in 1896.33 Through its disinterestedness and its fee
theory, the nineteenth-century French Bar wanted to give the impression
of being free of all economic calculation. Yet, despite this ‘money taboo’
and the discretion maintained by the world of the law courts regarding
fee amounts, economic considerations were not foreign to the legal pro-
fession: it is significant that the Répertoire Dalloz reproduced in 1846,
under ‘Avocat’, a passage by Adam Smith on fees.34 It would also have
been possible to quote the Cours d’économie politique, by Pellegrino
Rossi,35 speculating as to whether the laws of free competition could be
applied to what would have to be called a legal services ‘market’. Today,
analyses are still at odds on this point and on the appropriateness of the
term ‘market’. The neo-Weberian concept of a combined effort by
lawyers to exploit their clients has not really convinced French authors,
who prefer to refer to an ‘economy of restraint’36 or even the ‘false issue
of income’.37 However, the figures we have given do show that fees were
not arbitrarily set; although they vary considerably in amount from
lawyer to lawyer, client to client and case to case, they nonetheless fall
within a certain range, which suggests that, in this area, there were
indeed practices which, while unspoken, were known and often observed.
Therefore, the question of the role of fees still remains, even after market
logic has been discounted.
Classical economists, like Smith or Rossi, knew for a fact that intellec-
tual production did not obey the same rules as ‘purely mechanical’ pro-
duction. Lawyers, like doctors and artists, were not subject to ordinary
rules of competition when dealing with their clients. Countless factors
prevented a legal services market from developing in nineteenth-century
France. Although French lawyers had a monopoly—that of arguing cases
before the Court of Appeal and, barring exceptions, before courts of
first instance and cours d’assises, they were in no position to engage in
competition over the amount of their fees. First of all, many lawyers did
not ‘chase after’ cases and did not wish to fight with their colleagues over
the apportioning of cases. Although the number of dilettante lawyers
dwindled during the nineteenth century—along with the number of Bar
33 EG Cresson, Abrégé des usages et règles de la profession d’avocat (L Larose, Paris,

1896) 133.
34
D Dalloz, op. cit., t. V, 260, 511.
35 P Rossi, Cours d’économie politique (Joubert, Paris, 1840) t. I, 294–295.
36
L Karpik, op. cit., at 15 (quoting the works of Larson) and 152–171 (the liberal Bar
allegedly was not subject to market logic due to the economy of restraint).
37 P Plas, op. cit., 1178: whatever their income, by virtue of their origins or their
means, lawyers belonged to the middle-class world.

members, which decreased from 1848 onwards, stabilising around 4,000

and 4,500 from 1860 to 190038—there always remained a significant body
of lawyers who were men of private means or property owners, who
argued cases occasionally and tended to disrupt the homogeneity of ser-
vice supply. In the case of lawyers in name only, it would be preferable to
speak of a lack of interest in the practice of arguing in court rather than
of virtuous disinterestedness. The very fact that many professionals did
not need their fees to survive distorted the way the law of supply and
demand operated between lawyers and clients.
Competition between active or ‘militant’ lawyers could not take the
form of a fee war. Since lawyers were categorically forbidden from engag-
ing in any form of publicity, they had to wait for clients to come to them.
Touting moderate fees would have been particularly inappropriate. For
young lawyers, building up a client base was a lengthy process which relied
on a complex network of relationships involving avoués and, in certain
cases, business agents who referred litigants to this or that Bar member.
This practice was considered contrary to Bar practices and could lead to
sanctions determined by the Conseil de l’Ordre. Disciplinary litigation
proves the existence of various methods to drum up business: reference is
made to visiting cards being left in prisons, rumours being spread or
newspaper articles being begged for in order to enhance the image of a
counsel for the defence by boasting about the rate of acquittals obtained,
or even secret pacts between lawyers, avoués and business agents.39 All
these practices, which were considered incompatible with the dignity of
the Bar, were aimed at increasing client numbers, but they never consisted
in offering lower fees than those charged by colleagues.
Finally, there was a considerable number of cases in which the lawyer
had to provide his services free of charge: official appointments in crimi-
nal cases and arguments in favour of the poorest individuals, who could
be assisted on a charitable basis during the first half of the nineteenth cen-
tury, until a law passed on 22 January 1851, gave them the benefit of legal
aid. In addition, there were cases in which the lawyer made do with very
modest fees out of sympathy for badly-off clients, whether they were
insolvent criminals or, in the late nineteenth century, trades associations
without resources.40 Certainly, this burden of free or almost free defence
38
J-L Halperin, ‘Les sources statistiques de l’histoire des avocats en France aux XVIIIe
et XIXe siècles’ in Revue de la Société Internationale d’Histoire de la Profession d’Avocat
(1991) (3) 55–74.
39
Cf J-L Halperin, Avocats et notaires en Europe, op. cit., 226 and 235–36. The case
judged by the Agen Court in 1889 (above n 13) gives the example of a lawyer who
bragged, ‘in a boastful display of poor taste, of having obtained seventy-two acquittals
before the Gers cours d’assises in the space of nine years’.
40
N Olszak, ‘Les avocats et l’acculturation juridique du mouvement ouvrier’, Revue
Internationale d’Histoire de la Profession d’Avocat (1993), 5, 189–212.
was mainly shouldered by the youngest lawyers—Bars made sure they

handed these kinds of cases on to trainees—and this may have been an
additional factor which increased the amounts of open fees received for
other cases. Again, however, not every lawyer was able to play on his fees
in the way a service provider would have done in a competitive market.
As for clients, they were unable to choose their lawyers on the basis of
their fees; as their hands were also tied by these networks which put liti-
gants in contact with representatives of the law, clients were rarely in a
position to discuss fee amounts with a lawyer who was always at liberty
to refuse to handle their cases. For the poorest individuals subject to
trial—before the 1851 law, or just above the eligibility threshold for legal
aid after that date—access to justice was very expensive due to legal
costs, ie the legal taxes levied by the state and fixed-rate emoluments paid
to huissiers and avoués.41 On the other hand, the litigant who won his
trial was released from payment of these expenses, which were charged to
the other party. The same did not hold for fees, which were still owed by
the party who hired the lawyer. It is hardly conceivable that litigants
would ask for lower fees before their trials ended . . . and, once a case was
decided, whatever the outcome, the client acting in bad faith could hope
to gain more from his dishonesty in failing to pay his lawyer than from
applying to the appropriate authorities for a reduction. The general view
was that the litigant who found the fees too high should approach the
council of the Ordre to which the lawyer belonged: he had very little hope
of obtaining a hearing and could not obtain reimbursement of fees which
he had paid voluntarily. At the very most, he could hope that the lawyer,
challenged before the Conseil de l’Ordre, would take the initiative by
refunding the fees in part. There was no recourse against these types of
decisions by the Bar authorities, as litigation provides no examples of an
application for fee reduction, which would have been the sole basis for
legal action. Again, fees did not result from a power relationship between
lawyers and clients which would have obeyed the laws of supply and
demand. The overall stability of fees during the nineteenth century—
with perhaps an upward trend after 1830—contrasts with the ebb and
flow of judicial litigation which determined the number of cases likely to
be dealt with by representatives of the law.
This economic inertia relating to fees does not mean that fee-setting
was unimportant or exempt from rules established by common profes-
sional practices. It must first be remembered that, during the nineteenth
century, an increasing number of lawyers needed their fees to make a liv-
ing. Having been subject to the patente—a tax proportional to the office
41
H Crespin, Les frais de justice au XIXe siècle, Travaux et recherches Panthéon-
Assas Paris II (Paris, LGDJ, 1995). For avoués, average emoluments were between 75 and
120 francs for ordinary civil cases: J-L Halperin, ‘Les avoués au XIXe siècle, des rentiers
de la Justice?’, op. cit., 113.
rental, levied regardless of whether or not the profession was actually

being practised—since a law passed on 18 May 1850, lawyers could not
always make do with their private fortunes or parental assistance. In
addition, there was always a small number of lawyers of more modest ori-
gins, who had no capital at their disposal when they started their careers.
Although the democratisation of recruitment to the Bar is very relative,42
the trend toward professionalisation is undeniable: in the second half of
the nineteenth century, many lawyers worked extremely hard to earn a
living, and, despite their efforts, it was not unusual for them to leave a
meagre inheritance when they died.43 Despite warnings from the conseils
de l’ordre, more and more lawyers demanded an advance from their
clients. In these circumstances, it is not surprising that fees came to well
over the 15 francs per argument stipulated in section 80 of the 1807
Schedule of Costs and Expenses, which lawyers preferred to leave to the
avoués. After 1850, the trend was to look for good institutional clients—
towns, railway or insurance companies, industrial or business compan-
ies—who gave lawyers some hope of decent fees on a regular basis.
Fees, which were relatively high in amount compared to the wages of
nineteenth-century workers or employees, were ‘fair compensation for
services rendered’. All work deserves a reward, as judges maintained to
justify actions for recovery of fees. There is no longer any doubt that, in
the nineteenth century, the intellectual work carried out by the liberal pro-
fessions had a value, as did the salaried work of the manual trades. In
1854, the liberal jurist Renouard proposed replacing the sections of the
Code civil dealing with the hire of services with new provisions on ‘the
provision of services contract’. For this eminent judge, who had been a
lawyer early in his career, the liberal professions which provide services
through their intellectual work must fit into the framework of this provi-
sion of services contract. Although ‘words may display tact and language
may show modesty’ ‘which may justify the use of the noble term hono-
raires for lawyers’ fees’ Renouard challenges the distinctions drawn
between the ‘aristocracy’ of the working world and workers.44 In Italy,
there developed during the same period a whole body of thought on fees,
which were both the lawyer’s remuneration and ‘a tribute to his honour’.45
42 J-L Halperin, Avocats et notaires en Europe, op. cit., 206–08: study of the profes-
sions of the fathers of lawyers from Lyons registered between 1872 and 1914 indicates
that this democratisation had hardly begun on the eve of World War I.
43 P Sorlin, op. cit., 95. Figures we have noted in the declarations of succession of a
few lawyers from Lyons who died between 1841 and 1890 indicate inheritances ranging
from 3,000 to 1,000.000 francs.
44 A-C Renouard, ‘Mémoire sur le contrat de prestation de travail’ in Séances et
travaux de l’Académie des sciences morales et politiques (1854) t. XXVII, 189–193.

45
P Beneduce, Il corpo eloquente. Identificazione del giurista nell’Italia liberale (Il
Mulino, Bologna, 1996) 322–330. The principles used for calculating fees in the nineteenth
century are already set out in the treatise De salario, by Zacchia, published in 1658.
The terms used in decisions of the court or disciplinary decisions clar-

ify the ‘customary’ method of calculating fees, which had first to be in
proportion to the importance of the case. The fee-scale thus provides us
with a grid for interpreting the hierarchy established by the Bar between
the various types of litigation. To start off with, ‘minor’ cases—argued
before the justice of the peace for civil cases or the tribunal correctionnel
for misdemeanours—were of little interest to lawyers. In these areas, a
lawyer’s assistance was not obligatory, the amounts at stake were small
(less than 200 francs in most cases), and litigants were often poorly off.
There was not much to be expected of an offender who was brought
before the tribunal correctionnel, apart from a few cases involving hon-
our or the press. Under these circumstances, lawyers did not rush to the
Bar to plead these minor cases which brought in a few dozen francs. The
lawyer’s real work—‘the bread-and-butter work of law firms’, as Pascal
Plas puts it—consisted of oral arguments delivered before a civil court of
first instance or court of appeal. The lawyer had a monopoly in this and
had to carry out a thorough study of legislation, precedents and doctrine.
At the Court of Appeal level, it was still quite common in the nineteenth
century for detailed statements of case to be written and sometimes
printed. As soon as it was more than a case of routine and purely factual
proceedings, fees amounted to hundreds of francs. In fact, most clients
could afford access to this rich man’s justice, often involving property,
marriage contracts or inheritances. These well-off litigants also had to
pay their avoué, and lawyers probably made it a point of honour to
charge fees that at least equalled the emoluments received by the avoué.
Competition between professions vying for the ‘legal field’, as Pierre
Bourdieu puts it,46 was also a factor in fee calculation. In the second half
of the nineteenth century, this group of lucrative cases included an
increasing number of commercial cases. Although lawyers had long had
reservations about arguing cases in commercial courts or practical diffi-
culties in doing so, they realised what profits they could make by having
among their clients a railway company—we came across an example
with figures from as early as the 1840–50 period—or large industrial
companies. For a minority of ‘business lawyers’, this commercial litiga-
tion combined the advantages of regular income based on the repetition
of advice or minor trials with the opportunity for exceptionally high fees,
as demonstrated by the Waldeck-Rousseau example.
Finally, oral arguments in criminal cases, delivered before the cours
d’assises, could, in certain circumstances, command fees amounting to
several thousand francs. Certainly, defence was free or almost free of
charge for a large number of accused who had the benefit of a lawyer
46
P Bourdieu, ‘La force du droit. Éléments pour une sociologie du champ juridique’
in Actes de la recherche en science sociale, 64, (Sept 1986), 4.
appointed by the court or who belonged to the neediest classes. However,

the assises also offered ‘prestigious’ trials of a political nature for viola-
tion of the press laws or crimes against moral standards, in which well-
off clients found themselves involved—as the accused or as victims, in the
latter case also assisted by a lawyer as civil parties. And, as their honour,
and sometimes their lives, were at stake, no price was too high! In the
criminal justice system, these major cases paid for the others, and this
system of ‘social’ equalisation was perfect for a lawyer who was building
his reputation based on all case files by obtaining acquittals. In addition
to the stars of the Bar with their prestigious clients, there was in the
provinces a small group of lawyers who argued in the cour d’assises
several dozen times during their careers and who might occasionally
charge fees of 2,000 or 3,000 francs.47
Fee calculation according to the importance of the case had to follow
certain rules which left room for considerable flexibility. Lawyers were, of
course, forbidden from matching fees to the value of the dispute, accord-
ing to whether or not the outcome of the trial was favourable. The pro-
hibition of such a de quota litis pact seems to have been universally
respected, except in certain areas such as assessment procedures for
expropriation compensation. More subtly, flat fees were also forbidden:
lawyers could not set their fees as soon as they read the case file, based on
where it stood in the scale of values which we have tried to reconstruct.
Fees could not be determined in advance, as the lawyer’s ‘good offices’
were only known at the end of the trial. There again, the desire to mea-
sure the work actually done by the lawyer was coupled with a round-
about way of taking the result into account, without saying as much!
It is significant that texts say nothing about the lawyer’s fame as a fac-
tor in fee calculation. On the contrary, the Répertoire Dalloz considers
unfair the rules for fee assessment proposed by Adam Smith in his expla-
nations of the ‘lottery of the law’. According to Adam Smith, only one
lawyer to every 20 managed to have a successful career, and his fees had
to pay for the lengthy and expensive education of his 20 less fortunate
colleagues. This economic calculation seemed repugnant to French
jurists, doubtless because it related to exceptional cases. The fees of the
most famous lawyers were not subject to any rules: they were not neces-
sarily excessive, as fame attracted a large number of cases. In any case,
they did not lead to public challenges and mostly remained secret. For the
profession as a whole, the important thing was not these extreme cases;
competition occurred more between the various legal professions than
between lawyers themselves.
Finally, it is repeated, in paternalistic tones, that fees had to be
proportionate to the client’s wealth. A good lawyer should not be
47 P Plas, op. cit., 1029–1036.
‘uncompromising’ toward ‘unfortunate’ litigants who were ‘reduced to

working for a living’. This is as much as to say that he could charge his
well-off clients high fees. This form of compensation was all the more
necessary because it put the lawyer on the same social footing as the dis-
tinguished individuals whom he accepted to defend. For a rich middle-
class person, safeguarding his property, his honour, and even his life,
could well account for a substantial portion of his annual income. For the
lawyer, his work could not be valued below this gentleman’s standard of
living. Adam Smith wrote, very accurately, that the compensation of
lawyers should be ‘able to give them the rank in society which is
demanded by such considerable confidence’.48 Common practices with
regard to fees were also standards aimed at ‘appointing’ or ‘establishing’
the place of lawyers in a money-based class society. In 1872, the senior
member of the Bar in Lyons deplored a tendency to ‘put fees before pro-
fessional dignity’.49 We believe, on the contrary, that nineteenth-century
lawyers made fees a component part of their professional dignity. By
remaining ‘assessors’ of the amount of their compensation, while pro-
jecting the image of a disinterested profession,50 they managed to
develop an individual and collective strategy which made fees subject
to accepted professional practices that were unwritten and advantageous
to their social position.
48
A Smith, An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations,
RH Campbell and AS Skinner (eds) (Oxford, 1976) vol I, 122.
49 Record of the deliberations of the Bar in Lyons, 7 Aug 1872, and 29 July 1884 (‘the
exaggerated development of the financial aspect of the profession of lawyer represents a

danger for the future of the Bar’).
50 For a comparison with England, cf D Sugarman, ‘Simple Images and Complex
Realities: English Lawyers and Their Relationship to Business and Politics, 1750–1950’,
Law and History Review (Fall 1993) 11(2), 257–301.
9
‘He Would Have Made a Wonderful
Solicitor’: Law, Modernity and
Professionalism in Bram Stoker’s
Dracula
ANNE M C GILLIVRAY*
Let me begin with facts—bare, meagre facts, verified by books and fig-
ures, and of which there can be no doubt. . . . Last evening, when the
Count came into my room he began by asking me questions on legal
matters and on the doing of certain kinds of business. I had spent the
day wearily over books, and, simply to keep my mind occupied, went
over some of the matters I had been examined in at Lincoln’s Inn. There
was a certain method in the Count’s inquiries. . . .
First, he asked if a man in England might have two solicitors, or
more. I told him he might have a dozen if he wished, but that it would
not be wise to have more than one solicitor engaged in one transaction,
as only one could act at a time . . . we solicitors had a system of agency
one for the other, so that local work could be done locally on instruc-
tion from any solicitor. . . . ‘But,’ said he, ‘I could be at liberty to direct
myself. Is it not so?’
‘Of course,’ I replied; ‘and such is often done by men of business, who
do not like the whole of their affairs to be known by any one person.’
‘Good!’ he said, and then went on to ask about the means of making
consignments and the forms to be gone through, and of all sorts of diffi-
culties which might arise, but by foresight could be guarded against. I
explained all these things to him to the best of my ability, and he certainly
left me under the impression that he would have made a wonderful solic-
itor, for there was nothing that he did not think of or foresee (p 34).
Jonathan Harker’s Diary1
* Professor of Law, University of Manitoba. I am grateful to W Wesley Pue and David
Sugarman for their support and suggestions; to the Librarians of the Inns of Court and
the Registrars of the Law Societies of the United Kingdom and Northern Ireland for their
helpful replies to my queries; and to Winnipeg playwright Kristjan Peterson, whose cof-
fee shop suggestions toward a dramatic plotting of Dracula at the onset of this project
led me to see Harker as Dracula’s chief legal and moral opposite, contra academia as well
as Hollywood.
1 Bram Stoker, Dracula (Archibald Constable, London, 1897). Page references are to
Leonard Wolf (ed), The Annotated Dracula (Ballasting, New York, 1975).
226 Anne McGillivray
A LEGAL NOVEL
A ‘legal novel’ for John Henry Wigmore is one in which ‘the principles or
the profession of the law form a main part of the author’s themes’.2 His
‘List of 100 Legal Novels’ (1908) was to enable the lawyer ‘to familiarize
himself with those features of his profession which have been taken up
into general thought and literature.’ Dracula (1897) reflects competing
images of lawyering and the legal professions amid fin-de-siècle fear of
modernity, moral degeneration and the growing disjunction between law
and morality. The novel is not on Wigmore’s list.3 Its gothic obsession
with blood and seduction, pollution and degeneration, perversion and
predation, death and disease exclude it as belonging ‘to a class whose
influence is bad’.4 If being a literary classic is a touchstone of canonical
inclusion, Dracula was named the 100th title in the Oxford University
Press World Classic Series, with the editorial comment that the other 99
authors would turn over in their graves if they knew of its elevation. If
longevity and popularity count, the novel celebrated its 100th anniver-
sary on 26 May 1997, never having been out of print. This Article is a
reading of Dracula as a legal novel.
The novel drew mixed reviews. The Daily Mail was enthusiastic.
In seeking a parallel to this weird, powerful and horrible story . . . our minds
revert to such tales as . . . Frankenstein . . . But Dracula is even more appalling in
its gloomy fascination than any of these!5
Stoker’s mother concurred.
My dear, Dracula is splendid, a thousand miles beyond anything you have writ-
ten before . . . No book since Mrs. Shelley’s Frankenstein or indeed any other at
all has come near yours in originality, or terror—Poe is nowhere.
The comparison is apt. The noble but monstrous vampire and the noble
monster created by a monstrous scientist trace a common literary descent
in the gothic tradition. They owe their immediate genesis to anxieties
about science and morality in the first century to see itself as modern.
2 John Henry Wigmore, ‘A List of 100 Legal Novels’ (1908) 2 Illinois Law Review 574,
576. For a brief introduction to the field, see Anne McGillivray, ‘Recherche Sublime: An
Introduction to Law and Literature’ in Evelyn J Hinz, Trevor Anderson and Anne
McGillivray (eds), Adversaria: Literature and the Law (1994) 27 Mosaic: A Journal for
the Interdisciplinary Study of Literature 1.
3 Nor has Dracula appeared on law and literature lists since produced until Elizabeth
Villiers Gemmette (ed), Law in Literature: An Annotated Bibliography of Law-Related

Works (Whitston, Troy, NY, 1998).
4 Wigmore, n 2 at 26–7.
5
Daniel Farson, The Man Who Wrote Dracula: A Biography of Bram Stoker
(Michael Joseph, London, 1975) at 162 et seq.
Law, Modernity and Professionalism in Dracula 227
Mary Wollstonecraft, aged 16 and eloping with the poet Shelley, stayed
in Geneva with Byron and his doctor-lover John Polidori in 1814. Inspired
by Byron’s rainy afternoon dare to write a ghost story in the German
mode, Wollstonecraft began Frankenstein (1818).6 The novel inaugu-
rated science fiction. Polidori’s offering, The Vampyre (1819),7 intro-
duced the vampire noble into the gothic tradition. His Lord Ruthven was
precursor to Sheridan Le Fanu’s Camilla (1872) featuring the vamping of
young girls by the Countess Mircalla who in turn prepared the way for
Count Dracula.8 Frankenstein and Dracula interrogate science, morality
and professionalism at the opening and closing of the nineteenth century.
The scientist Frankenstein combines the arcane science of alchemy with
the modern science of galvanism to create a monster, thus usurping the
generative power of god and mother. The scientist Van Helsing combines
the arcane science of vampirology with an astonishing array of modern
6 Wollstonecraft records her visit to Castle Frankenstein, family seat of Count
Frankenstein. Inhabited by bats and owls, its last human resident was the alchemist
Konrad Dippel (1673–1734). Born at the castle, Dippel studied theology, medicine and
alchemy, returned when the family had died out and styled himself Dippel
Frankensteina. Dippel exhumed graves and vivisected animals in an attempt to engender
life in the dead. His sole discovery is prussic acid, made by boiling up bones, hair and
dried blood; see Radu Florescu discussed in John Harlow, ‘Body snatcher gave jolt to tale
of Frankenstein’, The Sunday Times, 22 Sept 1996. That Dippel is the source of her Dr
Frankenstein does not detract from her exploration of the moral dilemma and the suf-
fering of the monster and his creator.
7 Published in the New Monthly Magazine and rumoured to have been written by
Byron (he submitted a story fragment in support), The Vampyre was a popular sensa-
tion. A play based on the work was staged throughout Europe on a double bill with
Frankenstein. Polidori translated Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto, the first Gothic
novel, into Italian. James B Twitchell, Dreadful Pleasures: An Anatomy of Modern
Horror (Oxford University Press, Oxford, 1985) ch 3.
8 ‘The grave of the Countess Mircalla was opened . . . The features, though a hundred
and fifty years had passed since her funeral, were tinted with the warmth of life. . . . The
two medical men . . . attested to the marvellous fact, that there was a faint but apprecia-
ble respiration, and a corresponding action of the heart. The limbs were perfectly flexi-
ble, the flesh elastic; and the leaden coffin floated with blood. . . . Here, then, were all the
admitted signs and proofs of vampirism. The body, therefore, in accordance with the
ancient practice, was raised, and a sharp stake driven through the heart of the vampire,
who uttered a piercing shriek . . .’ Farson, n 5 at 137. Dracula’s literary antecedents
include Goethe’s The Bride of Corinth, Burger’s Lenore, Robert Southey’s ballad
Thalaba the Destroyer and Thomas Preskett Prest’s serial penny dreadful written in 1847
Varney the Vampyre or, The feast of blood (London, 1847; reprinted Penny Numbers,
1853; full text, Electronic Text Center, University of Virginia Library. http://etext.lib.vir-
ginia.edu/toc/modeng/public/AeVarl.html. ‘The figure turns half round, and the light
falls upon the face. It is perfectly white—perfectly bloodless. The eyes look like polished
tin; the lips are drawn back . . . Is she going mad? . . . . He drags her head to the bed’s
edge . . . With a plunge he seizes her neck in his fang-like teeth—a gush of blood, and a
hideous sucking noise follows. The girl has swooned, and the vampire is at his hideous
repast!’ This was followed by, among others, Guy du Maupassant and Arthur Conan
Doyle’s story of a spinster vampire published with Stoker’s The Watter’s Mou.
sciences to slay a monster, obeying the legal and moral dictates of god
and father. Frankenstein’s monster is a new-born innocent corrupted by
his creator’s rejection. Dracula is ancient, lustful and corrupting. Despite
their moral opposition, the monsters have much in common. They are
avid to learn, intellectually brilliant, starved for company, hunted as
killers and hated as unnaturally-animate flesh deriving from the crypt.
Both must cope with the complex social systems and mores of contem-
porary English society. Frankenstein’s monster employs a quasi-legal
rhetoric. Dracula retains solicitors and studies the law.
The Spectator objected to the novel’s modern setting. This
clever but cadaverous romance . . . would have been all the more effective if he
had chosen an earlier period. The up-to-dateness of the book—the phonograph
diaries, typewriters and so on—hardly fits in with the medieval methods which
ultimately secure the victory for Count Dracula’s foes.9
The ‘up-to-dateness’ includes shorthand, phonography, typewriting,
telegraphy and the excellent late-Victorian postal and railway services.
Dracula’s solicitor Jonathan Harker brings photographs of the London
estate purchased for Dracula.10 ‘I could not enter [the house] as I had not
the key . . . but I have taken with my kodak views of it from various
points.’ Dracula approves of the estate’s medieval origins, gothic chapel,
crypt and Poe-etic tarn, ‘a deep, dark-looking pond or small lake’ (p 30).
‘I myself am of an old family, and to live in a new house would kill me.’
Although photography had been used from the mid-1800s in the study of
degeneracy,11 and psychiatrist John Seward, head of an asylum next door
to the estate, would have known of this, there are no ‘kodak views’ of
Dracula. Proof that vampires cannot be photographed would wait until
Hollywood met Dracula. The novel juxtaposes the tropes of modernity
against ‘that which mere modernity cannot kill’ (p 38). When the vampire
abandons his gothic Transylvania for the modern streets of London, the
threat is not only to its peoples but to modernity itself.
Dracula is foreign, ur-catholic, carnal. His foes celebrate a morality
that is English, protestant, chauvinist and chaste. Dracula’s alchemical
9
The Atheneum described it as ‘highly sensational . . . wanting in the constructive art
as well as in the higher literary sense. It reads at times like a mere series of grotesquely
incredible events; but there are better moments that show more power, even though these
are never productive of the tremor such subjects evoke under the hand of a master.’
Punch called it ‘ingenious.’ Reviewers accept the novel’s sexual connotations because the
vampire is merely obeying the dictates of his nature, suggests C Bentley, ‘The Monster in
the Bedroom: Sexual Symbolism in Bram Stoker’s Dracula’ (1972) Literature and
Psychology 22; reprinted, ML Carter (ed), Dracula: The Vampire and the Critics (Ann
Arbour, Michigan, UMI Research Press, 1988), 32.
10
Dracula’s estate bears the ominous name Carfax, from’quatre-face’ or crossroad,
where the bodies of witches and suicides were staked and buried.
11 Daniel Pick, Faces of Degeneration: A European Disorder, c. 1848–1918
(Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1993).

knowledge and demonic powers learned at the Scholomance, the devil’s

school, include shape shifting into beasts, insects, light and fog; hypno-
tism, telepathy and control of the elements; and control of such lower life
forms as rats, wolves and bats. Against these powers, the vampire-
fighters array the modern knowledges of law, medicine, psychiatry,
hypnotism, criminology, metaphysics, physiognomy, weaponry and cam-
paign planning, yet the scientific method is deconstructed even as it is
employed. Van Helsing lectures his former student John Seward:
You are a clever man, friend John; you reason well, and your wit is bold, but you
are too prejudiced. You do not let your eyes see nor your ears hear, and that
which is outside your daily life is not of account to you. . . . Ah, it is the fault of
our science, that it wants to explain all; and if it explain not, then it says there is
nothing to explain (p 172)
The Enlightenment celebration of science, interrogated and disrupted in
Frankenstein, culminated in the mid-Victorian cult of science.12 By the
close of the nineteenth century, this yielded to an insecurity about science
and morality, a deepening moral and social pluralism and the historic
sense of dislocation named ‘modernity’.13 The meaning of modernity in
the nineteenth century ranged from imperialism to sexism to the sense of
a new era. Josie Harris describes the condition as14
a widely diffused sense of living in a peculiarly ‘modern’ age . . . ‘[W]e moderns’
was widely used as a self-explanatory expression . . . by economists, lawyers, sci-
entists [and] by the 1870s the term was being widely used to describe ‘the way we
live now’: the age of evolution, plutocracy, gaslight, and feminism. . . . This sense
of the unique dominance of the present time was immensely reinforced over the
next thirty years. . . . This sense of living in a new epoch . . . could be seen in the
emergence during the 1890s of the ‘new woman’. . . . [M]odernity meant the con-
tinuous advance of human and institutional rationality . . . [and for the Irish] a
lurking grief at the memory of a lost domain.
Evolution, with its contingents of progress and degeneracy, is central to
modernity. Framed as social Darwinism, evolution meant to late
Victorians the gaining of social spaces through ‘the continual advance of
human and institutional rationality.’ Irrationality means the losing of
social spaces. It is thus a constant threat to human progress. Irrationality
12
RA Cosgrove, ‘The Reception of Analytical Jurisprudence: The Victorian debate
on the Separation of Law and Morality, 1860–1900’ cited in GR Rubin and David
Sugarman, Law, Economy and Society, 1750–1914: Essays in the History of English Law
(Professional Books, Abingdon, 1984), 78.
13 Jose Harris, Private Lives, Public Spirit: A Social History of Britain 1870–1914
(Oxford University Press, Oxford, 1993). Harris stresses the pluralism of the period and
quotes HG Wells. ‘The grey expanse of life today is grey, not in its essence, but because
of the minute, confused mingling and mutual cancelling of many-coloured lives’ (p 13).
14 Harris, n 13, 32–36.
was embodied by the close of the century in the alien, the Jew, the central
European immigrant, the criminal, the degenerate, women and children.
Evolutionary thought shaped nineteenth-century beliefs. Erasmus
Darwin’s The Temple of Nature (post 1803) celebrates evolution in heroic
couplets at the dawn of the new century. Evolution is the divine engi-
neering of Reproduction, multiplying species and culminating in the
survival of Happiness:
Shout round the globe, how Reproduction strives
With vanquish’d Death—and Happiness survives;
How life increasing peoples every clime
And young renascent Nature conquers Time.
The paradigm-shaking work of his grandson Charles, On the Origin of
Species (1859), is a darker view of evolution, a determinism guided not
by a divine mind intent on renewal and perfection but by the accruing
accidents of natural selection. It is genetically driven, environmentally
determined, selfish and blind. No divine hand is apparent. Signs of divin-
ity in property and class, filial piety and the great chain of being itself had
been challenged in liberal discourse during Erasmus’ century and, in law,
by a new barristry fighting old corruption.15 A Darwinian positivism
owing more to the eighteenth-century spirit of Erasmus than the
nineteenth-century spirit of Charles informed the new science of law
after 1860. Law’s entity, Peter Fitzpatrick writes,16
is sustained despite the process of change by presenting transition as a step from
one ordered state containing the entity to another—from the primitive to the
modern, and so on. The transition is always one from the simple to the complex,
from the unified to the diverse . . . differentiation is always accompanied by a con-
tinued social integration, an encompassing order which law itself sustains. The
entity in evolving responds to and overcomes the inadequacies of its prior form.
Law’s project is sustained by differentiation, from its origins in simple
custom to the diversity and complexity of the common law, ‘from the
primitive to the modern’. Law’s processes are the natural processes of
evolution driven by law’s version of the divine, or disembodied hand
rather than the blind trial and error painstakingly set out in On the
Origin of Species. Stoker has been accused of ‘making law out of lore’17
15
On the rise of legal advocacy in the development and defence of liberalism, see
W Wesley Pue, ‘Lawyers and Political Liberalism in Eighteenth- and Nineteenth-Century
England’ in Terence C Halliday and Lucien Karpik (eds), Lawyers and the Rise of
Western Political Liberalism: Europe and North America in the Eighteenth to Twentieth
Centuries (Clarendon, Oxford, 1997).
16 On the impact of the history of evolutionary theory on HLA Hart’s The Concept of
Law (1961), see Peter Fitzpatrick (ed), Dangerous Supplements: Resistance and Renewal
in Jurisprudence (Duke University Press, Durham, North Carolina, 1991).
17 Wolf, n 1.
in rationalising the rules of vampirology. The phrase aptly describes the

work of classical jurists in the last half of the nineteenth century. In this
project, the vast lore of the common law was to be arranged according to
genus and species, its doctrines, principles and rules taxonomised by ori-
gin, type and order. Law was to be a science, ‘clear, rational, internally
coherent and systematised’.18 In aim and method, the project was
imbued with evolutionary positivism and the supremacy of Anglo-Saxon
culture. The transformation was less orderly than hoped. Law remains
plagued by random mutation (‘weird cases’)19 and the living fossils of lost
doctrines resurrected. Its revision as a modern science did not eliminate
its monsters, nor was the disappearance of evil from jurisprudence
entirely satisfactory to the late-Victorian mind. Dracula embraces these
contradictions.
Of the host of folkloric and fictional vampires extant by the close of the
nineteenth century, only Dracula survived the transition from the gothic
to the (post) modern. Modernity is Dracula’s strength. It represents more
than new tools to fight old vampires or new strategies of a smart vampire
needing lebensraum. It functions as a touchstone of change, a crystal
reflecting and refracting images of science, morality and law in complex
linked facets. The fin-de-siècle Darwinian pessimism played out in fears
of alterity, moral degeneration and racial decay also underlay profes-
sional debates about the modernisation of the legal professions. These
fears are embodied in Count Dracula.
‘I COULD NOT REPRESS A SHUDDER’: IMAGES OF

DEGENERATION
I now had an opportunity of observing him, and found him of a very marked
physiognomy. His face was a strong—a very strong—aquiline, with high bridge
of the thin nose and peculiarly arched nostrils; with lofty domed forehead. . . . His
eyebrows were very massive, almost meeting across the nose. . . . The mouth, so
far as I could see it under the heavy moustache, was fixed and rather cruel-
looking, with peculiarly sharp teeth . . . his ears were pale, and at the tops
extremely pointed . . .. The general effect was one of extraordinary pallor. . . .
Hitherto I had noticed the backs of his hands as they lay on his knees in the fire-
light, and they had seemed rather white and fine; but seeing them now close to
me, I could not but notice that they were rather coarse. . . . Strange to say, there
were hairs in the centre of the palm. The nails were long and fine, and cut to a
sharp point. As the Count leaned over me and his hands touched me, I could not
18 David Sugarman, ‘ “A Hatred of Disorder”: Legal Science, Liberalism and
Imperialism’ in Fitzpatrick, n 16 at 39.

19 Cf Susan Sage Heinzelman, ‘Hard Cases, Easy Cases and Weird Cases: Canon
Formation in Law and Literature’ (1988) 21 Mosaic: A Journal for the Interdisciplinary
Study of Literature 59.
repress a shudder. It may have been that his breath was rank, but a horrible feel-
ing of nausea came over me, which, do what I would, I could not conceal. The
Count, evidently noticing, drew back; and with a grim sort of smile, which
showed more than he had yet done his protuberant teeth, sat himself down again
on his own side of the fireplace (pp 21–2).
Jonathan Harker’s Diary
The ancient Greek practice of physiognomy, reading the face, head and
body to know the mind, was elevated to a science in the late eighteenth
century. Nineteenth-century studies of character and deviance relied on
physiognamy and informed the nascent discipline of criminology.20
Jonathan Harker, newly-admitted solicitor, studies his first client, Count
Dracula, in his Transylvanian castle. Expecting nobility, Harker is dis-
turbed by hints of degeneracy. Pallor and hairy palms reflect exhausting
and perverse sexual practices. Pointed ears and teeth are traits of degen-
eration, of genetic reversal, atavistic throwbacks to primitive human
forms.21 Coarse hands signal common blood or manual labour unsuited
to a noble station in life. Harker literally gags on Dracula’s degeneracy,
the rank breath of the blood-eater, the stench of the crypt. Mina Murray
Harker later encounters this stench in her moments with the Count. Lucy
Westenra, Mina’s friend and Dracula’s first English conquest, experi-
ences physiognomy as an act of love. In a letter to Mina, she describes her
suitor Dr Seward as ‘an excellent parti, being handsome, well off, and of
good birth. Just fancy! He is only nine-and-twenty, and he has an
immense lunatic asylum under his own care.’
I can fancy what a wonderful power he must have over his patients. He has a curi-
ous habit of looking one straight in the face, as if trying to read one’s thoughts.
He tries this on very much with me, but I flatter myself he has got a tough nut to
crack. I know that from my glass. Do you ever try to read your own face? I do,
and I can tell you it is not a bad study, and gives you more trouble than you can
well fancy if you have never tried it. He says that I afford him a curious psycho-
logical study, and I humbly think I do (pp 58–9).
The novel returns to the analysis of Dracula, now drawing upon behav-
iourist theories of degeneracy. The continental polymath and leader of the
vampire-fighters Dr Van Helsing expounds on ‘the philosophy of crime’,
explaining to Mina that Dracula is ‘predestinate to crime’ whose ‘child-
brain’ compels him ‘to do the same thing every time’ (p 299). He invites
her comments. She immediately spots its theoretical underpinnings:
20
Stoker’s library included Lavater’s five-volume Essays on Physiognamy (1789).
Barbara Belford, Bram Stoker: A Biography of the Author of Dracula (Alfred A Knopf,
New York, 1996).
21 ‘He who rejects with scorn the belief that his own canines, and their occasional
great development in other men, are due to our early progenitors having been provided
with these formidable weapons, will probably reveal by sneering the line of his descent.
The Count is a criminal and of criminal type. Nordau and Lombroso would so
classify him, and qua criminal he is of imperfectly formed mind. Thus, in a diffi-
culty he has to seek resource in habit. His past is a clue . . . as a criminal, he is self-
ish; and as his intellect is small and his action is based on selfishness, he confines
himself to one purpose. That purpose is remorseless (p 300).
Dracula is written to Lombroso’s physiognomy of the atavism,22 while
Nordeau’s Degeneration (1892) ties degeneracy to genius.23 Lombroso
predicts behavioural atavism under stress. Mina calls upon this in refer-
encing the history of the Count’s historical persona, Vlad Tepes Dracula
the Impaler, to predict Dracula’s next course of action. ‘As he fled back
over the Danube, leaving his forces to be cut to pieces, so now he is intent
on being safe, careless of all.’ Degeneration theory predicts Dracula’s
flight to Transylvania.
Dracula’s task in the ‘corridor between the centuries’ for Daniel
Pick was to ‘represent, externalise and kill off a distinct constellation
of contemporary fears’ of corruption and degeneration.24 Dracula
‘sensationalised the horrors of degeneration and charted reassuringly the
For though he no longer intends, nor has the power, to use these teeth as weapons, he will
unconsciously retract his “snarling muscles” . . . so as to expose them ready for action,
like a dog preparing to fight.’ Charles Darwin, The Descent of Man and Selection in
Relation to Sex 1 (J Murray, London, 1872), p 127, quoted in Pick, n 11 at 171. Dracula’s
teeth are ‘protuberant.’ The lengthening of Mina’s and Lucy’s canines in their vampiric
transformations is marked. ‘She seemed like a nightmare of Lucy as she lay there; the
pointed teeth, the bloodstained voluptuous mouth—which it made one shudder to see—
the whole carnal and unspiritual appearance, seeming like a devilish mocker of Lucy’s
sweet purity’ (Dracula, p 174).
22 Gena Lombroso Ferrero’s Criminal Man According to the Classification of Cesare
Lombroso (GP Putnam, New York and London, 1911) summarises her father’s work.
The nose of the atavism is ‘often aquiline like the beak of a bird of prey.’ ‘Aquiline,’
writes Harker of Dracula’s nose,’beaky,’ writes Mina, who sees him once in the streets.
‘I was looking at a very beautiful girl, in a big cartwheel hat, sitting in a victoria outside
Giuliano’s. . . . [A] tall, thin man, with a beaky nose and black moustache and pointed
beard . . . was also observing the pretty girl. . . . His face was not a good face; it was hard,
and cruel, and sensual, and his big white teeth, that looked all the whiter because his lips
were so red, were pointed like an animal’s.’ Jonathan says, ‘I believe it is the Count, but
he has grown young’ (p 157). ‘The eyebrows are bushy and tend to meet across the nose’,
Lombroso writes, and the Count’s ‘eyebrows were very massive, almost meeting across
the nose’. The ear of the criminal is ‘a relic of the pointed ear’ with a ‘a protuberance on
the upper part of the posterior margin,’ and so are Dracula’s. Lombroso’s criminal is sen-
sual, lazy, vain, impulsive and able to endure pain. Wolf, n 1, annotation, 300.
23 Nordeau devotes a chapter to Oscar Wilde linking homosexuality, artistic ability
and moral degeneracy. Wilde was Stoker’s Dublin, meeting at his mother Lady Wilde’s
nationalist cultural salons. At the height of the 1895 run of his play ‘The Importance of
Being Ernest’, Wilde was sentenced to two years’ hard labour for buying sex from young
boys, recently criminalised in legislation aimed at the ‘white slave trade’ in girls.
24 Pick, n 11, 174.
process of their confinement and containment’. Although Krafft-Ebing

and Freud were known in Stoker’s day, the novel ‘seems insistently and
tantalisingly pre-Freudian, still caught up in the terms of Victorian
degenerationism’.25 Fears of degeneration and racial pollution haunted
imperialist societies. Social evolution and evolutionary anthropology
supported imperialist discourses on the indigenous peoples of the
Americas and Australia. If not regressed from an original edenic state
prior to European contact, they were, at the least, frozen in time and
unable to progress and would die out in the face of a superior civilisa-
tion.26 Degeneration theory turned to the scrutiny of the Other within
the home population.27 Women, children and immigrants were vectors of
moral or medical plague threatening the health of late nineteenth-
century England.
A ‘fearful enigma’,28 the vampire is the ultimate Other, the stranger in
our midst, a predator and plague vector driven by brute appetite. His
metaphor is the parasite polluting the blood that is metonym of life, class
and racial purity. Social parasitism is a disease of advanced cultures. ‘I
long to go through the crowded streets of your mighty London, to be in
the midst of whirl and rush of humanity, to share its life, its change, its
death,’ the Count tells Harker (p 23). His threat reflects contemporary
panics about syphilis, prostitution, addiction, feeble-mindedness and
insanity. In his sole speech to the vampire-fighters, Dracula articulates the
threat posed by this genius among parasites:
You think to baffle me, you—with your pale faces all in a row, like sheep in a
butcher’s shop. You shall be sorry yet, each one of you. . . . My revenge is just
begun! I have spread it over centuries, and time is on my side. Your girls that you
25 ‘Stoker’s text was paralysed at a threshold of uncertainty, at the turning point
between a psychiatric positivism (which the novel derided), and the glimpsed possibility
of a new exploration of the unconscious. The rejection of conventional science in the
novel was conceived to involve not so much a leap into the future as a return to earlier
knowledge.’ Pick, n 11, 171.
26 Such theories recast in scientific discourse the older presumptions of cultural
supremacy and desuetude and were used to justify destruction of First Nations cultures
in North America. See Anne McGillivray, ‘Therapies of Freedom: The Colonization of
Aboriginal Childhood’ in McGillivray (ed), Governing Childhood (Dartmouth,
Aldershot, 1997). Darwinism was turned to the defence of rapacious Victorian business
practices and the new behavioural sciences. Children of the socially unfit, for example,
might be saved but would remain peripheral members of the dominant culture.
Criminality was reconstructed according to Darwinian ideas replacing good and evil
with environmental and genetic theories of diminished responsibility; see Martin J
Wiener, Reconstructing the Criminal: Culture, Law and Policy in England, 1830–1914
(Cambridge University Press, New York, 1990). ‘The moral problems of the nineteenth
century were becoming the administrative ones of the twentieth century’ (p 201).
27 Pick, n 11, 39.
28 Pick, n 11, 171.
all love are mine already; and through them you and others shall yet be mine—
my creatures, to do my bidding and to be my jackals when I want to feed (p 271).
But his parasitism does not always kill and Mina proves that he does not
always get his girl. His bite grants, at least to some, eternal life, enhanced
strength and sexualised beauty29 and this suggests that the relationship
between vampire and victim more closely resembles the evolutionary
strategy of symbiosis, a mutually interdependent partnership between
different species in which each contributes to the other’s success. The
destabilising inference of the vampire as symbion is that we need the vam-
pire as much as he needs us. His bite is irresistible or desired.
Evolutionary theory in Dracula is a nineteenth-century jumble of
social Darwinism, speciation and a pre-Darwinian Lamarckism.
Seward’s patient, the lunatic Renfield, undertakes a Lamarckian experi-
ment.30 Anticipating the coming of ‘the Master’ and crying ‘the blood is
the life’, he first eats flies, then feeds flies to a sparrow and eats the spar-
row, working his way up the food chain from simple to complex organ-
isms to obtain prolonged life through ‘the blood’. He is killed by his
‘master’, Dracula, and does not become a vampire. Similar confusion
about evolution, alterity and degeneration, modernity and professional-
ism, suffused nineteenth-century debates about the future of the legal
profession.
29 Contra Dracula critics, I find few contradictions in Stoker’s vampirology. Vampires
can kill outright, with or without taking blood (eg Dracula’s murder of the madman
Renfield). We are not told whether the baby consumed by the lamia or the murdered
seamen of Dracula’s ship The Demeter become vampires. Although the Transylvanian
forest crawls with vampires, none has the Count’s gifts. Part-vampires like Mina may be
explained as a matter of increasing doses, as Lucy becomes fully vampire after repeated
bites, but the London infants she bites live untouched save for marks as of dogs or rats at
the throat, and the memory of a ‘bloofer [beautiful] lady’ (p 161). One exception may be
the ‘emaciated child’ found under a furze bush in Hampstead Heath (p 162) whose fate,
vampiric or otherwise, is not recorded. Of the hundreds of vampire movies, Lost Boys is
most attuned to Stoker’s curable vampires.
30 Jean Lamarcke’s Philosophie zoologique (Paris, 1809) and Histoire des animaux
sans vertebres (1815–22) predate Darwin’s Origin of Species (1859) but it was Lamarcke
who first upset the eighteenth-century vision of evolution as emanating from God. He
argued that acquired characteristics were heritable (the giraffe, for example, got its long
neck by generations of short-necked creatures reaching for higher branches of trees).
Darwin disproved the thesis and it would seem that it was rejected by Stoker, as seen in
the depiction of Renfield’s experiments. Lamarckism was adopted by the Soviet Union
and Darwin was proscribed. For experimental national socialism, it is more useful to
believe in environmental determinism (you can get used to anything by the second gen-
eration) than in genetic predisposition to preferred niches, social or natural.
‘YOU FORGET THAT I AM A LAWYER’: PETTIFOGGERS AND

LEGAL GENTLEMEN
Under the circumstances, Van Helsing and I took it upon ourselves to examine
papers, etc. He insisted upon looking over Lucy’s papers himself. I asked him
why, for I feared that he, being a foreigner, might not be quite aware of English
legal requirements, and so might in ignorance make some unnecessary trouble.
He answered me:- ‘I know, I know. You forget that I am a lawyer as well as a doc-
tor. But this is not altogether for the law. You knew that, when you avoided the
coroner. I have more than him to avoid’ (p 149).
Dr Seward’s Diary
‘I suppose that we women are such cowards that we think a man will
save us from fears, and we marry him,’ Lucy writes to Mina. ‘It seems
that a man always does find a girl alone’ (p 61). But it is Dracula who
finds this girl alone and she is not saved. Lucy articulates her desires.
‘Why can’t they let a girl marry three men, or as many as want her, and
save all this trouble? But this is heresy, and I must not say it’ (p 62). Her
heretical and polygynous desire is fulfilled, through a marriage of blood
transfused from her suitors Lord Arthur Godalming, Dr Seward and the
Texan adventurer Quincey Morris (and, as a last resort, Van Helsing).
Van Helsing likens the transfusions to the consummation of marriage.
He advises one donor, ‘A brave man’s blood is the best thing on this earth
when a woman is in trouble’ (p 139). He alone suspects that Lucy’s fatal
anaemia is caused by the bloodsucking of a vampire. Lucy’s last record is
her diary descriptions of her mother’s death by heart failure and
Dracula’s final fatal return. ‘The air seems full of specks, floating and cir-
cling in the draught from the window, and the lights burn blue and dim’
(p 135).
Professionalism is central in the fight against Dracula, modernity
arrayed against irrationality and old powers. But professionalism also
provides the cover for wrongdoing. Seward uses his medical privileges to
avoid a coroner’s inquest. Van Helsing adds to his impossible list of cre-
dentials—‘MD, DPh, DLit, etc, etc’—a handy law degree, never again
mentioned, to justify his theft of Lucy’s diary. When he proposes a search
of Dracula’s Piccadilly house for ‘deeds of purchase, keys and other
things . . . book of cheques’ (p 259) that will provide clues to his other
London lairs, Jonathan Harker cries enthusiastically, ‘We shall break in
if need be’ (p 260). Godalming demurs.
Quincey and I will find a locksmith. You had better not come with us in case there
should be any difficulty; for under the circumstances it wouldn’t seem so bad for
us to break into an empty house. But you are a solicitor and the Incorporated Law
Society might tell you that you should have known better (p 265).
Godalming instead relies on his status as a gentleman and peer to carry

off the break-in. A smaller code, that of the Law Society, is observed. A
greater one, the sanctity of private property, is broken.
The crimes committed or abetted by lawyers Van Helsing and Harker
include theft, destruction of evidence (burning Dracula’s title deeds),
burglary, interfering with a dead body (the staking of the lamia and the
beheading of Dracula) and falsification of documents. Seward records
Lucy’s staking by her fiancé Godalming. It reads as rape:
The thing in the coffin writhed; and a hideous, bloodcurdling screech came from
the opened red lips. The body shook and quivered and twisted in wild contor-
tions; the sharp white teeth champed together till the lips were cut, and the mouth
was smeared with a crimson foam. But Arthur never faltered. He looked like a fig-
ure of Thor as his untrembling arm rose and fell, driving deeper and deeper the
mercy-bearing stake . . . his face was set, and high duty seemed to shine through
it . . . the writhing and quivering of the body became less and the teeth ceased to
champ, and the face to quiver. Finally it lay still. The terrible task was over. The
Professor and I sawed the top off the stake, leaving the point of it in the body.
Then we cut off the head and filled the mouth with garlic. We soldered up the
leaden coffin, screwed on the coffin-lid and came away (p 194–5).
Lucy’s erotic and lascivious beauty and night stalking (the ‘bloofer lady’
who preys on small children) lead Godalming to demand,’Has there been
any mistake? . . . . Has she been buried alive?’ (p. 185). Van Helsing pre-
varicates. ‘I did not say she was alive . . .. I go no further than to say she
may be Un-Dead’. If vampires are Un-Dead, is this murder? It is not mur-
der if the victim is dead, nor if the victim is not human, but what is an
‘Un-dead’? Destroying its body releases the vampire to God’s justice
rather than perpetual damnation, according with the belief, extant until
Stoker’s day, that execution so releases the criminal. When staked, Lucy
loses her vampiric eroticism and becomes her familiar worn but beatific
self. Yet Van Helsing, the enthusiastic author of her staking, experiences
the staking of Dracula’s other lamia in his Transylvanian crypt as mur-
der. ‘She lay in her vampire sleep, so full of life and voluptuous beauty
that I shudder as though I have come to do murder’ (p 324).
‘Has she been buried alive?’ Godalming’s question has a long medico-
legal history. Vampires and witches are closely linked. Witches as
described in the 1486 Malleus Maleficarum,31 the legal handbook for the
inquisition of witches, share much with vampires. Female witches prey
on men and the male organ, draining potency, and gain demonic powers
through sexual congress with the devil. The devil sends incubi and suc-
cubi to seduce sleepers, polluting psyche and semen, perhaps getting
women with monstrous offspring. Witches, like vampires, glory in blood,
31
Heinrich Kramer and James Sprenger, Malleus Maleficarum, 1468 (tr. Montague
Summers, Dover, New York, 1971).
are most powerful at night and can fly, shapeshift and command fog and
lower animals. Witches are killed by burning at the stake, vampires by
staking or burning. That vampires were people prematurely buried and
escaping their graves in amnesiac states is noted by Dom Calumet in
1746.32
We are told that dead men . . . return from their tombs, are heard to speak, walk
about . . . injure both men and animals whose blood they drain. . . . Nor can the
men deliver themselves unless they dig the corpses up . . . and drive a sharp stake
through these bodies, cut off the heads, tear out the hearts; or else they burn the
bodies to ashes. It seems impossible not to subscribe to the prevailing belief that
these apparitions do actually come forth from their graves. . . . It suffices to
explain how vampires have been dragged from the grave and made to speak,
shout, scream and bleed: they were still alive.
The Sorbonne has condemned such attacks, he writes, and it is ‘aston-
ishing that the magistrates and secular bodies have not employed their
authority and legal force to put an end to it’.33 Vampire lore echoes in
plague tales told to the invalid child Stoker by his mother Charlotte.34 A
cholera epidemic in Sligo during her girlhood killed two-thirds of the
townspeople. The starving drank the blood of cattle. Stricken travellers
were pushed into pits and buried alive. A villager searched for his wife’s
body in a barn filled with hundreds of corpses and carried her home. She
lived to a ripe old age. By Stoker’s day, history was fading into myth, with
the development of more subtle technologies for determining death. Fear
of live burials and living dead survived.35
32
Farson, n 5, 109–114.
33 Science continues to stalk irrationality and there are numerous medical theories of
vampirism. Decomposing corpses exhumed may be ruddy in colour, gasses produced
push blood from the lungs to the mouth and staking releases intestinal gasses with a
sound like a human cry. Rabies plagues in Eastern Europe were seven times more likely
to affect men than women and animal victims were most often dogs, bats and wolves,
named as the familiars of Dracula. Rabies induces aggressiveness including biting, which
transmits the virus, teeth-baring, froth of a bloody fluid at the mouth, hyper-sexuality
(male patients had intercourse up to 30 times a day), insomnia and nightwalking, and
hypersensitivity to such stimuli as garlic and mirrors. An eighteenth-century rabies test
was to hold a mirror before the patient; if he could stand the sight of his own image, he
was not rabid; see J Gomez-Alonso, Neurology September 1998. Biochemist David
Dolphin suggests that ‘vampires’ suffer from the rare hereditary disease of porphyria (a
form of which may have affected George III). This induces photosensitivity, lesions caus-
ing recession of lip and gum giving a fanged appearance, and destruction of nose and fin-
gers giving an animal appearance. The condition is treated by injecting hemes, the
pigment of red blood; garlic contains alkaloids that destroy a heme protein; see Paul
Sieveking, ‘The truth behind a vampire’s blood lust,’ The Sunday Telegraph, 18 Oct
1998.
34 Belford, n 20, 22.
35 Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘The Premature Burial’ (1840) draws on these fears. R v Kitching
(1976), 32 CCC (2d) 159 (Manitoba Court of Appeal) places the problem in a current
medico-legal context. Two Winnipeg ‘bouncers’ were convicted of manslaughter in the
The lawyer Van Helsing’s polymathic knowledge, decisive action and

noble purpose is contrasted with the pettifogging family solicitor, the
genial and foolish Mr Marquand of Wholeman, Sons, Marquand &
Lidderdale. Marquand is called in on the morning of the deaths of Lucy
and her mother, after Van Helsing’s theft of Lucy’s diary. Her mother had
bequeathed the Westenra estate to Lucy’s fiancé Godalming and
Marquand explains that, in drafting the will, he tried to preserve Lucy’s
financial independence by making her sole beneficiary. He was resisted by
his client:
Frankly we did our best to prevent such a testamentary disposition, and point out
certain contingencies that might leave her daughter either penniless or not so free
as she should be to act regarding a matrimonial alliance. Indeed, we pressed the
matter so far that we almost came into collision, for she asked us if we were or
were not prepared to carry out her wishes. Of course, we had then no alternative
but to accept. We were right in principle, and ninety-nine times out of a hundred
we should have proved, by the logic of events, the accuracy of our judgment.
‘Events’ as understood by Marquand have proved him wrong:
Frankly, however, I must admit that in this case any other form of disposition
would have rendered impossible the carrying out of her wishes. For by her pre-
deceasing her daughter the latter would have come into possession of the prop-
erty, and, even had she only survived her mother by five minutes, her property
would, in case there were no will—and a will was a practical impossibility in such
a case—have been treated at her decease as under intestacy. In which case Lord
Godalming, though so dear a friend, would have had no claim in the world; and
the inheritors, being remote, would not be likely to abandon their just rights, for
sentimental reasons regarding a perfect stranger. I assure you, my dear sirs, I am
rejoiced at the result, perfectly rejoiced (p 152–3).
Seward acidly remarks, ‘He was a good fellow, but his rejoicing at the one
little part—in which he was officially interested—of so great a tragedy,
was an object-lesson in the limitations of sympathetic understanding’
(p 153). Van Helsing’s theft of the diary and its entry showing that her
mother in fact predeceased her (and the maids know it, having laid out
the body) has preserved the estate for Lord Godalming. Stoker restates
a classic wills problem found in basic law school texts, and works in a
vampiric twist.
Marquand is not the only pettifogger in the novel. Dracula’s ship The
Demeter, storm-driven with her dead captain lashed to the wheel and all
hands lost, enters Whitby Harbour. The only survivor is a large dog,
brutal eviction of a club patron, causing irreversible and total brain damage. The victim
was maintained on life support so that his kidneys could be harvested. The accused
argued on appeal that the doctors killed the victim by removing his kidneys. The Court
ruled that brain death is the point at which death occurs. The case resurrects another Poe
tale, ‘The Tell-tale Heart.’
Dracula in changed shape, which swims to shore and disappears.36 The

Dailygraph reports a law student’s analysis of salvage rights:
The fact that a coastguard was the first on board may save some complications,
later on, in the Admiralty Court; for coastguards cannot claim the salvage which
is the right of the first civilian entering on a derelict. Already the legal tongues are
wagging, and one young law student is loudly asserting that the rights of the
owner are already completely sacrificed, his property being held in contravention
of the statutes of mortmain, since the tiller, as emblemship, if not proof, of dele-
gated possession, is held in a dead hand (p 83).
The analys is a piece of legal casuistry. Mortmain, law’s ‘dead hand’,
applies only to corporately-held lands and tenements. As corporations,
like vampires, are eternal and never die a natural death, this may be a
coded Stoker joke. The salvage in any event is worthless, except to
Dracula, as it consists entirely of boxes of earth from his castle crypt. The
Dailygraph updates its report on the ‘derelict ship’:
It turned out that the schooner is a Russian from Varna, and is called the
Demeter. She is most entirely in ballast of silver sand, with only a small amount
of cargo—a number of great wooden boxes filled with mould. This cargo was
consigned to a Whitby solicitor, Mr SF Billington, of 7, The Crescent, who this
morning went aboard and formally took possession of the goods consigned to
him. The Russian consul, too, acting for the charter-party, took formal posses-
sion of the ship, and paid all harbour dues, etc. Nothing is talked about here to-
day except the strange coincidence; the officials of the Board of Trade have been
most exacting in seeing that every compliance has been made with existing regu-
lations. As the matter is to be a ‘nine days’ wonder,’ they are evidently determined
that there shall be no cause of after complaint (p 83).
Seward ‘saw the invoice, and took note of it: “Fifty cases of common
earth, to be used for experimental purposes” ’ (p 202). The carter’s
invoice for removal, issued by Dracula’s solicitor Billington who boarded
The Demeter and took formal possession of his client’s ‘goods’, is later
recorded (p 97–8):
Herewith please receive invoice of goods sent by Great Northern Railway. Same
are to be delivered at Carfax, near Purfleet, immediately on receipt at goods sta-
tion King’s Cross. The house is presently empty, but enclosed please find keys, all
of which are labelled. You will please deposit the boxes, fifty in number, which
for the consignment, in the partially ruined building forming part of the house
and marked ‘A’ on the rough diagram enclosed. Your agent will easily recognise
the locality, as it is the ancient chapel of the mansion.
36 ‘A good deal of interest was abroad concerning the dog which landed after the ship
struck, and more than a few of the members of the S.P.C.A., which is very strong in
Whitby, have tried to befriend the animal. To the general disappointment, however, it
was not to be found. . . . There are some who look with dread . . . lest later on it should
in itself become a danger, for it is evidently a fierce brute’ (p 83).
Having taken Harker’s advice to retain other solicitors, Dracula reclaims

his cargo and stashes it throughout London—Carfax, Piccadilly, Mile
End, Bermondsey (p 266).
The solicitor is not, professionally speaking, a match for the vampire.
He is a pettifogger who delights in narrow legal arcana and in proliferat-
ing confusion about the law and who sees law as bounded in forms and
documents. He is typified by the genial Marquand, the casuistical law
student and the uninquisitive solicitor Billington, whose name denotes
his financial bottom line. His profession limits him to strict performance
in a limited arena and he cannot (or may not) compass the bounds of
good and evil. High birth and social station presumptively confer com-
passion, public-spiritedness and honour, qualities that Seward finds sadly
lacking in Mr Marquand and clearly lacking in professional dogsbodies
like Billington. The privileges enjoyed by the noble Godalming are shared
by barristers in a professional construct linking ‘blood’ with both ethical
behaviour and the performance of the larger interests of justice. The
expectation justifies both means and ends. As Kafka observes in The
Problem of Our Laws, what the nobles do is right because the nobles
do it.37
The legal gentleman is of high birth, educated at the right schools and
initiated into law by the exclusive Inns of Court. He eschews formalised
legal education and regards professional discipline as superfluous and
insulting. By professional designation, he is the ‘the larger-than-life
advocate of public-interest matters—quick-witted, statesmanlike and
fair-minded’.38 The lawyer-scientist Van Helsing and the statesman-
noble Vlad Tepes Dracula represent this ideal. Van Helsing, writes his
former pupil Seward, is arbitrary but open-minded,
a philosopher and a metaphysician, and one of the most advanced scientists of his
day [with] an iron nerve, a temper of the ice-brook, an indomitable resolution,
self-command, and toleration . . . and the kindliest and truest heart that beats
(p 109).
These qualities
form the equipment for the noble work he is doing for mankind, work both in
theory and in practice, for his views are as wide as his all-embracing sympathy. I
tell you these facts that you may know why I have such confidence in him.
Even so, Van Helsing frequently must justify his actions to his followers.
He compares himself with Dracula and dares his danger. ‘We, however,
37
For an exegesis, see Frederick C DeCoste, ‘Kafka, Legal Theorizing and
Redemption’ in Adversaria, n 2.
38
David Sugarman, ‘Simple Images and Complex Realities: English Lawyers and
Their Relationship to Business and Politics, 1750–1950’ (1993) 11 Law and History
Review 257 at 300.
are not all selfish, and we believe that God is with us. . . . We shall follow
[Dracula]; and we shall not flinch; even if we peril ourselves that we
become like him’ (p 301). As a lawyer, he is a pragmatist and moral rela-
tivist, dealing with law’s relationship to morality by variously deferring
one to the other.39 Harker praises Dracula for his legal knowledge (p 34)
and Van Helsing praises his advocacy for his people. ‘He was in life a
most wonderful man.’ Dracula, like Van Helsing, is a polymath:40
Soldier, statesman, and alchemist—which latter was the highest development of
the science-knowledge of his time. He had a mighty brain, a learning beyond
compare, and a heart that knew no fear and no remorse. He dared even to attend
the Scholomance, and there was no branch of knowledge of his time that he did
not essay (p 267).
But if Dracula is a lawyer, he is a bloodsucker. His nobility cloaks his
corruption. He ‘who can flourish in the midst of diseases that kill off
whole peoples’ (p 282) is a plague vector. ‘Early political commentators
on the growth of the modern legal profession constantly talked of
swarms of lawyers infecting the commonwealth like the plague,’ Peter
Goodrich writes.41 Robert Burton, analysing the mental health of the
English nation in The Anatomie of Melancholy (1628), terms the legal
professions
a general mischief in our times, an unsensible plague, and never so many of them
. . . and for the most part a supercilious, bad, covetous, litigious generation of
men . . . gowned vultures, que ex iniuriam vivunt et sanguine civium, thieves and
seminaries of discord . . . irreligious Harpies.
39
On lawyering and pragmatism, see Thomas Grey, The Wallace Stevens Case: Law
and the Practice of Poetry (Harvard University Press, Cambridge, 1991), reviewed in
Anne McGillivray, ‘Different Voices, Different Choices: Playing at Law and Literature’
(1992) 7 Canadian Journal of Law and Society 253.
40 Stoker met Arminius Vambery, Hungarian adventurer and holder of the Chair of
Oriental Languages at the University of Pesth, 30 April 1990. Vambery is mentioned as

Van Helsing’s friend (p 267). The meeting may have inspired Stoker’s designation of
Dracula as the Wallachian Vlad Tepes Vth the Impaler Dracula, ‘of the devil’
(1431–1476). The Impaler was many wicked things but not a vampire. He made moth-
ers eat their babies, split open a mistress to confirm her pregnancy and rounded up beg-
gars for a feast, then burnt the hall around them. When Turkish envoys refused to
remove their fezzes in his presence, he ordered their hats nailed to their heads. He
staked enemies in his courtyard, choosing transverse or horizontal spits, held high or
low, and dined amidst their cries and corpses. When a boyar objected to the noise and
smell, he had him staked above the clamour. Vlad Tepes is revered as a Romanian
national hero, freeing the region from the Turks and preserving Christianity. His fame
as a vampire was a state embarrassment but Dracula has now become a staple of the
new Romanian tourist trade.
41 Quoted in Peter Goodrich, Oedipus Lex: Psychoanalysis, History, Law (University
of California Press, Berkeley, 1995) at 5.

A plague of lawyers, gowned vultures drawing life from the injury and the
blood of the people—these enduring images of the legal profession are
evoked in the person of Dracula.42
Praising Dracula’s abilities, Van Helsing mirrors his own strengths—
the embrace of multiple knowledge at boundaries and cutting edges, stal-
wart resolve, new science and old alchemies. Dracula’s genius is Nordau’s
degeneracy. He is Un-Dead, with a child’s brain, morally undeveloped
yet capable of rapid learning and a devious cleverness. In Van Helsing’s
broken English:
[he] study new tongues. He learn new social life; new environment of old ways,
the politic, the law, the finance, the science, the habit of a new land and a new
people . . . He have done this alone; all alone! from a ruin tomb in a forgotten
land. What more may he not do when the greater world of thought is open to him
(p 282).
What does Van Helsing expect from Dracula’s exposure to the greater
world of thought— enhanced predation or voluntary redemption? We do
not know. The world of thought does not open further to Dracula, thanks
to Van Helsing. Dracula’s morality, like Van Helsing’s, is pragmatic but it
resides in an appetite that Dracula feels no need to justify. Van Helsing’s
lament initiates the stock trope of all good scientists, up against an evil
intellect. ‘Oh! if such a one was to come from God, and not the Devil,
what a force for good might he not be in this old world of ours’ (p 282).
Images of lawyering in Dracula are not simple binary oppositions.
They reflect complex post-1850 professional debates about the relation-
ship between law and lawyering, law and morality. ‘The period circa 1860
to 1900,’ write Sugarman and Rubin, ‘is of special interest in the study of
the legal professions’.43
It is in this period that the assumption of a moral basis to the legal system is chal-
lenged by Austin in England and Holmes in America. Indeed in a whole series of
ways the relationship between the individual and the state was being re-examined
. . . provok[ing] a significant debate concerning the separation (or otherwise) of
law and morality.
Is the separation of law and morality a sign of progress or degeneration?
Dracula interrogates this gap, an abyss where monsters lurk.44 But the
novel is more subtly concerned with another kind of lawyer and a more
42
A tired joke remaking the law school rounds at the time of writing is: Q. Where do
vampires learn to suck blood? A. At law school.
43 Rubin and Sugarman, n 12, 78–9.
44
Demonised female offenders like Karla Homolka draw coded metaphors of vam-
pirism and witchery from the gap between evil and psychiatric explanation in law; see
Anne McGillivray, ‘ “A moral vacuity in her which is difficult, if not impossible, to
explain”: Law, Psychiatry and the Remaking of Karla Homolka’ (1998) Intl J Legal
Profession 255–88.
modern image of lawyering than the pettifogging solicitor and the

barrister-advocate, whether noble or corrupt. This was a modern image
originating from within the legal profession itself and meant to fuse,
at least in moral aim, the two branches of the legal profession. This is the
neutral technician of law. Its embodiment is the solicitor Jonathan
Harker.
‘THE FACE IN THE MIRROR’:

THE NEUTRAL TECHNICIAN OF LAW
What sort of place had I come to, and among what kind of people? What sort of
grim adventure was it on which I had embarked? Was this a customary incident
in the life of a solicitor’s clerk sent out to explain the purchase of a London estate
to a foreigner? Solicitor’s clerk! Mina would not like that. Solicitor—for just
before leaving for London I got word that my examination was successful; and I
am now a full-blown solicitor! I began to rub my eyes and pinch myself to see if I
were awake. It all seemed like a horrible nightmare to me . . . (p 19).
Dracula is pitted in critical and popular works against Van Helsing
and the three adventurers,45 informed and inspired by ‘the angel’ Mina,
with her ineffectual solicitor husband in tow. Jonathan Harker’s absence
from much of the plot (although he appears more often than Dracula)
lends some support to this interpretation. But Dracula does not see it this
way. His model and the enemy he singles out for special revenge is the
young solicitor. Harker is the first to meet the Count and the first to be
seduced and horrified by vampirism. ‘Harker Jonathan’, the Count calls
him, drawing our attention to his role as ‘Harker’ while apologising for
the misplaced patronym. His Englishness and his technical legal knowl-
edge are desired by Dracula, as is his blood, briefly, and his wife. It is
Harker who delivers the first blow to the vampire in his Transylvanian
crypt, scarring his forehead, the second blow in London, slashing his
coat, sending coins and documents cascading from his pockets and pro-
voking Dracula’s ‘sheep’ speech (p 271), and the final fatal blow in
Transylvania that cuts his throat. The young solicitor takes on the old
bloodsucker and defeats the professional paradigm.
Harker is the neutral technician of law, combining ‘the characteristi-
cally ‘legal’ skills of counsellor, drafter, and advocate’.46 This image of
45
Quincey, Seward and Godalming are old friends who, having shared in exotic
adventures, are now suitors for the hand in marriage of Lucy Westenra.
46
‘Lawyers sometimes see themselves as neutral technicians . . .’ Rubin and
Sugarman, n 12, 78–9.
lawyering offered a reconciliation of conflicts within and between the

legal professions of the day:47
between different messes and other forms of regional divisions; the tensions
between the traditional habits of the profession and the demands for organised
legal education, examinations and more centralised control; and the tensions
between an attachment to mere practical and technical skill and the demand for
a more scientific jurisprudence.
The paradigm embraces a scientific jurisprudence, up-to-date law office
technologies (Mina prepares herself to be legal secretary to Jonathan by
mastering shorthand, touch-typewriting and the dictaphone), and edu-
cation, clerkship and Law Society examination (as the novel opens,
Harker has been informed that he has passed). The neutral technician is
constrained to ethics by loyalty to his firm and principal, and by the dis-
cipline of the ‘Incorporated Law Society’ from whose censure Harker is
spared, in the break and entering of Dracula’s house. In this paradigm of
lawyering, the law is a neutral mirror of the lawyer’s expectations of and
for the client, and of the client’s expectations of law. The face in law’s mir-
ror is at once that of lawyer and client.
Harker, of the Exeter firm of Peter Hawkins, Solicitor, travels to the
Carpathians on instruction from his principal to complete a real estate
transaction for Count Dracula of Transylvania, Hawkins having suffered an
attack of gout. Dracula has chosen the firm for reasons of privacy. He wants
to buy a London property but does not wish his affairs known in London.
Wealthy, foreign and noble, he is an outstanding and unusual client for a
one-man provincial law firm to have landed. Harker bears a letter of intro-
duction from Hawkins. One passage ‘gave me a thrill of pleasure’ (p 21).
He is a young man, full of energy and talent in his own way, and of a very faith-
ful disposition. He is discreet and silent, and has grown into manhood in my ser-
vice. He will be ready to attend on you when you will during his stay, and shall
take your instructions in all matters.
And so Harker does. Buoyed by his new-won professionalism, he forgets
the peasants’ warnings, the terror of his night journey and the enigma of
Dracula, in the wonders of Dracula’s library:
In the library I found, to my great delight, a vast number of English books, whole
shelves full of them, and bound volumes of magazine and newspapers. A table in
the centre was littered with English magazine and newspapers, though none of
them were of very recent date. The books were of the most varied kind—history,
geography, politics, political economy, botany, geology, law—all relating to
England and English life and customs and manners. There were even such books
47
Rubin and Sugarman, n 12, 94, citing R Cocks, Foundations of the Modern Bar
(Sweet & Maxwell, London, 1983). See also Richard L Abel, The Legal Profession in
England and Wales (Blackwell, 1988), 38 et seq.
of reference as the London Directory, the ‘Red’ and ‘Blue’ books, Whitaker’s
Almanack, the Army and Navy Lists, and—it somehow gladdened my heart to
see it—the Law List (p 23).
This is a lawyer’s library. By his books, Dracula has come to know the
object of his desire, ‘your great England, and to know her is to love her.’
(p 23). The portent of the Count’s longing for ‘its life, its change, its
death’ is missed by Harker but his services to the Count are spelled out.
In addition to his legal duties, he is to tutor the Count in English and
Englishness.
You come to me not alone as agent of my friend Peter Hawkins, of Exeter, to tell
my all about my new estate in London. You shall, I trust, rest here with me a
while, so that by our talking I may learn the English intonation; and I would that
you tell me when I make error, even of the smallest, in my speaking (p 24).
He spends the following nights interrogating Harker on every subject
‘regarding my dear new country of England’ (p 27). His object is to pass
as English and be loved by them.
Here I am noble; I am boyar; the common people know me and I am master. But
a stranger in a strange land, he is no one; men know him not—and to know not
is to care not for (p 23).
The good lawyer and guest, Harker ‘felt under obligation to meet my
host’s wishes in every way.’ As the lawyer must transform the client into
law’s terms, so the client transforms the lawyer. Harker, shaving, hears
Dracula entering the room but cannot see him in his shaving mirror.
[I]t amazed me that I had not seen him, since the reflection of the glass covered
the whole room behind me . . . But there was no reflection of him in the mirror!
. . . there was no sign of a man in it, except myself (p 27, emphasis added).
Identities are momentarily fused. His razor slips, drawing blood.
Dracula’s eyes ‘blazed with a sort of demonic fury’ and he ‘made a grab
at my throat’ but Harker’s crucifix, gift of a peasant woman, gives
Dracula pause. After smashing the mirror on the pavement far below, he
remarks, ‘Take care how you cut yourself. It is more dangerous than you
think in this country.’ When Harker falters in his lawyerly duty, Dracula
recalls him to it.
I will take no refusal. When your master, employer, what you will, engaged that
some one should come on his behalf, it was understood that my needs only were
to be consulted. I have not stinted. Is it not so? (p 35).
‘What could I do but bow acceptance?’ Harker writes.
It was Mr Hawkins’s interest, not mine, and I had to think of him, not myself.
The Count saw his victory in my bow, and his mastery in the trouble of my face,
for he at once began to use them, but in his own smooth resistless way.
It is a tribute to Harker’s training and loyalty to his firm that, despite his
growing fear of Dracula, he continues to advise him, completes the real
estate transaction, expedites his passage to England and attests to the
confidentiality of his legal affairs. Adherence to professional duty is the
solicitor’s ethical salvation. It is nearly the undoing of the modern West.
Does neutral lawyering cultivate evil? A century later, the popular and
even professional consensus might be ‘yes’. The adversarial model cham-
pioned by defence counsel in the US and Canada is an extreme variation
on this paradigm, stressing the paramountcy of the lawyer’s duty to the
client to the exclusion of all else. ‘The adversarial system emerged in
England as advocates developed concrete responses to the exercise of
state power’.48 The ethos of the new advocacy is most famously located
in Lord Brougham’s 1820 speech in defence of Queen Caroline.49 ‘To save
that client by all means and expedients, and at all hazards and costs to
other persons, and, amongst them, to himself, is his first and only duty’
is a central tenet of criminal defence work. The speech is quoted in the
Canadian Bar Association Code of Professional Conduct to support the
rule that ‘[t]he lawyers’s duty is to protect the client as far as possible
from being convicted.’ He must ‘disregard his private opinion as to cred-
ibility or merits’. This is the essence of neutral lawyering—to have no
interests other than those of the client and to prefer those interests above
all others. Canada abolished the death penalty in 1976 but its use in the
48 W Wesley Pue, ‘Lawyers and Political Liberalism in Eighteenth- and Nineteenth-
Century England’ in Terence C Halliday and Lucien Karpik (eds), Lawyers and the Rise
of Western Political Liberalism: Europe and North America in the Eighteenth to
Twentieth Centuries (Clarendon, Oxford, 1997), 271.
49 ‘An advocate, in the discharge of his duty, knows but one person in all the world,
and that person is his client. To save that client by all means and expedients, and at all
hazards and costs to other persons, and, amongst them, to himself, is his first and only
duty; and in performing this duty he must not regard the alarm, the torments, the
destruction which he may bring upon others. Separating the duty of a patriot from that
of an advocate, he must go on reckless of consequences, though it be his unhappy fate to
involve his country in confusion.’ This speech of Lord Henry Brougham in his 1820
defence of Queen Caroline to George IV’s charge of adultery was a veiled threat to reveal
the King’s secret marriage to a Roman Catholic, a revelation which would have deposed
him and led to civil war. In deconstructing the ‘institutional excuse’, David Luban asks
whether morally culpable conduct is excused by one’s institutional role; see ‘The
Adversary System Excuse’ in D Luban (ed), The Good Lawyer: Lawyer’s Rules and
Lawyer’s Ethics (Rowman and Allenheld, Totawa, NJ, 1984). Also see Gerald J Postema,
‘Moral Responsibility in Professional Ethics’ (1980) 55 NYU L Rev 63, asking for a rad-
ical rethinking of the ‘standard concept’ of the lawyer’s role as neutral and partisan.
Brougham’s speech continues to be inspirational to defence lawyers; see Eddie
Greenspan and George Jonas, The Case for the Defence (Macmillan, Toronto, 1987).
50 Austin Sarat, ‘Between (the Presence of) Violence and (the Possibility of) Justice:
Lawyering against Capital Punishment’ in Austin Sarat and Stuart Scheingold (eds),
Cause Lawyering: Political Commitments and Professional Ethics (Oxford University
Press, Oxford, 1998) 317–346.
US intensified and, with it, the extremes of neutral lawyering in criminal

cases. The Canadian defence bar may be absorbing a professional ethos
developed in the shadow of lethal injection and the electric chair.50 Under
this model, even the concealing of real evidence by defence council has
been defended.51
The adversarial model is set against an ‘ethical’ model which seeks to
balance duty to the client and duty to the administration of justice, vic-
tims and their families and the public. Proponents of this model divide
almost equally into calls for a return to a golden age of lawyering—
the legal gentleman, the Christian lawyer, the Aristotelian advocate, the
lawyer-statesman52—and to a post-1960s ‘new lawyering’ in which the
lawyer is transformed by identifying not with, but through, the client
to a just cause.53 In some variations, lawyers are to be governed by con-
science, while others call for comprehensive codes of conduct, far-
reaching professional discipline and stricter governance of training and
51
In the infamous Lake Pleasant ‘bodies case,’ the accused told his lawyers where he
left the bodies of two girls he killed. Parents asked the lawyers for information and the
lawyers denied knowledge, yet the lawyers had found and photographed the bodies.
Charges of obstructing justice and disciplinary proceedings failed. The story is told by
Tom Alibrandi with Frank Armani, Privileged Information (Dodd, Mead, New York,
1984). For a defence of the lawyers’ conduct, see Monroe H Freedman, Lawyers’ Ethics
in an Adversary System, ch 1 (Bobbs-Merrill, Indianapolis, 1975). For a spirited criticism,
see Alvin Esau’s review of Privileged Information in Headnotes and Footnotes (The
Manitoba Bar Association, Winnipeg, Manitoba, 1988). The issue arises in Paul
Bernardo’s lawyer’s trial for obstruction of justice and disciplinary hearings: Ken
Murray removed videotapes recording the sexual assault and torture of three young girls
from Bernardo’s house on his client’s instructions, and hid them for 17 months. The lack
of hard evidence against Bernardo necessitated the infamous plea bargain with his wife
Karla Homolka; see McGillivray, n 44.
52
The legal gentleman was the dominant ideal of the lawyer within the legal profes-
sion until well into the twentieth century. The 1921 Manitoba Law Society Code of
Professional Conduct stressed gentlemanly conduct above all else. See W Wesley Pue,
‘Becoming “Ethical”: Lawyers’ Professional Ethics in Early Twentieth-Century Canada’
(1990) 20 Manitoba Law Journal 227.
53
See Sarat and Scheingold, n 50. Hundreds of addresses, essays and monographs
mourn the demise of the ethical tradition, reflect deep dissatisfaction with legal practice
and set out models of lawyering going beyond that of client mouthpiece or neutral tech-
nician. See eg Donald E Buckingham, Jerome E Bickenbach, Richard Bronaugh, and The
Hon Bertha Wilson (eds), Legal Ethics in Canada: Theory and Practice (Harcourt Brace,
New York, 1996) and Anthony Kronman, The Lost Lawyer: Failing Ideals of the Legal
Profession (The Belknap Press of the Harvard University Press, Cambridge MA, 1993) on
the lawyer-statesman, a model which in many respects harks back to the gentleman of
law. Aristotelian virtue ethics, civil rights models of identification with the client’s cause,
radical lawyering, religious lawyering, responsible lawyering ad infinitum are called for,
while changes in the nature of legal practice—mega firms, extreme specialisation, bill-
able hours as bottom line, professional conduct which meets the letter but not the spirit
of professional ethics—are blamed for making lawyers unhappy with themselves as well
as their public image.
professional upgrading. Running through these late twentieth-century

debates is a recurrent anxiety about professional image and the
dichotomy between being neutral and being ethical. A mourning for a
lost craft or art, or a lost moral or civic high ground, underlies them.
These anxieties and melancholies resonate with the modernism of the
late nineteenth century and with lost battles in the cause of legal profes-
sionalism in that era. Harker acted in accord with the most ‘up-to-date’
nineteenth-century ideal of lawyering, that of the trained and skilled
neutral technician of law. The ethics of lawyering lie in the excellence of
client service. Personal approval of the client’s cause and identification
with the client’s person form no part of the paradigm. In solving his
client’s legal problems, Harker embodies the ideals of his profession and
the expectations of his principal Hawkins, yet he facilitates the vampire’s
predation. His first problem is that the client-centred ethic of neutral
lawyering does not readily permit a lawyer to refuse a client whose
person or case the lawyer finds disagreeable (‘I could not repress a shud-
der’). Severing relationships with a client requires cause and notice. As he
is acting on behalf of his principal (‘It was Mr Hawkins’s interest, not
mine’), he lacks the authority to refuse to act.54 His second and more seri-
ous problem is that he is not a gentleman, nor is Hawkins.55 While the
circumstances of his meeting with his client are decidedly ambiguous, it
may well be that a gentleman, unawed by Dracula’s wealth and status,
might soon spot him for a bounder and a cad and throw him out, so to
speak, or die trying.56
Harker is an orphan raised in the service of a solicitor who stands as a
father to him (he ‘has grown into manhood in my service,’ Hawkins
writes), takes him on as partner and wills him his practice and country
estate. Mina marvels on the rise in her social station, ‘now, married to
Jonathan, Jonathan a solicitor, a partner, rich, master of his business,
Mr Hawkins dead and buried’ (p 156), his funeral attended by the
President of the Incorporated Law Society. Harker rejoices in his move ‘to
master from man’. ‘Suckled and cradled an attorney’, in the phrase of
solicitor Sir George Stephen, Harker has risen in station, wealth and
54 This ethic is questioned by David Luban, n 49.
55 Being a solicitor did not preclude the possibility of gentlemanly birth. The occupa-
tional category of the modern solicitor of the nineteenth century spanned ‘an enormous
arena of social status, from landed gentry to lower-middle class’. Harris, n 13, 9.
56 Had Harker been a gentleman with a gentleman’s instinct and privilege, things
might have turned out differently but it is difficult to know what he might have done
imprisoned in a deserted castle, his mail stopped, his clothes stolen, the threat posed by
Dracula not fully known. Had he dissembled his legal advice, Dracula might have caught
it, given his knowledge of English law. In the ethical tradition of the common law, the
true Englishman would prefer death to abetting Dracula’s cannibalism, as the House of
Lords ruled in the cannibal seamen case Reg v Dudley and Stephens (1884), 14 QBD 223,
a case that Stoker would have certainly known (below).
prospects. Stephen, testifying before the 1846 Select Committee on Legal

Education, agreed that his ‘class’ of solicitors ‘consisted certainly of
inferior men’57:
They are young men who have probably been introduced in early days, at their
early boyhood, at the age of 10 or 12 or 13, as soon as they could write, into an
attorney’s office, and employed as copying clerks. They pick up a great deal of
practical knowledge, more especially a great deal of familiarity with the peculiar
business and paper of the clients of their employer; they remain in his office for
five or six years, or perhaps seven or eight years, and they become of extreme
value to him; and then the attorney, with a view to retain them upon a very mod-
erate salary, and probably with a view of ultimately making them partners, to
take off the burthen of his business, will article them; and you may say with
respect to a man of that sort, that he is suckled and cradled as an attorney.
If images of corrupt barristers disturbed the late Victorian psyche,
counter-images of solicitors generated by intra-professional dialectics
were ugly. Charles Rann Kennedy argued before the Committee on Legal
Education that barristers were superior to solicitors because of their clas-
sical education and, in a later address to the Mutual Law Society, attested
that:
there has sprung up a tribe of a different character; the tribe of rascal pettifoggers;
creatures that formerly crept not into the light of day, but now swarm like locusts
over the country.58
The speech recalls Burton’s ‘unsensible plague’ of lawyers. Brook’s
account of attorneys and solicitors in early modern England, Pettyfoggers
and Vipers of the Commonwealth, documents the widening image gap
between barristers and solicitors. ‘Lawyer-bashing’ centred from the six-
teenth century onward on differences in education and social status
between barristers and solicitors, with solicitors and attorneys taking the
brunt.59 The proliferation of lawsuits resulting from new courts and
causes of action, and increased public access to legal redress in the pre-
ceding century, was equated with the proliferation of human misery.
57 W Wesley Pue, ‘Guild Training vs. Professional Education: The Committee on
Legal Education and the Law Department of Queen’s College, Birmingham in the 1850s’
(1989) 33 American Journal of Legal History 241.
58 Pue, ‘Guild Training’, n 57, 245.
59 CW Brooks, Pettyfoggers and Vipers of the Commonwealth: The Lower Branch of
the Legal Profession in Early Modern England (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge,
1986). ‘By 1600, the enormous increase in litigation which had taken place since the 1550s
began to produce concern among the observers, both inside and outside the legal profes-
sion, that there were too many lawsuits. In the space of a mere half-century, England
seemed to have become an extremely litigious country’ (p 75). The proliferation of
courts, as well as lawsuits, meant that the same matter could be taken up through multi-
ple courts, further complicating legal matters. Lawyers’ images took a severe beating as
a result; see ch 7.
Lawsuits over property challenged the divine order as reflected in rights

of property foundational to English social order. In later republican dis-
courses in the United States, lawyers and lawsuits were seen as attempts
to upset the constitutional ideal of equality. ‘Petty Foggers and Vipers of
the Common Wealth . . . set Dissention between man and man’.60 Calls
for better governance of attorneys and solicitors centred on requiring
association with an Inn of Court or Chancery but it was clear by the
opening of the nineteenth century that there was no room at the Inns for
the junior solicitor branch of the legal profession.
By the 1880s, Parliament had established the solicitors’ profession in
its modern form, with relatively uniform standards of admission, educa-
tion and practice. Harker is a product of the these reforms. Even so,
plague images and claims about the unfitness of solicitors persisted. In
his analysis of mid-nineteenth century discourse on the legal professions
and the 1846 Report of the Select Committee on the Legal Professions,
W Wesley Pue shows that solicitors were perceived as lacking not profes-
sional training and competence but, rather, certain qualities associated
with the aristocratic tradition.61 Barrister privileges of class and educa-
tion guaranteed gentlemanly behaviour. Liberal studies, writes the Law
Times in 1843, ‘make up the scholar and the gentleman’ and the cost of
establishing a barrister’s practice ensures ‘the necessary union of educa-
tion and property.’ This is a guarantee ‘that a man is a gentleman’.62 Any
inadequacies in the barrister’s legal education were compensated by the
solicitor’s expertise. The barrister could occupy a moral high ground and
rely on his solicitor’s donkey-work, as ‘a mechanical agent for carrying
out the practical process of the profession.’63 The professional stake of
keeping costs low, and barrister status correspondingly high, was accom-
plished by disparaging both the value of solicitors’ work and their social
status. W Shaen, Secretary of the Metropolitan and Provincial Law
Association, notes in his 1855 circular that over 90 per cent of law is
administered by solicitors and ‘ours is the most valuable experience with
regard to that which is included under the term “practice”.’ A circular
put out by J. Bulmer that same year complained that barristers made up
barely more than a fourth of the legal profession, yet enjoyed almost
every ‘office of distinction and emolument’.64 The Education Committee
60
Brooks, n 59, quoting the 1601 parliamentary speech of lord keeper Thomas
Egerton arguing for the listing of ‘the most expert and honest’ attorneys and solicitors,
as one of several reforms needed to prevent the ‘Infinite multiplicytie of Sutes’. The need
for reform of the profession was so often expressed and so little addressed with any teeth,
‘the need to limit attorneys, like the suppression of ale-houses or the punishment of
sturdy beggars, had become a commonplace.’
61 Pue, ‘Guild Training’, n 57.
63 Pue, ‘Guild Training’, n 57, 255, quoting the Committee report.
endorsed the opinion that solicitors ‘should be so educated as to be qual-

ified for carrying on that intercourse as gentlemen’ but this could be
attained only by ‘educating them as gentlemen’.65 This education, Pue
suggests, lay less in the university course of studies proposed, than in
exposure of solicitors through university studies to the culture of the
gentleman.
The junior solicitor Jonathan Harker, educated in the law, ‘full of
energy and talent . . . faithful . . . discreet and silent,’ is poised against the
pettifogging solicitor Marquand and the corrupt and corrupting
Dracula, arguably the image of old barristry and old corruption. Plague
metaphors originating in the seventeenth century and focussed on the
junior branch are now turned on the noble advocate. In his depiction of
Harker, Stoker had a powerful image to disrupt, that of solicitors as a
plague of pettifogging rascals, ungentlemanly, dishonourable and
untrustworthy. Harker’s professionalism in the novel is above reproach.
Yet the plot points to a central problem with this image of the modern
lawyer: that neutrality may facilitate predation. The solicitor’s engage-
ment with the vampire highlights the disjunction between the new pro-
fessional standard and a larger morality in which ethical service is
consumed in an evil cause. Harker is transformed by, and into, the vam-
pire. His engagement with his client destabilises modernity itself.
‘WHICH MERE “MODERNITY” CANNOT KILL’: SOLICITOR–CLIENT

TRANSFORMATIONS
Here I am, sitting at a little oak table where in old times possibly some fair lady
sat to pen, with much thought and many blushes, her ill-spelt love-letter, and
writing in my diary in shorthand all that has happened since I closed it last. It is
nineteenth century up-to-date with a vengeance. And yet, unless my senses
deceive me, the old centuries had, and have, powers of their own which mere
‘modernity’ cannot kill (p 38).
Modernity in its melancholic sense of lost histories informs Harker’s
musings on old centuries and dead gentlewomen. Careless of the Count’s
warning to sleep only in his room (‘I took pleasure in disobeying it’,
p 38), Harker wanders into a dust-shrouded sitting room and updates his
shorthand diary, ‘nineteenth century up-to-date with a vengeance’. The
power of ‘old centuries’ cannot be killed by ‘mere modernity.’ Mimicking
the habits of vampires, he chooses a bed of dust. ‘I drew a great couch out
of its place near the corner . . . and unthinking and uncaring for the dust,

composed myself for sleep’ (p 39). Three female vampires, cruel inver-
sions of his imagined lady, appear in the moonlight with
brilliant white teeth, that shone like pearls against the ruby of their voluptuous
lips. There was something about them that made me uneasy, some longing and at
the same time some deadly fear. I felt in my heart a wicked, burning desire that
they would kiss me with those red lips.
His seduction is complete.
I could feel the soft, shivering touch of the lips on the supersensitive skin of my
throat, and the hard dents of two sharp teeth, just touching and pausing there.
I closed my eyes in a languorous ecstasy.
Dracula bursts into the room, shouting with demonic wrath, ‘This man
belongs to me! . . . when I am done with him you shall kiss him at your
will. Now go! go! I must awaken him, for there is work to be done’ (p 41).
He gives them the squirming sack he carries and Harker hears a child’s
cry as the lamia disappear with their meal.
Harker, horrified, awakens in his own room. Although ‘nothing can be
more dreadful than those awful women, who were—who are—waiting to
suck my blood’ (p 43), he ‘must know the truth’ and returns to the sitting
room, now locked.66 His transformation, presaged in his mirror, is begun
while Dracula’s is almost complete. Harker watches him ‘crawl down the
castle wall over that dreadful abyss, face down with his cloak spreading
around him like great wings.’ He asks, ‘What manner of man is this, or
what manner of creature is it in the semblance of man?’ (p 37) but, watch-
ing the next day, sees that the ‘semblance’ is his own:
I had been at the window somewhat less than half an hour, when I saw something
coming out of the Count’s window. I drew back and watched carefully, and saw
the whole man emerge. It was a new shock to me to find that he had on the suit
of clothes which I had worn whilst travelling here, and slung over his shoulder the
terrible bag which I had seen the women take away. There could be no doubt as
to his quest, and in my garb, too! This, then, is his new scheme of evil: that he will
allow others to see me, as they think, so that he may both leave evidence that I
have been seen in the towns or villages posting my own letters, and that any
wickedness which he may do shall by the local people be attributed to me (p 46).
The lawyer’s legal identity has been stolen and he is divested of the law.
It makes me rage to think that this can go on, and whilst I am shut up here, a ver-
itable prisoner, but without that protection of the law which is even a criminal’s
right and consolation.
66 On Freud’s account of his weird experience of wandering back to wicked women,
resonating with Harker’s subconscious fascination and return to the lamia, see
Heinzelman, n 19.
The mother of the baby eaten by the lamia sees Harker as Dracula.
‘When she saw my face at the window she threw herself forward, and
shouted in a voice laden with menace:– “Monster, give me my child!” ’ It
gives him some relief that she is soon torn apart by wolves.
Harker follows Dracula’s route down the precipitous castle wall and
makes his third visit to the sitting room of the lamia by climbing through
the window. The room is empty. He proceeds to the crypt. Here the
nature of his client and the consequences of his legal services are driven
home.
There lay the Count, but looking as if his youth had been half renewed . . . on the
lips were gouts of fresh blood. . . . It seemed as if the whole awful creature were
simply gorged with blood; he lay like a filthy leech, exhausted with his reple-
tion. . . . This was the being I was helping to transfer to London, where, perhaps,
for centuries to come he might, amongst its teeming millions, satiate his lust for
blood, and create a new and ever-widening circle of semi-demons to batten on the
helpless. The very thought drove me mad (p 54).
The danger now understood, the solicitor attempts to murder his

client. He seizes a shovel to smash in his head. ‘The head turned, and the
eyes fell full upon me, with all their blaze of basilisk horror.’ The shovel
twists, gashing Dracula’s forehead and leaving a scar mirrored on Mina’s
forehead in the next turn of the transformation. Harker escapes, has a
nervous breakdown and is nursed by nuns, married by Mina and returned
to Exeter. Mina’s friendship with Lucy, Lucy’s encounters with Dracula
and Harker’s diary bring Mina to the centre of the vampire hunt and
Dracula’s seductive attentions.
Wilhelmina Murray Harker, assistant school-mistress, childhood
friend and tutor to the wealthy Lucy Westenra, solicitor’s wife and
Dracula’s bride-elect, is educated, intelligent and resourceful. She is the
crux of the Harker-Dracula transformations. If modernity is the pivot of
the identity exchange between Dracula and Harker, of Dracula’s expro-
priation of Harker’s legal knowledge and identity and Harker’s vamping
by the power of old centuries, then there is a second pivot when Mina is
vamped by Dracula and, through her, identities are re-fused and restored.
Ancient powers forced upon her by Dracula’s baptism of blood war with
her version of modernity. Jonathan can be seduced yet maintain his
integrity. Mina must be raped to preserve hers. She walks a difficult line.
Van Helsing enthuses, ‘Ah, that wonderful Madam Mina! She has a
man’s brain—a brain that a man should have were he much gifted—and
a woman’s heart’ (p 209). She is a ‘pearl among women’ (p 197) main-
taining the balance between gender and knowledge.
Dracula is an epistolary novel and Mina edits it. She co-ordinates vital
information from Harker’s diary with Van Helsing’s and Seward’s notes,
takes down meetings in shorthand, types up in manifold their journals,
diaries, letters and phonograph records (Seward uses the new recording
technology but must play an entire cylinder to find a bit of information)
and takes a portable typewriter to Translyvania for the final stage of the
vampire hunt. ‘I feel so grateful to the man who invented the “Traveller’s”
typewriter. . . . I should have felt quite astray doing the work if I had to
write with a pen’ (p 307). Yet her redaction reduces the evidence of the
vampire’s predation to ‘a mass of type-writing’ (p 332), thus erasing all
holographic proof of his existence. If Harker epitomises the modern
solicitor, Mina is the modern solicitor’s wife, one of the few openings for
women at a time when women’s place in the public sphere was contested
even among contemporary feminists:
I have been working very hard lately, because I want to keep up with Jonathan’s
studies, and I have been practising shorthand very assiduously. When we are mar-
ried I shall be able to be useful to Jonathan, and if I can stenograph well enough
I can take down what he wants to say in this way and write it out for him on the
typewriter, at which also I am practising very hard (p 57).
But Mina is not to be cast as the New Woman of the 1890s. Of her tea
with Lucy, she writes, ‘I believe we should have shocked the “New
Woman” with our appetites. Men are more tolerant, bless them!’ (p 90).
Some of the ‘New Women’ writers will some day start an idea that men and
women should be allowed to see each other asleep before proposing or accepting.
But I suppose the New Woman won’t condescend in future to accept; she will do
the proposing herself. And a nice job she will make of it, too! (p 91).
Despite her proven courage, her superb organisation of their collective
knowledge and her co-ordination of the campaign against Dracula, the
vampire fighters exclude her from their deliberations in an excess of
chauvinism. ‘It was a bitter pill for me to swallow’ (p 215). This is the
night that Dracula first visits her. His final visit seals their relationship.
Lucy’s dreamy defloration and Jonathan’s languorous dreams of lamia
are erotic seductions. Mina’s ‘baptism of blood’ (p 284) is something else.
The scene, told from the viewpoint of the vampire fighters, contains
images of virginal defloration and forced fellatio. Off on yet another
unsuccessful hunt, they return to find Dracula with Mina in his grip and
Harker in a trance beside her. Blood streams from her neck and her
mouth is smeared with blood:
With his left hand he held both Mrs. Harker’s hands, keeping them away with her
arms at full tension; his right hand gripped her by the back of the neck, forcing
her face down to his bosom. Her white nightdress was smeared with blood, and
a thin stream trickled down the man’s bare breast which was shown by his torn-
open dress. The attitude of the two had a terrible resemblance to a child forcing
a kitten’s nose into a saucer of milk to force it to drink (p 249).
Mist at her window, Mina writes, turned into the figure of ‘a tall, thin man,
all in black’ with a ‘red scar on his forehead where Jonathan had struck
him’. After ‘refreshing’ himself with her blood and assuring her he is no
stranger to her, he forces his blood into her mouth. He admonishes her.
And so you, like the others, would play your brains against mine. You would help
these men to hunt me and frustrate me in my designs! . . . you are to be punished
for what you have done. You have aided in thwarting me; now you shall come to
my call (p 255).
But he joins his cause to hers.
And you, their best beloved one, are now to me, flesh of my flesh, blood of my
blood; kin of my kin; my bountiful wine-press for a while; and shall be later on
my companion and my helper. You shall be avenged in turn; for not one of them
but shall minister to your needs.
This is heady stuff for a woman ejected from male council on the basis of
her sex.
She rejects the offer, but the ingestion of vampire blood makes her part
vampire, in telepathic contact with Dracula at sunrise and sunset. The
vampire-prophylactic host wielded by Van Helsing sears her forehead ‘as
though it had been a piece of white-hot metal’ (p 263), leaving a scar mir-
roring that on Dracula’s forehead and exposing her as part-damned. Her
teeth sharpen and her pallor deepens (p 261). Her vampiric transforma-
tion in turn makes Harker a mirror image of Dracula:
Last night he was a frank, happy-looking man, with strong youthful face, full of
energy, and with dark brown hair. To-day he is a drawn, haggard old man, whose
white hair matches well with the hollow burning eyes and grief-written lines of
his face. His energy is still intact; in fact he is like a living flame . . . (p 267).
Seward seeks a scientific explanation of Mina’s condition:
I suppose it is some of that horrid poison which has got into her veins beginning
to work. The Count had his own purposes when he gave her what Van Helsing
called ‘the Vampire’s baptism of blood’. Well, there may be a poison that distils
itself out of good things; in an age when the existence of ptomaines is a mystery
we should not wonder at anything! The same power that compels her silence may
compel her speech (p 284).
Ptomaine, we now know, is the nitrogenous product of decay. It is a more
accurate metaphor for the vampire’s bite than Seward (or Stoker) could
have known.
Mina does speak, under hypnosis administered at her suggestion by
Van Helsing as she enters telepathic contact with Dracula. The vampire-
fighters acknowledge their reliance on her intellect and her quasi-
vampirism. Van Helsing writes,
We want all her hope, all her courage; when most we want all her great brain
which is trained like a man’s brain, but is of sweet woman and have a special
power which the Count gave her (p 298).
Her ‘man’s brain’ draws on degeneration theory to predict Dracula’s

flight to Transylvania and interpret maps in order to trace his route
home; and her ‘special power’ to track his coffined journey. The vampire-
fighters travel to Dracula’s castle in separate parties, Van Helsing with
Mina. ‘Unclean’ if not yet Un-dead, Mina is sister to the Translyvanian
lamia, her husband’s seducers who mock her in the Transylvanian nights
They smiled ever at poor dear Madam Mina; and as their laugh came through
silence of the night, they twined their arms and pointed to her, and said in those
so sweet tingling tones that Jonathan said were of the intolerable sweetness of the
water-glasses: ‘Come sister. Come to us. Come! Come!’ (p 322).
Mina resists their pleas.
That poor soul who has wrought all this misery is the saddest case of all. Just
think what will be his joy when he too is destroyed in his worser part that his bet-
ter part may have spiritual immortality. You must be pitiful to him too, though
it may not hold your hand from its destruction (p 272).
Although the rapist has forgotten his victim as he dreams his way home
in his coffin, she, having understood him, desires his reform. Whether it
is salvation or revenge that drives the death blow, her husband Harker
cuts Dracula’s throat:
[T]he red eyes glared with the horrible vindictive look which I knew too well. As
I looked, the eyes saw the sinking sun, and the look of hate in them turned to tri-
umph. But, on the instant, came the sweep and flash of Jonathan’s great knife. I
shrieked as I saw it shear through the throat; whilst at the same moment Mr.
Morris’s bowie knife plunged into the heart. It was like a miracle; but before our
very eyes, and almost in the drawing of a breath, the whole body crumbled into
dust and passed from our sight (p 330).
Mina with Dracula is cured. As the setting sun reveals her scarless fore-
head, she writes:
I shall be glad as long as I live that even in that moment of final dissolution, there
was in the face a look of peace, such as I never could have imagined might have
rested there,
Mina’s vamping foregrounds and suspends the problem of her identity
as a woman with a man’s brain. With Dracula’s death, she will employ
these qualities as solicitor’s wife. Harker pays a high price for his neutral
lawyering and Mina for her man’s brain. Modernity has been admon-
ished by the powers of old centuries. Dracula’s death confirms the new
order. A year later, Mina gives birth to a son named for ‘all our little band
of men’ (p 332) but, oddly, not for her, Wilhelmina, Wilhelm or vil-helm,
dauntless helmet, protector of men. It is Mina, not Lucy, who wived these
men. She slew their dragon and bore their communal child. Although all
proof of the vampire’s existence is lost in her heroic mass of type-writing,
Van Helsing writes, ‘We want no proofs . . . He will understand how

some men so loved her, that they dare much for her sake.’ Whether she
would have made a wonderful solicitor would have occurred neither to
her nor to Stoker. Both The Law Society and the Inns of Court excluded
women until the Sex Disqualification Act (1919), prohibiting gender-
based discrimination in the professions. The first woman solicitor in the
United Kingdom was admitted in 1922.67
‘A PECULIAR RATIONALITY’: WRITING LAW INTO DRACULA
But there is one more thing worth lingering over, before we come to our list itself,
and that is the sources of the information and skill of our ‘legal’ novelists. Where
did they learn their legal lore?
John Henry Wigmore68
Bram Stoker, 38 years of age ‘of Trinity College Dublin MA, the
second son of the late Abraham Stoker of Rathgar, Co. Dublin, civil ser-
vant’ was admitted to the Honourable Society of the Inner Temple on the
3 May 1886 and called to the Bar of England and Wales 30 April 1890. Mr
IG Murray, Archivist of the Inner Temple, London, writes 18 May 1995
that the records of the Inn ‘tell us nothing about his previous history or
his private occupation’.69 Mrs JE Edgell, Librarian and Keeper of the
Records, Middle Temple, writes 14 June 1995,
As a (qualified) barrister his name appeared in the ‘Counsel’ section of the Law
Lists from 1891 until 1912, but the absence of any chamber’s address from his
entry each year suggests that he did not practice as a barrister in the courts
(whether or not he employed his legal talents elsewhere).70
As Stoker managed the most successful London theatre of his day, Sir
Henry Irving’s Lyceum, his failure to practise is not surprising. He did
not buy a pupilage, not a requirement until early in the next century, and
there was no reason why he would, given his consuming career. He did
use his legal talents elsewhere, advising Hallam Tennyson, son of Lord
Tennyson, on the law of copyright and royalties in 1892 in the Lyceum
67 Abel, n 47 at 79 and 172. The Black Books of Lincoln’s Inn, entry 7 Jan 1904,
records the Petition of suffragist Christabel Harriette Pankhurst ‘to be admitted as a
Student of this Society’. ‘I am very desirous of being admitted a Member of the said
Society, and I humbly pray that I may be heard by the Masters of the Bench of the said
Society in my own behalf in support of my application.’ The petition was refused with-
out comment. The Records of the Honorable Society of Lincoln’s Inn: The Black Books
(The Society, Lincoln’s Inn, 1968). vol V, 1854–1914, 357.
68 Wigmore, n 2, 34.
69 Letter to the author.
70 Letter to the author.
production of Becket, Irving’s last role.71 Stoker’s biographer Nigel

Farson writes,
With a stamina that seems colossal today, Bram Stoker managed the business
affairs of the Lyceum, advised Irving on production, arranged the tours of
America, and accompanied the actor on his journeys throughout Britain [and]
resumed his legal studies and succeeded in passing his examinations (emphasis
added).72
He does not say when these studies were begun, although he may have
been thinking of the extra year required by Stoker to complete his terms
at the Inn.
A call to the Bar in 1890 required little by way of legal studies as now
understood. The Inns of Court had not offered legal education in any
structured or consistent way since the mid-1600s and regularly engaged
in debates about whether they should. While a university degree was
encouraged, the central requirement of the call was ‘keeping terms’, a
practice that the Inns still maintain. For a graduate of Oxford,
Cambridge or Trinity College Dublin (Stoker’s school), this meant dining
at the Inn a certain number of times each term for 12 terms or three years,
at some considerable cost. For other aspiring barristers, five years was
required. The dinners served a central function in the socialisation and
informal governance of its members. Students were imbued with the cul-
ture of their profession through contact with senior barristers and
absorbed the legal gossip of the day with the port. Stoker’s Inn, the Inner
Temple, was the first to require student examinations, not, as might be
expected, in law, but in history and Latin or Greek. Stoker may have sat
this, given his extra year; the practice was abandoned in 1889, the year
before his call. The Inns instituted a common, compulsory Bar admission
examination in Roman and English law in 1872,73 which Stoker certainly
would have sat. Lectures were optional. Stoker’s biographer Barbara
Belford claims without more that Stoker did not attend lectures and had
only to pass ‘a written and oral examination’.74 Questions and sample
answers for the Bar examinations were published twice yearly. Crammers
had begun to sell their services. Although it is difficult to imagine the
71
Farson, n 5.
72 Farson, n 5, 88.
73
Abel, n 47, 41 et seq.
74
Belford, n 20, 193. Belford gives no source for the claim that Stoker did not attend
lectures. His Inn, the Inner Temple, is a brief walk from the Lyceum and Belford notes
that Stoker made frequent use of its library (p 194). She cites its Archivist IG Murray on
the issue of whether qualification as a barrister would excuse Stoker from jury duty, as
this was Stoker’s joking response to the question of why he decided to qualify as a bar-
rister. (It does, since the 1870 Juries Act). Stoker’s real motivation, she argues, was to
raise him in Henry Irving’s estimation and the esteem of his wife Florence (n 100). I sug-
gest that this goes deeper, into something that Stoker wished to do for himself.
protean Stoker needing crammers, the pragmatics of his working life at

the Lyceum might have necessitated a session or two as, by the 1880s, Bar
examinations in Roman law required three months of study and English
law six months to two years. Stoker’s work ethic and appetite for learn-
ing suggest that he would have acquired some knowledge of law during
his association with the Inner Temple. He would have imbibed with the
dinners of the Inn the personalities, rivalries, debates, scandals and anx-
ieties of the Bar, the Bench and the Inns. ‘I have dined already, and I do
not sup’ (p 20), Dracula tells Harker, calling up images of Inn dinners (the
bloodsucker dines on his ‘sup’ of blood).
Professional scandals and heated debates about the constitution and
governance of the legal professions, proposed educational reforms and
fusion of the senior and junior branches of the profession, would have
been standard fare at the Inns. The 1846 Report of the Select Committee
on the Legal Professions did not settle debates about fusion, Inn mono-
poly of central aspects of legal practice and, in particular, the right to
speak in the privileged arena of the law courts, or the desirability, struc-
ture or control of legal education. The Inns consistently rejected recom-
mendations for a central law school as an encroachment on their
authority. Examinations, abandoned by the Inns a century before, were
reinstituted in bare acknowledgement of the demand. The Black Books of
Lincoln’s Inn entry for 10 December 1889, the year before Stoker’s call to
the Bar, gives the report of its Legal Education committee.75 The Council
of Legal Education, a joint undertaking of the four Inns, paid the large
sum of 1,000 guineas per year for four lectureships held by ‘distinguished
barristers.’ They gave few lectures, attendance was dismal and there was
no contact between student and lecturer outside of class hours:76
It seems to us that the result of the Regulations is to deprive the Student of all
motive for availing himself of the instruction which the Inns of Court undertake
to provide.
There are no Class Rooms. There is no Concert among the professors. The
Lectures are delivered in the Dining Halls of the Inns. The Lecturer is not brought
into contact with his Class. He has no means of judging of the attainments or
requirements of those he addresses.
There are over 2000 Students on the books of the Four Inns of Court.77 Of these
probably about half are still at the Universities, or are only eating dinners, and
not studying the law. The remaining Students may be presumed to be preparing
for their Call to the Bar. We believe that of these, not more than from 60 to 80 stu-
dents (i.e. 6 to 8 per cent) attend any one of the several Courses of Lectures.
75 Black Books, n 67, 262 et seq.
76 These were 18 lectures on Roman Civil law, 12 on common law, equity and real
property; 3 on public and private international law, constitutional law and legal history,
and 6 on jurisprudence. Black Books, n 67, 262–3.
77 The lion’s share of admissions during this period went to Stoker’s Inn, the Inner
Temple. Black Books, n 67, 277.

The Committee observes that

since the year 1873 the system of Education has been gradually undergoing alter-
ation for the worse, until it has been brought into a condition which is deplorable,
and we feel bound to add is unworthy of the Inns of Court
and concludes that ‘the present system of Legal Education should be
given up’.
Crammers or hired law tutors usurped the role of the Inn-appointed
professors.
The Crammer has taken the place of the Professor. Students are prepared by
teachers who are not under the control of the Council of Legal Education . . . No
instruction upon English Law can thus be given which is not shallow and tran-
sient.
Crammers, as the Black Books complain, were increasingly used by stu-
dents at the Inns as well as by solicitors’ clerks. Their pedagogy was
informed by, and informed, classical juristic notions of ‘relevance and iden-
tity’,78 taxonomy and certainty. The fact of their services to both branches
would contribute to the establishment of joint university training in the
next century. Yet they were disdained by the Inns. Crammers were central
to the qualification of country solicitors like Harker, for whom The
Incorporated Law Society (1825) provided no formal education.79 Harker
would not have attended its London lectures (which by 1846 included
common law, conveyancing, equity, bankruptcy and criminal law)80 but he
would have been examined by the Society with his London counterparts.81
The ‘shallow and transient’ crammer education complained of by the Inn’s
Legal Education committee reflects less a concern for inadequate legal
education than a fear of losing control over barristers’ socialisation.
Barristers taught by crammers were not taught by gentlemen.
In his aptly-titled Article ‘Exorcising Professional Demons’,82 Wesley
Pue observes that ‘any general discussion of legal education raised the
twin spectres of enhanced status (and competitive power) of solicitors
and even of a fused legal profession.’ A contemporary argues,
78
Sugarman in Fitzpatrick, n 18, 54.
79
80
Pue, ‘Guild Training’, n 57, 251.
81
Abel, n 47, 145. The Incorporated Law Society established a course of lectures for
solicitors’ clerks in 1833. Attendance was low and mandatory examinations were insti-
tuted shortly after. Few country clerks attended lectures, due in part to the travel
involved. Incorporated Law Society members were primarily Londoners: in 1871, a
decade or so before Harker would have begun his apprenticeship, only 10 per cent of
country solicitors were members (p 242). Local law societies served major provincial
cities by the latter part of the century but Harker’s Exeter is not mentioned.
82 W Wesley Pue, ‘Exorcising Professional Demons: Charles Rann Kennedy and the
Transition to the Modern Bar’ (1987) 5 Law and History Review 135.
This restless spirit of ambition on the part of solicitors will grown in proportion
as they become more highly educated. . . . This is the argument against making
[their] examinations too stiff. . . . Who will perform the drudgery of the law?83
Barrister Charles Rann Kennedy, the subject of Pue’s study, was
demonised partly for his commitment ‘to a common, formal, vocational
training for both branches of the divided legal professions’, despite his
stated dislike of solicitors, a vision that affronted ‘the dignity of the bar’.
Internecine rivalry continued throughout Stoker’s day. A recurrent theme
of the Black Books is the reassertion of restrictive rules for admitting
solicitors to the Inn adding, among others, the requirement that a solici-
tor be out of practice for five years. The result was that a ‘radical’ solici-
tor seeking the privileged speaking- point of the courtroom would have
to wait eight to ten years and more, by which time topical case-based
issues would have evaporated.84 The professional conduct of barristers
was regulated by an unwritten code centred on conduct befitting a gen-
tleman, loosely enforced by professional gossip and shaming and the
occasional witch-hunt of non-conformists.85 Solicitors were governed by
the Incorporated Law Society but membership was optional. As only one
in ten solicitors outside of London were members of the Society, Harker’s
membership is testimony to his professionalism. Although modern
notions of professionalism are invoked in the depiction of his training,
service ethic and membership, the Society had less control over members
than Harker and Godalming thought in the burglary of Dracula’s
house.86 In 1888, the Society was legislatively empowered to conduct pre-
liminary hearings of complaints and recommend dispositions to the
courts. It did not become self-regulating or universal until 1920. Even so,
a complaint would have tainted Harker’s reputation and shadowed his
career.
Corruption may hide behind the facade of the gentleman but the Inns
rarely took formal disciplinary proceedings against their member barris-
ters. Such proceedings, as Pue shows, were less about barrister conduct
than Inn politics aimed at defending turf. ‘The Bar rules,’ Dicey writes in
1867,
are regulations which have a twofold aim: firstly, to promote honourable con-
duct; secondly, to check competition. All the rules which have the first aim may
be summed up under the one law—thou shalt not hug attorneys.87
83 Pue, ‘Exorcising’, n 82, 145.

84
I am grateful to Wesley Pue for pointing this out.
85 Pue, ‘Lawyers and Political Liberalism’, n 48.
86 Abel, Legal Professions, n 47, 246–8.
87
There is a long history to this rivalry. Inns excluded outsiders, defined by the
Middle Temple in the sixteenth century as ‘foraigners, discontinuers, strangers or other
not of the society [and] common attorney or sollicitor’ (emphasis added). ‘It is an error
Keeping a social and professional distance between the two branches

drove these politics. Disbarment proceedings against Kennedy were
instituted by Stoker’s Inn, the Inner Temple. Kennedy’s vision of a fused
legal profession, a Mutual Law Society for barristers and solicitors and
university-based legal education continued to rise up from his profes-
sional grave—a shallow one, as the only result was a brief barring from
his Midlands Mess. While England was up to the challenge,88 the vision
took root in the Canadian colonies89 as it had in the United States where,
as Tocqueville famously remarked, there was not a gentleman to be
found. Lawyers could not be gentleman if, by revolutionary edict, there
were no gentlemen.
Dracula raises the quandary of defining good lawyering and desirable
clients by blood and birth. What if the gentleman is a cad?90 Client loy-
alty is an ultimate professional ethic. What can the solicitor do when he
discovers some hideous truth about his client? The question is even more
difficult when he is acting under the instructions of another solicitor. ‘It
was Mr Hawkins’s interest, not mine, and I had to think of him, not
myself’ (p 32). Harker’s professionalism is challenged in Transylvania but
he remains, in Stoker’s vision, the model of the modern legal profes-
sional, the neutral technician of law, ‘of a very faithful disposition . . . dis-
creet and silent . . . ready to attend on you when you will [and] take your
instructions in all matters.’ The ‘up-to-dateness’ of the depiction shows
a decent knowledge on Stoker’s part of solicitors’ work and professional
ideals. The structural opposition between Harker and Dracula suggests
more. It reflects the heated debates of the day within and between the two
to think that the sons of Graziers, farmers, merchants, tradesmen, and artificers can be
made a gentleman by their attendance or matriculation . . . at an Inne of Court; for no
man can be made a gentleman but by his father . . . because it is a matter of race, and of
blood and descent’, Sir George Buc explains in The Third Universitie of England (Society
of Stationers, London, 1615). Goodrich, n 41, 87.
88 Barristers and solicitors now graduate from an accredited university programme of
legal studies, after which each branch attends a separate preparatory course, completes
articles of clerkship and writes professional examinations. Would-be barristers must be
admitted to an Inn and ‘keep terms’ (dining there, usually monthly). There is little left by
way of practical distinction between the professions. Solicitors appear at virtually every
level of court and may be gowned. Wigs remain a barrister privilege.
89 Even so, enrolling as barrister or solicitor was an option in some Canadian
provinces but all Canadian lawyers are now automatically enrolled as ‘barrister and
solicitor,’ still retaining the old terminology. The image of the gentleman held its power
in the drafting of early Canadian codes of professional conduct; the first of which, the
Manitoba Code (1921) concludes, ‘He should also bear in mind that he can only main-
tain the high traditions of his profession by being in fact as well as name a gentleman.’
See W Wesley Pue, ‘Becoming “Ethical”: Lawyer’s Professional Ethics in Early Twentieth
Century Canada’ (1991), 20 Manitoba Law Journal 227.
90 ‘Person of low manners; person guilty or capable of ungentlemanly conduct, black-
guard. . . .’ Concise OED (Clarendon, Oxford, 1964).

branches, over control of professional qualification and the nature of the

professions.
Stoker’s admiration for the junior branch is evident in his portrayal of
Jonathan Harker. But why is Stoker, a newly-admitted barrister, hugging
a solicitor? Stoker was born in Clontarf in 1847, third of seven children
of a civil servant, and graduated from Trinity College Dublin with a BA
(Hons) in science in 1870.91 He won silver medals in history and compo-
sition and was an avid debater, amateur actor and athlete, with trophies
in weights and walking marathons, the more surprising as his legs were
paralysed until he was five. His prescient maiden address as president of
the Philosophical Society was ‘Sensationalism in Fiction and Society.’ He
was auditor of the Historical Society, the most prestigious student posi-
tion. The Irish Times named him the most popular man at Trinity. On
completing his BA, he took a year off to clerk in the office of the Registrar
of Petty Sessions at Dublin Castle. He joined the legal department of the
civil service after taking an MA in mathematics. He was promoted to
Inspector of Petty Sessions, a position requiring travel throughout rural
Ireland with the magistrates circuit court.92 His task was to regularise
court procedures, and to collect and codify rulings on subjects ranging
from paupers to stray cattle, mutineers to dog licencing.
Making law out of lore was early a Stoker concern. His first publication
was the 248-page tome The Duties of Clerks of Petty Sessions in Ireland
(1879).93 Petty Sessions were presided over by lay magistrates and clerked by
solicitors. As inspector, Stoker would have acquired a knowledge of solici-
tors’ law and, perhaps, an admiration and affection for the junior branch
not shared by the London Inns. In Stoker’s Ireland, the professions remained
closer than in England. Both barristers and solicitors were examined at the
King’s Inns in Dublin, which may explain Stoker’s slip in having Harker sit
his examinations at Lincoln’s Inn (p 34). There is no record of solicitors
being examined at Lincoln’s Inn in this period, according to its Librarian,
and English solicitors had no formal connection with the London Inns since
the eighteenth century.94 The Incorporated Law Society of Ireland, estab-
91 This seems to have been a real MA rather than a ‘bought-up’ one, as Belford men-
tions his working on a thesis. Belford, n 20, ch 2.

92
Belford, n 20, 77; The Dictionary of National Biography Missing Persons (Oxford
University Press, Oxford, 1993).
93 Albert Power, Law School Principal of the Law Society of Ireland, writing to the
author 5 Sept 1995, notes ‘I myself have a copy of this book. It is a dull tome, replete with
references to dog licences, court procedures, and sundry other matters of benefit to the
Clerks of the courts. I understand that the book was a regular text for those involved in
the administration of justice for quite some time. It is now a rarely found and valuable
curiosity.’ Stoker’s association with the court ‘would have been very much as a civil ser-
vant rather than a lawyer.’
94
Guy Holborn, Librarian, Lincoln’s Inn, letter to the author, 12 May 1995. Wesley
Pue suggests that rooms may have been let for the purpose by private practitioners at the
lished by Charter of Queen Victoria in 1852, superceded the jurisdiction of

the Honourable Society of King’s Inns and governed both branches.95
After seeing Henry Irving perform in Dublin in 1871, Stoker volun-
teered as drama critic for the Dublin Mail. His rave review of Irving’s
second Dublin appearance in 1876 was rewarded by a personal meeting
with the actor and a private recitation of the melodramatic poem ‘The
Dream of Eugene Aram’.96 Stoker’s Personal Reminiscences of Henry
Irving (1906) records this formative event.
That experience I shall never—can never—forget . . . such was Irving’s com-
manding force, so great was the magnetism of his genius, so profound was the
sense of his dominance that I sat spell-bound . . . he was incarnate power, incar-
nate passion . . . Soul had looked into soul!
Irving swooned, Stoker went into hysterics and Irving presented Stoker
with a signed photograph. The scene recalls Dracula’s flair for the dra-
matic and the hypnotic. Two years later, after 13 years in the legal depart-
ment of the Northern Ireland civil service, Stoker was in London,
retained by Irving as his factotum and business manager of the Lyceum,
bound to the actor’s service until Irving’s death 27 years later.
Stoker began plot notes for Dracula on 8 March 1890, six weeks before
his call to the Bar. ‘[F]or a Grub Street hack, dashing off romantic adven-
tures with little editorial revision, the six years spent composing the novel
was obsessional, not to say unusual’, his biographer Barbara Belford
writes. ‘This novel obviously meant something more to him.’ Although
the identity of the vampire was uncertain (the character of Vlad Tepes
would come later), Stoker’s notes and an early omitted chapter clearly
show that the vampire’s first English contact was to be a young solicitor.97
Stoker wrote himself into Harker, a young, provincial and idealistic self,
warring with vampires. His private vampire was the domineering,
dramatically protean, passionate and ungovernable Henry Irving. He was
the first actor ever to be knighted, fulfilling Stoker’s dream of the
ennobling of the profession. He shares with Dracula a commanding force,
Inns. However, the numbers of students sitting London examinations through the 1880s
ranged from 495 to 634 (Abel, n 47, Table 2.2). Alternatively, Stoker’s reference may have
been an artifice to upgrade Harker’s status by dropping the famous name of Lincoln’s
Inn, or even a subtle nudge in the direction of a fused profession.
95 Power, n 93.
96 Hood’s poem ‘The Death-Bed’ is quoted in Dracula on the occasion of Lucy’s
death, p 148. ‘We thought her dying whilst she slept,/ And sleeping when she died.’
97
Stoker’s sources for Vlad Tepes and Transylvanian vampire lore at Whitby Library
include William Wilkinson, Account of the Principalities of Wallachia and Moldavia,
Etc. (Longmans, London, 1820), from which Stoker typed copious notes, and Mme E de
Laszowska Gerard, ‘Transylvanian Superstitions’ July 1885 Nineteenth Century. Joseph
S Bierman, ‘The Genesis and Dating of Dracula from Bram Stoker’s Working Notes’
(1977) 24 Notes and Queries 39.
a magnetic genius, a spellbinding dominance, ‘incarnate power, incarnate

passion.’ Their juniors Stoker and Harker at first intensely admire them,
are seduced and consumed by their enterprises and are released only by
their respective deaths. The similarity of Dracula’s physiognomy (minus
teeth, palms and nails) to the statue of Irving behind the London National
Portrait Gallery is striking confirmation of Dracula’s derivation. Stoker
intended the novel to found a play starring Irving as Dracula as his tribute
to the ailing actor. Irving’s ill-health would be accommodated by minimal
but powerful stage appearances (as in the ‘sheep speech’) and it would
raise money for the failing Lyceum. Stoker prepared a script to protect
dramatic copyright, notices were posted at the Lyceum half an hour
before the reading, as required, and the part of Dracula was read by a Mr
Jones. Irving’s opinion was given in one word, ‘Dreadful!’98
Wigmore’s question of where a legal novelist learned his legal lore is
answered. Stoker’s familiarity with English law and with the ethics and
internecine rivalries of its practitioners has a dual heritage. It lies first
with the country solicitors of Northern Ireland he met in his civil service
career, and then with the London barristers with whom he dined and
dealt, whose disdain of the junior branch would have been apparent dur-
ing his tenure at the Inner Temple. These rivalries inform the structural
opposition of Harker and Dracula. But Stoker’s legal training is also seen
in his richly associative imagination, his ability to interweave suggestive
yet contradictory discourses without being troubled as to fit or associa-
tion (the boon and bane of Dracula and its critics) and his easy juxtapo-
sition of the rational and the irrational, of modern science with old fears.
‘The common law frame of mind’, David Sugarman writes of Stoker’s
time, ‘straddled a contradictory field of discourses’.99
A tendency towards scientific rationality was yoked to an irrational belief in the
spontaneous, piecemeal, unconscious continuity of the law. The law was a
residue of immutable custom. . . . Scientific rationality was forever being medi-
ated, refracted and sustained by an omnipresent irrationality: Therein lies the
peculiar rationality of the common law mind.
In the common law mind of Bram Stoker, twice trained in law, lies the
‘peculiar rationality’ of Dracula.100 It is Stoker who would have made a
wonderful solicitor.
98
18 May 1897. Belford, n 20, 270.
99
100 The novel’s subversive sexuality and portrayals of femininity and masculinity, the
multiple meanings of the vampire, class, alterity and the foreigner, its reflection of con-
temporary syphilis panics (he may have died of syphilis, as Farson claims, locomotor
ataxia being a euphemism; or not, as Belford argues) and Freudian incest tabus (the band
of brothers kill their father Dracula and marry their mother Mina) have been all been
scrutinised. Stoker’s life—his distanced marriage to the Irish beauty Florence Balcombe
(courted by Oscar Wilde, drawn by Burne-Jones, escorted in Stoker’s absence by libret-
tist and barrister JS Gilbert), his career at the centre of fin-de-siecle London, his alien
Irishness—have been examined for their impact on the novel. It has been read from fem-
inist, post-modernist, lesbian, gay, Victorian, filmic and lit-crit perspectives. Works not
cited include Christopher Craft, ‘ “Kiss Me with Those Red Lips”: Gender and Inversion
in Bram Stoker’s Dracula’ (1984) 8 Representations 107; John L Flynn, Cinematic
Vampires: The Living Dead on Film and Television (McFarland, Jefferson, N Carolina,
1992); Gail B Griffin, ‘ “Your Girls That You All Love Are Mine”: Dracula and the
Victorian Male Sexual Imagination’ (1980) 5 International Journal of Women’s Studies
454; Alan Johnson, ‘Bent and Broken Necks: Signs of Design in Stoker’s Dracula’ (1887)
72 The Victorian Newsletter 133; Rebecca Pope, ‘Writing and Biting in Dracula’ (1990)
1 Lit: Literary Interpretation Theory 199; Phyllis A Roth, ‘Suddenly Sexual Women in
Bram Stoker’s Dracula’ in Margaret L Carter (ed), Dracula: The Vampire and the Critics
(UMI Research Press, Ann Arbor, Michigan, 1988) 57–69. 27 Literature and Psychology;
David Seed, ‘The Narrative Method of Dracula’ in ML Carter (ed), ibid, 195–206 (1985)
40 Nineteenth-Century Fiction; and Carol A Serf, ‘Dracula: The Unseen Face in the
Mirror’ (1979) 9 Journal of Narrative Technique 179. Dracula is all things to all, protean
to the last.
10
The Syndicat de la Magistrature
1968–1978: Elements in the
History of French White Collar
Professional Unionism
DAVID APPLEBAUM
Contemporary French legal professions are unique. Most notably, there

is a basic separation between judges (magistrats) and lawyers (avocats).1
The contemporary division took root in the establishment of an inde-
pendent and distinctively French school for judges, the Centre National
d’Etudes Judiciaires in 1958. Thereafter a distinct and discrete sub-
culture of legal professionals developed among French judges. The recent
history of these magistrates—white-collar, public sector legal profes-
sionals—is an important chapter in the cultural history of modern
French legal professions.
The dominant path to a career as a magistrate requires completion of
the curriculum of the school for judges, renamed the Ecole Nationale de
la Magistrature (ENM) in 1970. There are national exams for admission.
One exam targets individuals who have completed undergraduate
degrees and are less than 27 years old. Another is for civil servants in
other legal professions, eg court clerks and bailiffs, who wish to become
magistrates. The second exam is limited to those who are 40 or younger.
Both groups take the same written exam. Successful candidates must
pass oral examinations before a professional panel. Additionally, some
civil servants, eg schoolteachers, also become full time students for
careers in the judiciary. Following a public ritual and oath of office, all
students are auditeurs de justice.
Within the ENM, the curriculum prepares all for careers as tenured
civil and criminal court magistrates or non-tenured public prosecutors.
Studies include preparation for specialisation as juvenile court judges
(juge d’enfants), investigating judges (juge d’instruction) and probation
1 For a detailed description of the two professions see Hubert Pinsseau, L’organisa-
tion judiciare de la France, (Paris, Documentation Française France) 75–114.
270 David Applebaum
and parole judges (juge de l’application des peines). During the 1970s, the
best students filled positions in Paris at the Ministry of Justice.
Increases and decreases in the professional population develop at a
snails pace, circumscribed by budgetary constraints. Changes in the law
and modulations in citizen use patterns of the civil and criminal courts
have minimal impact on the numbers and distribution of judges and
prosecutors. This makes it possible to plan for recruitment of candidates
for professional schooling.
Professional education divides into two periods: formation initial and
formation permanente. The first phase of education began as a three-
year programme. Studies were cut back to 24 months in 1978. The pro-
gram is now 28 months. The curricular sequence is stable. It begins with
classroom work in Bordeaux, followed by clinical training in the field
along with extra-legal internships. A Parisian study phase of one to three
months ended in 1976. The capstone experience is a final stage in
Bordeaux, home of the ENM. The curriculum prepares everyone for all
careers. The shared knowledge and training frames working relation-
ships among prosecutors and judges. At the same time, the design for
learning creates a social separation between the judiciary and other legal
professionals. In sum, 1958 marked a turning point in the relationships
among members of the judiciary and between the judiciary and other
legal professionals.
At the end of professional study, individual assessments generate class
rankings that correlate with job openings and placements. Evaluation,
ranking and promotion form an important and contentious part of pro-
fessional life. Throughout their careers, magistrates attend compulsory
post-graduate training. It is possible to change from a tenured judgeship
to a non-tenured position as a prosecutor. Individuals switch specialities
and move between courts in the tenured sector of the judiciary.
The history of the formation of the culture of professional judges is an
important chapter in the contemporary cultural history of French legal
professions. My approach to the study of this history is to focus on one
key professional minority group. They were chosen because of their
hyper-critical perspective on the professional sub-culture, the mentalities
of magistrates and the place of law in society. They are the syndicat de la
magistrature.
The syndicat de la magistrature, the first of more than four French
labour unions of judges, was founded on 8 June 1968.2 This essay
2 Under the Fifth French Republic courts are divided into two sectors; judicial and
administrative. The structures have become parallel since the creation of administrative
appeals courts. All court decisions are subject to appeal to the cour de cassation.
Jurisdictional battles between the two sections of the court system are handled by the tri-
bunal des conflicts. There are common law jurisdictions that handle civil and criminal
law as well as special courts. The former are staffed by professional judges. The latter
The Syndicat de la Magistrature 1968–1978 271
sketches the birth and growth to maturity of the union and a professional
counter-culture in contemporary France. It is a story of collective chal-
lenges to the interplay between state and society and collaborative efforts
to refashion judge-citizen relationships. It is a history that illuminates
efforts by judges to enhance the possibility for broader changes in French
society. In other words, the transformation of judicial culture and work
was imagined as part of broader and deeper changes in day to day life in
France.
The French magistrates’ construction of their unique legal culture
yielded efforts to connect the personal, the political and the professional
in the exercise of judicial power. In the face of dominant forms of liberal,
and Marxist (communist and socialist) legal realism, the union devel-
oped a worldview that embraced professional subjectivity, informed by
post-modernism and feminism. The legal subject coupled with study of
French citizen-subjects. The union project created a new empiricism,
grounded in rigorous study and analysis of judges, courts and society.
Union members and leaders challenged modernist views of the
rational-legal order. Their alternative professional culture differed from
Old Regime and nineteenth century expressions of corporatism. At the
same time, their white-collar professional unionism was influenced by a
stream of criticism of modern French syndicalism, developed within the
Confederation Francaise Democratique du Travail (the CFDT was a major
innovative force in the worker’s movements of the late 1960s). The union
debated and published presentations by invited speakers such as Michel
Foucault. Union militants reflected upon feminist criticisms of engendered
French justice. Moreover, members questioned themselves as much as they
interrogated state and public power. An important factor in the develop-
ment of this critical perspective was the feminisation of the profession.
Women became a majority of the membership and union leaders.
By constructing a white-collar labour union of highly educated women
and men, the militants in the counterculture changed the face and altered
(tribunaux de commerce and conseils de prud’hommes) are staffed by elected judges

(3,200 and 14,600 respectively). There are also assize courts that are not permanent juris-
dictions but hold sessions when there are cases to be heard. Three judge panels and jurors
drawn from electoral lists sit on the assize courts (paid and unpaid, professional and cit-
izen). (See Pierre Kramer, ‘L’Appareil judiciaire,’ in Après-demain 355–356: Journal
mensuel de documentation politique, Paris: Henry, 1993. This is the magazine published
by the Ligue des droits de l’homme).
There are four levels of professional magistrates. The base and second tier of the pyra-
mid has 70% of the membership. The first level employees work at appeals courts or in
special jurisdictions and make up 25% of the group. Approximately 300 judges—5% of
the professional group of 6,000 are conseilliers (decision makers—people who give
advice), attorney-generals, general prosecutors and presidents of the courts. There has
been some dissociation between grade and employment, as there has been a growing
recognition of difference among and between courts at the same and different levels.
272 David Applebaum
the world of French justice. Their movement emerged from a patriarchal

and paternalistic professional mind-set. Satire and parody became tools
for shattering a myth of separate spheres between public and private life.
Under the Fifth French Republic, abstract and essentialist ideas of justice
had been linked to a system of training. The dominant professional
culture claimed to nurture independence and autonomy. It also fostered
isolation and atomisation in a model that can be characterised as
Foucauldian deindividuation. The legalism-law worldview constructed
by and for mainstream French judges stressed the complex truth-seeking
role of the skilled professional in applying the law. The union generated
the framework for forming a dynamic collaborative consciousness, devel-
oping discussions of personal life and private experiences and concrete
real life situations. The union fashioned a collective voice that reconfig-
ured the connections between life and work.3 Absent the dominant
culture, the meaning and significance of the alternative vision of judicial
theory and practice would not have developed along the lines of
syndicalist professionalism. In turn, the possibility of objective truth
drained away.
The union’s articulation of the alternate worldview for the profes-
sional judges, courts and society connected with a transformation in the
modalities of communication. There were new patterns of conversations
among judges. Dialogues included spontaneous exchanges as well as
planned exchanges among judges at local, regional and national union
meetings. Annual national conventions and union retreats at Goutelas,
near Lyon, informed joint actions with citizen groups and other sectors
of the judicial administration (Commission National de Liaison de
Justice).4 Contacts with journalists and experiments in changing judge-
journalist relationships were developed by the union sponsored
Commission Presse-Justice. The union examined the paradoxes and
dilemmas of legal limits on public professional speech. Experiments with
court-based press offices modified the form and content of communica-
tions. Investigating judges challenged—in theory and practice—
unequivocal rules about silence. Study of the problem judge-journalist
relationships showed that the obligation of reserve (silence) could under-
mine the presumption of innocence, weaken the legitimacy of justice and,
most importantly, endanger democratic values. Unionists held conversa-
tions with a host of political, social and cultural groups inside France, eg
labour unions, immigrant groups, and civil liberties organisations. The
union created regular connections to legal professionals [judges as well
3
Membership of the union was ‘1,200 out of 4,000’ according to the report made at
the second national convention (Justice 70:4, 7). In the 2001 elections for professional
representation, the union gained 34% of the ballots cast.
4
The first union convention took the initiative to create this group of 18 labour and
professional organisations (Justice:70:5, Feb 1970, 20).
as lawyers] in other European countries, eg Italy, Germany, Belgium, the

Netherlands and Portugal. Union representatives monitored trials, joined
in the deliberations of the Russell Tribunal on War Crimes and worked
with judges in other countries in expressing outrage at the failures of
the judiciary to defend democracy and civil liberties. Events in Greece,
Chile, Argentina, Germany and Italy produced union statements about
dictatorships and the right wing threat to freedoms. Films like ‘Z’ and
‘L’Homme de Kiev’ (Bernard Malamud’s The Fixer) were recommended
to members. The new lines of connection and the broader sweep of
judges’ interests, actions and statements modified the process and the
content of professional discussions. The union energised and intensified
voices of the professional counter-culture.
The union’s repertoire of actions included strikes, press conferences
and informational picketing where they distributed tracts about the
problems and issues of French justice. At the same time, there were new
dialogues between professionals and citizens (called justiciables [those
subject to justice] in the discourse of French legalism, renamed
JUDICIABLES [those subject to judgment] by Michel Foucault in his
workshop for the union at Goutelas in 1977). These dialogues reshaped
left leaning or post-structuralist critics of the court system and changed
the vision of justice and the image of judges. Union members challenged
myths about men in black robes and sought to reveal artificial and dan-
gerous mysteries of legal language.
The union voice was broadcast throughout France. The Institut
National de l’Audiovisuel in the Bibliotheque François Mitterand has an
extensive collection documenting national conventions, press confer-
ences, appearances on television talk shows and radio call-ins. Union
archives document the strategy and tactics planned and executed to
break out of the boundaries and borders of courthouses. The records pre-
served include external and internal criticisms of methods and goals.
Magazines (Justice, J’assume and J’essaime) were published for audi-
ences of professionals and interested lay persons. Books for judges and
non-specialists as well as an historical collection of critical and fre-
quently self-deprecating cartoons eg Des juges croquent la justice,
(Maspero, 1979) brought humour and humanity to the union cause.
The union voice reinvigorated the unique French version of cynical
professional-political satire and the particular legacy of Honoré
Daumier’s critique of the mentality of men of justice in the nineteenth
century.5
5 By the late 1980s, Pierre Jaquin a professional journalist, trained at the Institut
National des Sciences Politique had become the editor in chief of the union magazine,
bringing exceptional and unique qualities of national political satire to the most impor-
tant union publication.
274 David Applebaum
The literature of the modern professional counter-culture revealed

secrets in the relationships among judges and between French judges and
a) elected state officials, b) political parties, c) labour groups, d) non-
governmental organisations and e) the press. Mainstream publications
from the conservative Figaro to the modernist Le Monde, communist
L’Humanité and socialist Libération along with underground papers
reported on the union, its activities and its ambitions. While isolated
union members observed the ritual and requirements imposed by the
obligation for professional reserve and silence, collective union voices
from Troyes6 to Lille and Paris crafted an instrument for speaking out in
new ways in new settings. There were regular interchanges between
Gaullist and Giscardien conservatives and liberals wielding administra-
tive and legislative power, on the one hand, and the repoliticised, reinvig-
orated left-leaning professional community, on the other hand. The
conversations shaped the elaboration of a sub-culture of professional and
juridico-political dissent. New forms of sociability among judges were a
part of the changes that were celebrated by the union.
The official union story had its formal beginnings with the foundation
of the organisation in the midst of the crisis of the May–June uprisings in
France, on 8 June 1968.7 This sketch ends with the bombings of union
headquarters in the fashionable sixteenth arrondissement of Paris in
1978 by right wing fanatics who opposed the unions positions on civil
liberties and capital punishment.8 The history continues to unfold in the
present as founders and members of this labour union of judges continue
to struggle with the day to day problems of professional culture and judi-
cial service in the Fifth French Republic.9
6
The first members of the union brought to trial for violation of rules on public pro-
nouncements spoke out against corruption by private legal professionals (notaires) in the
Troyes jurisdiction. The individuals were punished for their remarks and the right of
judges to unionise was recognised as protected by the Constitution of the Fifth French
Republic. Thereafter there were repeated efforts to either restrict or eliminate this right.
7
In the midst of the May–June crisis, the founding moment which had taken several
months of planning was almost cancelled as transport workers across France joined in
the wave of strikes, preventing individuals from going to Paris to make the announce-
ment and hold a TV press conference.
8 After the bombing, the union headquarters moved to a manufacturing section of the
city. Access to the offices is limited and mail is only received at the central post office.
9 The most recent battles between the union and the government focused globalisa-
tion of fear and implementation of a ‘zero tolerance’ policy in criminal justice cases mod-
eled upon the practices of Rudi Giuliani in New York City. Earlier battles developed over
the 1993 reform of the French Constitution and the Loi Pasqua and legislation expand-
ing police powers in searches for illegal immigrants, regarded by the union as being racist
in nature and likely to lead to the abuse of fundamental rights (in much the same way the
Vichy government handled illegal immigrants in France after 1940).
THE GOLDEN AGE OF THE SYNDICAT DE LA MAGISTRATURE

1968–1978
The second half of the twentieth century in France is haunted by memo-

ries of the German invasion of 1940 and the Vichy Regime. This is as true
for French judges as for any other professional group who witnessed,
participated in and struggled against the Pétainist Regime. The role of
judges in carrying out state law as well as the part played by judges in
restoring democracy to France posed paradoxical problems. The Fourth
French Republic added to the debates about the nature of the meaning of
contemporary justice and the appropriate role of professional judges in a
modern democracy. The dilemmas of modern state action and the role of
judges is shown most clearly in the context of the development and appli-
cation of colonial programmes and policies in Indochina and Africa.
French judges had to address their role in the use of torture in overseas
criminal cases during Francois Mitterand’s tenure as Minister of Justice
in the government of Prime Minister Guy Mollet.10 The revelations
forced consideration of the danger to justice created by professional rules
of silence imposed in arcane processes, obscured by secrecy.
In 1958, the founders of the Fifth French Republic demoted the ‘third
power’ of the Fourth Republic. The judiciary in France came to be called
the ‘judicial authority’—linked to democratic sovereignty by selection
and appointment by the President of the Republic. The founders of the
Fifth French Republic abolished the office of juges de paix (founded in
1790), altered the Conseil Superieur de la Magistrature11 and created a
new system of judge education at the Centre National d’Etudes
Judiciaires. Michel Debré looked forward to the new school for judges to
mirror the role of the Ecole National d’Administration in the preparation
of national administrators.
The transformation of the judiciary and redefinition of professional
knowledge and culture built upon national entrance exams (concours).
The examination pre-selection process and control of students’ access to
the judiciary, however, did not solve on-going problems of recruitment.
10
Recent scholarship by Megan Koreman, The Expectation of Justice: France
1944–1946 (Duke University Press, Durham, 1999) and Sylvie Thénault, Une drôle de jus-
tice: Les magistrats dans la guerre d’Algérie (La Découverte, Paris, 2001) combined with
revelations about the career of Mitterand as well as Henry Rousso’s The Vichy
Syndrome: History and Memory in France Since 1944, translated by Arthur
Goldhammer (Harvard, Cambridge, Mass, 1991) document the ambiguities in the legacy
of judicial responses to fascism and neo-colonialism.
11 Under the Fifth French Republic, the President was able to control membership of
this governing body and, thereby, control the commission d’avancement. In 1993,
Mitterand in coalition with Balladur made minor changes in the selection of members of
the Conseil superieur which were opposed by most members of the judiciary.
276 David Applebaum
Despite the changes of 1958 intended to elevate and revive the stature of
judges, there were persistent low levels of recruitment and problems of
morale in the profession. Moreover, the cohort of men and women who
came to the CNEJ developed a critical perspective on the French judi-
ciary. They formed the Association des Auditeurs et Anciens Auditeurs
de Justice. The group held meetings and published critiques of legal
learning and judicial service. These activities built up over time and the
challenge to the system reached a climax just before the beginning of the
May–June uprising of 1968. The connection between the revolution man-
quée of 1968 and the union is reflected in the post-June 1968 history of
the union rather than in the simultaneity of the events themselves. The
blueprint for change in undergraduate studies of law—in the stenciled
pamphlet, L’Université Critique—Faculté de Droit, combined with the
pre-1968 history of challenges of the creation of professional knowledge
and culture at CNEJ (renamed the Ecole National de la Magistrature).
These documents reveal a conjuncture between long-term dissent and
short-run protest. The counterculture emerged from the double history
and resulted in the most durable movement and institution born during
the events of 1968. Union militants connected with the tradition of the
magistrats résistant and the men who kept the history of opposition to
judicial abuse of power under Vichy alive. They were able to embrace the
theme of co-determination that was central to the student uprisings of
1968.
The process of fashioning an alternative strategy for learning and a
new curriculum for judicial training came onto the national stage after
publication of La Formation du magistrat: livre blanc sur le centre
national d’etudes judiciares. The 114 page description and critique of the
design for learning of the school for judges was co-authored by the syn-
dicat and the Bordeaux alumni association. This booklet was followed by
union publication of La Formation du magistrat: livre blanc sur la for-
mation permanente, in 1973. The first white paper focused upon entry
into the profession and the creation of the mentalité of a magistrate. The
second white paper stressed nurturing a post-professional school activist
role of self-constitution in the production of knowledge/power in profes-
sional life. The second volume on lifelong learning grew out of a ques-
tionnaire designed to generate discussion and debate about the form,
content and control of professional life and culture.
While the syndicat pressed forward in its effort to transform the theory
and practice of training judges, the national government took unilateral
action. The claim was that a shortage of judges was the key factor in
reaching the decision to change the system. Union militants argued that
the hidden agenda was to destroy the school for judges. Justice 70:4
(February 1970 p 4) announced a special union congress to deal with the
crisis of CNEJ. The magazine restated approval for an educational
reform project (p.10) which included ‘authentic co-determination’ (the

union’s version of autogestion [self-determination] advocated by stu-
dents as well as anti-imperialists in May–June of 1968), a new collabora-
tive pedagogy, specialised assignment of magistrates to schools for judges
to train and teach others, and a change in cost accounting for educational
payments (a posteriori to replace a priori calculations of student
payments).
The published works on education for the judiciary and lifelong learn-
ing dispelled the myth that professional training was limited to uniform,
universal and objective applications of increasingly complex positivist
civil and criminal code law. The view of judges as skilled bureaucrats who
applied yet never engaged in interpretative and subjective decision-
making was rejected. All decisions came to be regarded as political.
Connections between the subject (the field of law) and the Subject (the
person in search of justice) became central to professional self-
consciousness. Evidence was presented to show that traininng for the
judiciary required more than creating technicians who were automatons.
Union pamphlets framed acquisition of skills in a wider context of
knowledge that would enable critical understanding of subjective and
interpretative components of judicial decision-making within code law
processes. They refuted the sharp distinction of common law judges and
‘government by judiciary’ from code law judges and the continental tra-
dition. This vision ran counter to the works of figures like Maurice
Garcon and the liberal-conservatives who dominated French and Gaullist
thinking about judges, courts and society. The ghost of Charles
DeGaulle, mediated and channelled through the voice of Minister of
Justice Alain Peyrefitte, warned of government by judiciary. They raised
the spectre of corrupt and politicised judicial subjectivism as the antithe-
sis of indivisible democratic sovereignty. At the same time the Gaullist
views expressed by Peyrefitte regarded courts and judges as an appropri-
ate tool in the elaboration of public policy, especially in the elaboration
of criminal justice programmes and practices. It is significant and ironic
that critics of the syndicat’s counterculture applied their principles
through practices associated with service to the courts of Vichy, in deal-
ings with the FLN in Algeria and after 1962 in the trials of opponents of
Algerian independence. Events of the past did not suggest to them that
there was any fundamental flaw in the two hundred year history of repub-
lican subordination of justice and legal institutions. The Ecole National
de la Magistrature, constructed to emulate and replicate the technocratic
work of the Ecole National d’Administration (historically viewed as a
continuation of a corollary to Vichy patterns and practices) became the
source of a critical counter-culture. It’s graduates challenged the claims
of equity and fairness. They revealed patterns of bias and subjectivity
that compromised the law and contradicted claims that professional
278 David Applebaum
judges only applied the law. The assault of the legal system on the dis-
favoured (défavroisée) became a core component of the critique of French
justice as practised by so-called impersonal, objective, and highly profi-
cient skilled legal professionals.
Throughout the ‘golden age’ of the union there was a regular chorus of
governmental reform proposals and student challenges to the status quo
at Bordeaux. (The ENM was the only one of the French ‘grandes ecoles’
located outside Paris—a political plum for the Gaullist Mayor of
Bordeaux, Jacques Chaban Delmas.) The themes of change in education
are expressed in the publications in Justice and the minutes of the
Executive Council and the Executive Board of the Union [see archives in
Paris]. For example, in 1976, Justice 76 repeated concerns about the
ENM. They deplored and protested the Loi Foyer, designed to increase
lateral recruitment to the judiciary and break the monopoly of the school
on the construction of judicial culture. They saw it as a plan to foster a
return to the traditional power of older judges in shaping the culture of
the younger recruits to the profession. The syndicat was particularly dis-
turbed by proposals to switch the sequence of study. A modified return to
a system of isolated apprenticeships in the field was seen as an effort to
isolate, indoctrinate and weed out dissident voices. This was a case where
the spatial reconfiguration and redistribution of authority would pro-
mote tighter control on new members of the profession. The union
opposed training schemes that evaded supervision and control from
Bordeaux. They wanted pedagogical preparation for mentors. They
called for a system for monitoring of internship placements and training
for mentors in order to insure that critical learning could take place.
Militants questioned the authoritarian orientation towards certain func-
tions of the ENM and the addition of a post-graduate probationary
period. The dissidents warned that the governments plan to give deci-
sion-making power to those serving in apprenticeships would be declared
unconstitutional (as it had been in 1970). Following the presentation of
the union critique, the government denied that they had offered anything
more than a trial balloon. The story is evidence of efforts to dismantle or
transform the construction of the counter-culture in Bordeaux and
restore the dispersed hegemonic power enjoyed by French judges in the
pre-1958 hierarchical structures of the French judiciary. In fighting to pre-
serve and protect scolarité in Bordeaux and stressing the importance of
spending the last part of professional learning in the setting of a school
for judges, the union was indirectly reaffirming a core factor in the devel-
opment of syndicalist possibilities—the shared experience of a common
professional education.12
12
See Justice 74:28 Jan 1974, 48 ‘La crise a L’Ecole Nationale de la Magistrature’
for details of the declaration of 11 Dec 1973 by union members of the school when
they voted against reducing the period of study at the school in Bordeaux, opposed
The union critique of reforms proposed by the Ministry of Justice

argued that ‘Piecemeal responses to problems are proof that the struc-
tures for participation are not fulfilling their function.’ The dissidents
argued that there was an ‘over-representation of persons from the top of
the judicial hierarchy and the extra-judicial hierarchy and an under-
representation of students’ in Bordeaux. At the same time, the dissident
students who were members of the union noted that ‘we did not run for
positions because of the electoral system being used’.13
Reference to one collaborative project by graduating students gives
some sense of the critical interdisciplinary nature and intellectual orien-
tation of work that was possible in the Bordeaux programme. Thirteen
members of the school joined in a final project called ‘ENM/AIR’ ‘Le
Langage du Juge et son incidence sur les rapports entre la justice et la
societe (The Language of the Judge and its incidence in the relationships
between justice and society).
The students looked to use complex theories of linguistics and communication to
uncover the influence of Jacques Derrida, Roland Barthes, JL Austen [allocu-
tionary, illocutionary and perlocutionary acts], Pierre Bourdieu and Benvenitse
on self-critical analysis among French magistrates.
Without Bordeaux and the union, it is less than likely that magistrates in
training would have addressed these questions or considered the method-
ologies of post-structuralist analysis. Other legal cultural-anthropological
perspectives on contemporary French justice emerged as an important part
of union analysis and reflect on-going links to cutting-edge work in French
social sciences.14
As members of the union trained their voices and pursued critical
research, they developed the ability and capacity to speak on a wide
ending the Parisian period of study arguing that it was critical to witness and learn about
the day-to-day operations of power in the Ministry in Paris and to develop a clear view
of the role of judicial authority (the ministry) and its relationships with the executive and
legislative branches of the government.
13
See Justice 74: Supplement au Numéro 31 (One of several special supplements in the
sequentially numbered sequence of magazines.) ‘Le Syndicat de la Magistrature et la
Formation du Magistrat’—June 1974—for details on meeting held and the expulsion of
students from the meeting room who continued to meet in the hallway of the school.
14 Among the later publications by judges, Antoine Garapon’s L’ane portant les
reliques is a valuable tool in understanding the mentality of judges and demonstrating the
influence of a critical and dissident sub-culture in the analysis of the day-to-day work and
life of professional judges. Garapon’s study reflects keen understanding of the works and
methods of Pierre Bourdieu. His analysis is a key to the meaning of the rituals of French
Civil and French Criminal court proceedings and the professional roles and relationships
among tenured and non-tenured members of the judiciary as they go about work. A crit-
ical perspective on Garapon’s method is offered by Katherine Fischer Taylor’s In the
Theater of Criminal Justice: The Palais de Justice in Second Empire Paris (Princeton
Univesity Press, Princeton, 1993).
280 David Applebaum
variety of subjects related to professional life and broader concerns of

French Justice. At a meeting between René Pleven, Minister of Justice and
the executive of the union, Pleven expressed his distress about the means
used by the union to speak out about legislative proposals. He was ‘espe-
cially upset about the ways in which public opinion was brought into the
dynamic of the dialogue. . . .’ Pleven preferred ‘concertation prealable’
(discussions behind closed doors in private spaces) to statements made in
a public space with invited guests from the press where perspectives and
arguments could be witnessed and discussed by a still wider audience of
citizens. The president of the Union Fedéral de la Magistrature, Ropers,
[the older professional organisation] expressed similar concerns regard-
ing the pattern of use of the syndicalist voice and recommended conver-
sations similar to those sought by Pleven.15 (See Justice 71:11 February
1970 p 2–3). Despite these admonitions, the union established that it
could and would speak out on proposed legislation as well as the logic
and implications of specific legal decisions.16
Two examples of ‘speaking out’ by the dissident voice of the judges’
counter-culture illuminate the key characteristics of counter-cultural
action in the ‘golden age’ of the union: the first involved workplace safety
and the second focused upon the right to political asylum in France.
The problem of safety in the workplace came to the fore at inter-
national meetings in Brescia, Italy in 1974 (Justice 74:31 p 11) at a two
day study session with members of Magistratura et Democratia (accord-
ing to David Nelkin, a communist union of Italian judges). The report
made by syndicat judges noted that there were 2,383 work-related deaths
in France in 1971. Of these, 921 were in the construction trades.
Industrial accidents were associated with 28,000,000 days of lost work
calculated to cost 7.5 billion francs. A local investigation in the Lyon
Court Region found that there had been 32 deaths, with 21 of the 32
among immigrants and eight of the 21 were Italian. Syndicalist judges,
working ‘in collaboration with work inspectors’ found the need to force
‘compliance with the law on the books’ to stem the deaths and secure
safety in the workplace. Comparisons of political pressures placed on
workplace inspectors with political pressures placed on judges confirmed
similar patterns of political interventions in the separated branches of the
state administrations.
15
At first, it was possible to maintain membership in the Union Federal and the
Syndicat de la Magistrature. There was a break in 1974 as the older group objected to
concerted action by the autonomous union in association with the two largest French
labour federations, the Confederation General du Travail and the Confederation Francis
Democratique du Travail.
16
To date, the most intensive study I have completed has focused on the development
of the union position on French abortion law reform in 1973 and 1974. A manuscript,
Images of Justice, Visions of Judges: The Syndicat de la Magistrature, 1968–1981 is near-
ing completion.
Shortly after the Brescia conference, Judge Patrice de la Charette (See

‘L’affaire Chapron Justice 75: supplement 5 October 1975) developed a
strategy to use French criminal law to highlight the problem of indus-
trial accidents. His spontaneous individual action developed as a wider
arena for judicial action. Charette’s opponents, in the community of
business leaders (patronat) and the government came to see his action
as a more elaborate left-wing conspiracy with media collaborators. The
action became a factor in forcing public action—on employers and on
members of the public administration who were not fulfilling regulatory
obligations. The 15 page stenciled special edition of the union magazine
redefined public order and transformed the definition of public space to
include the workplace. Moreover, the union was able to reconnect the
traditional arena of court power to new fields of action in the techno-
administrative bureaucratic state. Charette reinvigorated nineteenth
century concerns about justice into a twentieth-century regulatory
setting. The symbolic act of placing the head of the company in jail
as part of preventive detention in order to preserve public order
produced immediate attacks by the government on the dissident sub-
culture. Emotions and debates following this case illustrate one more
time the revelatory role of justice. The union reported, Charette’s
actions
reminds us that industrial accidents have an uninterrupted flow that permanently
disturb public order, threaten the security of citizens, and have been generally
ignored by justice. There is one industrial accident in France every seven seconds,
one death every 40 minutes and only a small number ever make it to court because
of the lack of means for industrial inspections.
State and business leaders responded to Charette’s action and worked to

prevent his strategy from becoming part of the repertoire of tactics used
by dissident judges in defence of immigrants and French workers. The
magistrates’ union concluded by expressing regret that others (members
of the patronat and right wing journalists, politicians and bureaucrats)
had tried to ‘personalize the issue and elude their responsibility in order
to receive special treatment outside the common law.’
The Chapron case and Judge Charette’s creative jurisprudence illumi-
nate the larger meanings of syndicalist connections—international and
national. Syndicat action reinforced the left-wing view of silence and
lack of imagination as tools in a conscious strategy to preserve judicial
inactivity. For the left, the control of judges was a component in a right-
wing conspiracy. The status quo, reinforced the powers of giant and mid-
sized enterprises. Profits stabilised through control of the legal system
and the judiciary. Elites drawn from big business and upper levels of
administrative state profited when administrative actions stalemated
judicial intervention and regulatory enforcement.
282 David Applebaum
The second case that illustrates the ‘golden age’ also had international
origins. In 1974, Mitterand organised a committee to study the problem
of civil liberties and responses to terrorism in the German Federal
Republic. There were regular meetings and frequent correspondence
about German policies and practices. Members of the syndicat de la
magistrature were active in the debate and discussion. Events reached a
climax in 1978.
Monique Guémann, Vice-President of the union spoke out against
the deportation of Klaus Croissant, a German lawyer and counsel for the
Baader-Meinhoff Group. Croissant was one of several lawyers who
belonged to the informal association of international leftist judges and
legal professionals and represented the group. Invited to speak in France
with several German colleagues, Croissant was refused permission to
leave the country. He slipped into France and immediately asked for polit-
ical asylum. The French Ministry of Justice moved as rapidly as possible
to deny Croissant’s request and ship him back to Germany. He was sent
home with the explanation that he was not a person seeking political asy-
lum because the Croissant case involved an a-political simple criminal
matter.
Speaking in November of 1978, in her court in Draguignan, Monique
Guémann said,
As a Magistrate with a mission given by the constitution to guarantee liberties, it
is my duty to express my concern that the defence cannot make use of the High
Court of Appeals and the Conseil d’État regarding the immediate execution of the
extradition order which appears to me to be a violation of the rights to a legal
defence.
She was careful to craft the timing of her statement—before the opening
of the official court session—in a space she thought was within the nar-
row boundaries of legality to manoeuvre.
Guémann’s disciplinary hearing before the Conseil Superieur de la
Magistrature was swift and quickly followed by disciplinary action for
violation of the obligation of judicial reserve (Justice 78 Supplément).
The union executive issued a press release saying:
Without the liberty of the judge, what will become of the liberty of the citizen?
Does Peyrefitte want to condemn judges to silence? What might magistrates do if
tomorrow there were grave threats to liberties? For its part, it [executive bureau]
will not renounce liberty.
Guémann’s enemies regarded her speech as a violation of the require-
ment of judicial reserve. They reasoned that if one judge questioned the
rulings of another court the system would lose legitimacy. Minister of
Justice Peyrefitte initiated disciplinary charges against her which were
ultimately heard by the Conseil Superieur de la Magistrature. She was
censured, demoted and transferred to Nanterre. The message was clear.
Judges were prohibited from speaking out and questioning state deci-
sions involving juridico-political acts of courts and legal panels that were
outside their jurisdiction or competence. At the same time, the issues of
technologies of power, structural divisions within the judiciary, the role
of professional disciplinary bodies—theorised in debates among
Dominique Charvet (a Marxist critic of Foucault and protege of Nicos
Poulantzas), Michel Foucault (in his workshop excoriating dissident
judges for advocating the amplification of juridical power in France—
prepared for the union at Goutelas in 1977) and Michel Miaille (in his
assessment of possibilities for dissident action by professional judges,
published in Justice) became real in the Guémann case. Guémann’s posi-
tion fit the Charvet model and there is every indication that her speech
was carefully planned to generate public debate—about the deportation
of Croissant, the significance of civil liberties and the centrality of an
independent judiciary as guardians of human rights.
There were marches, demonstrations and public challenges to
Minister of Justice Peyrefitte after he censured Guémann. The National
Union of Psychiatrists and Psychiatrists in Training called the censure of
Guémann a ‘grave attack on liberties’ and ‘an act of authoritarianism
that proves once again that freedom of opinions does not belong to civil
servants of the Republic’ The magazine F published by Claude Servan-
Schreiber referred to Guémann as a modern-day Antigone (more likely
Anouilh’s than Sophocles’) while Odile Dhavernas, founder of a feminist
group of legal professionals wrote to Guémann on behalf of the group
expressing solidarity with her struggles against the oppressive, gendered
French Republican establishment. (See Dossier Guémann, Archives of the
Syndicat de la Magistrature).
A Confederation Francais Democratique du Travail group from the
Haute Saône, representative of the ‘second left’ based in the secularised
Catholic trade union movement, wrote, ‘When judges refuse to serve as
the eyes and fingers of the political class in power, they experience repres-
sion and undergo punishments reserved up until the recent era for union
militants in private enterprise.’
Opposition to Guémann’s public remarks was equally vocal and much
more violent. There was an unsigned card sent to ‘MG’ at the Palais de
Justice in Draguignan. It had a pencil drawing ‘Poubelle Guémann’
(Guémann Garbage) with a line drawing supposed to be a person and
labeled M. Croissant. Under the sketch, the writer said, ‘VIDEZ
ORDURES DANS LA POUBELLE S.V.P.’ (throw refuse into the garbage
please). Two bombs were placed in the offices of the syndicat de la mag-
istrature; the first failed to detonate, and the second—made up of 12
sticks of dynamite—destroyed the lift. The terrorists note defended
‘order and security,’ praised the right wing bombing of the Bologna Train
Station in Italy , and warned that if the judges continued to speak out or
284 David Applebaum
if they succeeded in putting an end to capital punishment in France, they

would return and kill judges. (Envelope and handwritten note from the
Archives of the union).
The decision to censure Guémann and transfer her to Nanterre was
linked to yet another arena concern for dissident professional judges.
Union voices challenged state structures—especially the Conseil
Superieur de la Magistrature and its Commission d’Avancement (See
Supplemental Issue of Justice 76: 45) They noted that they had received
40 per cent of the ballots but none of the seats because of the ‘winner
takes all’ system of representation on the commission. They protested
against the hierarchical pattern of awarding seats on the commission and
called for a doubling of the representativeness of the commission. The
dissident judges wanted a combination of proportional representation
of organisations alongside proportional representation of a stratified
profession. They claimed that their system of membership would reduce
the power of the elite within the profession over those in lower level posi-
tions. They wanted a system of guarantees of fairness ‘similar to other
civil servants.’
At the same time, the syndicalists requested that the system of grading
be reformed, with quantitative analysis restored alongside qualitative
analysis, the development of individual rights to read, review, question
and appeal against specific grading and professional evaluations. These
steps were all designed as part of the larger critique of the interplay
between hierocratic power and political interference in judicial decision-
making. The reform proposals were a strategy to reduce the ability of
politicians to pressure judges through manipulations of opportunities for
professional promotions.
The democratic impulse in the union combined support for the divi-
sion of labour with opposition to conversion of that division into the
hierarchy of the pyramidical state judicial apparatus.
The proposed reforms of state structures were connected to the kind of
democratic and participatory syndicalism stressed by the founders of the
union. There were strict term limits on leadership positions. Emphasis
was placed on local level sectional meetings. National conventions pre-
sented themes for debate and conversation. Resolutions were presented
within the context of setting aside time and space for pre-convention
development and small group debate and discussion. Materials were
mailed in advance, opposing perspectives published and difference was
stressed in order to avoid the problems of subjugated knowledges. Polls
were designed as much for generating new questions and stimulating
critical thinking as they were for crystallising a union position on an
issue. The French obsession with numbers and divergent views was
tailored to the needs of developing new ways of thinking about problems
and issues.
The national government waged an active campaign against white

collar judicial unionism. Individuals were prosecuted, the state opposed
the right of judges to unionise, legislation was proposed to take away the
right to unionise after courts made the decision that judges were covered
by legislation allowing all public employees in France to form unions.
Struggles with Ministers of Justice and administrators played a
constitutive role in shaping union history. Key aspects of the nature and
meaning of the counter-culture was developed in the adversarial rela-
tionships between the union and the government. These conflicts
expanded the range of union experiences from the inclusive, democratic
and participatory model of syndicalism to the conflict model that is more
usually associated with the processes of inquisitorial and accusatorial
judicial discourses.
CONCLUSIONS
In 1974, Etienne Bloch, speaking about the union said

we affirm our vocation to be on the side of the weak, in other words, the workers
in relation to the employers, the tenants in relation to the landlords, the con-
sumers in relation to the merchants. But this is not because we are obliged to ren-
der partisan justice. Our position reverses an old tendency . . . we will restore
equilibrium . . . we cannot do otherwise. (Justice 74:28 January 1974.)
Albert Petit, another union militant said,
When a judge makes a decision he acts in the legal form imposed upon him. The
law is not neutral, procedures are not neutral and means of legal action are not
neutral. Our decisions are necessarily marked by political choices of the political
power. . . . Like teachers, the military and bureaucrats . . . our reference point
must be the values that are the common patrimony of modern democracy. The
state belongs to no one, political parties are only tenants.
These views continued to shape and inform the syndicalist voice of
legal professionals in 1978. In 1978, a small group in the union published
two issues of a special publication called J’assume (this stenciled newslet-
ter is different from J’essaime—to swarm/form hive and clearly is in the
tradition of Zola’s J’accuse.) The creators of J’assume spoke of the need
of magistrates to reaffirm taking responsibility in efforts to reinvigorate
debate on ‘jurisprudence and speed up presentation of union news.’
Themes included, ‘syndicalist strategies and professional practices, the
defence of liberties, prioritising professional practice.’ They focused on
the importance of giving union militants information so that they could
use decision-making power so that ideas developed by the union would
become part of ‘democratic and egalitarian justice controlled by the cit-
izen.’ (J’assume, 1:5).
286 David Applebaum
The second and final issue of J’assume, 2: was a retrospective self-

assessment printed for the May 1978 debate at the union retreat at
Goutelas. It began by describing the judges of 1968 as a group charac-
terised by ‘profound lethargy’ made up of a ‘sick, amorphous, debilitated
body, on the path to decomposition.’ The text said, ‘ It took one breath
to reactivate it ‘
The syndicat de la magistrature arrived with the May sun. It proceeded empir-
ically and created a critical analysis of the functioning of justice. Each judge saw
views held in silence brought into the public place. Justice was not equal for all,
Justice was controlled by the power (meaning the strong executive) and was at its
service. Law was not the expression of the general will but the result of the rela-
tionship between forces. Judges were not independent. The union gave lessons . . .
on internal democracy, on justice, on democracy itself .
The text went on to state,
Justice cannot exist if society itself is not just. The syndicat de la magistrature is
not a political movement. It cannot work to change the politics of society. But it
can bring its support to those, victims of social structures who struggle to estab-
lish new social relationships. (J’assume, 2: 9).
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the Algerian War and the Cour de Sureté de l’État created by Prime Minister
Pompidou. It labels them regressive and links the special court system with the
lack of independence of the judiciary. The press release also contains a condem-
nation of the Conseil superieur de la magistrature adopted at the first congress of
the Syndicat de la Magistrature along with a statement by one member.
Anon. Stenciled Note complémentaire sur les modalités de l’approche généalogique
(Notes on genealogic method—(the research strategy of power/knowledge central
to Foucauldian analysis—filed with papers belonging to the union in a 1977
dossier).
Charvet, Dominique (1977) (‘member of the Syndicat de la Magistrature’) Foucault
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presentation at Goutelas. Comité des Intellectuels pour L’Europe des Libertes
(January 1978) Manifesto. Paris (No publisher named)
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ten notes and changes found in envelope mailed to Monsieur Aynard, Magistrat,
Tribunal d’instance de Lille, Avenue du Peuple Belge, 59 Lille. From Tribunal
d’instance, Villejuif (just outside Paris). ‘TOPO: Boutiques de droit—used for
article on legal system’ This was Foucault’s response to the 1976 collaborative
text that appeared under the name of Robert Badinter, introduced by François
Mitterand. See Robert Badinter, Liberté, Libertés: Comité d’étude et reflexion
pour une charte des libertés (Paris, 1976).
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Simon, Gerald (1975) Un syndicat dans la magistrature: Le Syndicat de la
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and Jury (Vaudieaux and Baud, Courvoisier).
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including pleading of Antoine Lyon-Caen (brother of Pierre), calling for a
‘national day of solidarity in support of Monique Guemann.’ Issue concludes with
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Syndicat de la Magistrature (1980) ‘Peyrefitte contre le libertés,’ Press Release.
Rouen: Norm’Imprim.
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Badinter, Robert (1976) (ed) Liberté, Libertés: Reflexions du comité pour une charte
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156–157 (Documentation Francais, Paris).
Bloch, Etienne (1981) ‘Faire carrière sous la Ve Republique?,’ Pouvoirs 16, Paris.
—— (1983) ‘Le Conseil superieur de la magistrature: De la Constitution du 2
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288 David Applebaum
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France: Ombres et lumieres (Documentaiton Francaise, Paris).
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critiques,’ Libération.
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Syndicat de la Magistrature (Lang-Grandemanage, Paris).
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des libertés, est-il libre lui-même? Justice 70:8 Journal du Syndicat de la
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page xiii) Justice 1979:74 Journal du Syndicat de la Magistrature (LITO, Paris).
Syndicat de la Magistrature, (1983) ‘Statut de la magistrature: Propositions pour un
réforme,’ Justice 1983:94 Journal du Syndicat de la Magistrature (Corbiere et
Jugain, Paris).
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les libertes mais quelques reserves,’ Justice 90:129 Journal du Syndicat de la
Magistrature (Polyglottes, Paris).
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pouvoirs,’ Justice 92:134 Journal du Syndicat de la Magistrature (Polyglottes,
Paris) 9.
PART IV
Lawyers and Colonialism

11
Together We Fall, Divided We Stand:
The Victorian Legal Profession in
Crisis 1890–1940*
ROB M C QUEEN
The members of the Solicitors branch of the profession are largely dis-
united. A leading solicitor said recently there was no profession so dis-
integrated. . .
(GF Pitcher (President of the Law Institute of Victoria) The Lawyer and
the Community, Law Institute Journal, 1/12/1933)
INTRODUCTION
In a recent article Allen Hutchinson notes the declining homogeneity of

the legal profession1. He suggests that a lack of homogeneity amongst
members of the legal profession carries with it significant implications
for simplistic notions of what might constitute ‘legal ethics’. Hutchinson,
however, also notes that the supposedly univocal and homogenous legal
profession of the past may never have existed. There have, he observes,
always been fault lines and divisions within the profession as between
barristers and solicitors, as between sole practitioners and their counter-
parts in large city firms, as between practitioners from different ethnic
and class backgrounds and so on. It is simply the case that the complex-
ity of the divisions within the profession have apparently increased of
late. It has also, in such a rapidly changing world, become more and more
* The author wishes to acknowledge the assistance provided by the staff of the State
Library of Victoria and the University of Melbourne Archives in accessing relevant
research materials, and the Schools of Law and Legal Studies and the Faculty of Law and
Management, La Trobe University, for providing funding to undertake the research.
Last, but not least, the author wishes to acknowledge the constructive comments offered
by Wes Pue on an earlier draft of the paper. All errors and omissions are, of course, the
sole responsibility of the author.
1
A Hutchinson, ‘Legal ethics for a fragmented society: between professional and per-
sonal’, in W Pue (ed), Lawyering for a fragmented world: professionalism after God,
Special Issue (1998) 5 International Journal of the Legal Profession 175–193.
294 Rob McQueen
difficult to sustain the ‘myth’ of a single code of ethics and ideal to which
all legal practitioners subscribe.
Whilst Huthchinson’s account of the present disintegration of the
‘legal profession’ is quite persuasive it should also be noted that this is
not the first time that the legal profession has been under significant
stress, both in the public eye and from within. Of course these previous
crises have been different in nature from that which we are currently
experiencing. Nevertheless, they were crises which were regarded with
great seriousness by contemporaries, and seen to carry with them
portents of the implosion of legal professionalism itself. Indeed, some
of these past periods of upheaval were so traumatic that they have been,
in effect, written out of the history of the profession.2
The periods in the ‘life’ of the Law Institute of Victoria which I am con-
cerned with in this paper are those corresponding with the severe eco-
nomic crisis of the 1890s, and those cognate with the Great Depression
(roughly 1928–1936). The reason I have chosen these two periods is that
in both, the legal profession was under significant stress. Such times of
crisis are precisely the times at which the claims of ‘professionalism’
might be best tested, as too might the assumption of homogeneity
amongst members of the profession. These are, of course, the times at
which any fault lines between different factions of the legal profession
might be most clearly exposed to public view.
Both periods under examination also corresponded (in Victoria) with
significant changes in the formal regulatory framework of the profession
itself. In the 1890s the major reform which was announced and ushered
through Parliament was that of the formal fusion of the two branches of
the profession. The major justifications for this reform were (i) to save
clients money by allowing them to choose from a much wider pool of
advocates than were available solely from the ranks of ‘qualified barris-
ters’ and (ii) to make it far easier for clients to obtain representation in
court in cases which were heard in remote locales where no barristers
were generally available. As we will see, despite the laudable motives for
amalgamation of the profession, which were formalised by changes to
the Legal Profession Practice Act in 1891, and significant support from
the community at large for the reform, it did not work in practice. The
reasons for this failure are complex, but were largely a consequence of the
resistance on the part of barristers to this ‘attack’ on their monopoly of
advocacy in the superior courts. How they were able to achieve this vic-
tory ‘against the odds’ and sustain their monopoly is only properly to be
2
For instance the early history of the legal profession in Australia, founded as it was
by emancipist convicts, and the subsequent crisis which occurred when these ‘practi-
tioners’ were excluded from the courts has generally been passed over by historians. It is
only due to the energies of historians such as Bruce Kercher that we are again beginning
to recover this ‘lost’ past.
The Victorian Legal Profession in Crisis 1890–1940 295
understood in terms of specific aspects of the political, social and eco-

nomic environment of late nineteenth century Victoria which was in
many ways different from those extant in other Australian colonies in
the same time period. These differences in context will be examined
below.
The second period under examination in this paper, the Great
Depression, was largely dominated by internal and external pressure for
a scheme of fidelity insurance for solicitors. The failure of large
numbers of legal practices, combined with the regular discovery of defi-
ciencies in practitioners trust accounts led to a clamour from the public
for the introduction of a scheme of fidelity insurance for solicitors and
compulsory annual audits on trust accounts. Elements within the profes-
sion (and more particularly within the Council of the Law Institute)
favoured the introduction of some such scheme. The reasons for this were
(i) a real dismay at the low standard of ethics within the profession, com-
bined with a determination to ensure that high professional standards
were restored and (ii) a perception that if nothing was done public regard
for the profession would be virtually non-existent and as a consequence
of this abject failure of ‘professionalism’ on the part of practitioners the
state would intervene to directly regulate the profession, rather than let it
continue to regulate itself.
The saga of the ensuing debate as to the necessity or otherwise of
fidelity insurance exposed the depth of the fault lines, both within the
ranks of the legal profession itself, and as between it (in the guise of its
representative body—the Law Institute of Victoria) and the wider com-
munity. The concept of a single unified profession which subscribed to
high ethical ideals in its relationship with clients was simply unsustain-
able in the economic and social maelstrom of the Depression years.
HISTORICAL APPROACHES TO THE LEGAL PROFESSION
The predominant approach (at least until recently) to the ‘history’ of

specific legal professions has been one which sees the ‘history’ of these
professions as the unfolding of a series of universalistic ‘professional’
values over time. The maturity of the legal (and other) professions in
any society is an indicia of how ‘modern’ and how ‘civilized’ that par-
ticular society was. Of course, the more sophisticated of such histories
can accommodate in their explanatory framework periods in which
there are eruptions of ‘bad’ or unethical behaviour on the part of mem-
bers of the legal profession. Also, not all such histories are unaware of
the important role of both the state and public opinion in shaping the
‘profession’. Nevertheless it would be true to say that most historical
examinations of the legal profession, at least until quite recently,
296 Rob McQueen
considered ‘professionalisation’ as a predominantly linear process.

Periods of crises in the legal profession in particular places and partic-
ular periods were generally accounted for in such histories as minor
disturbances in the otherwise steady development of the legal profes-
sion towards a state of ‘maturity’. This was usually measured against a
benchmark (at least in the common law world) such as the English or
the United States legal profession.
Dissatisfied with the assumptions made in such historical accounts; a
group of critical scholars, often referred to as ‘market control theorists’,
have examined the less disinterested aims of professional norms. These
scholars have challenged the idea that the ‘modern’ form of the legal pro-
fession is the result of the unfolding of a series of ‘universalistic’ values.
In particular, they have questioned the evolutionary assumption that the
history of ‘the legal profession’ is characterised by the unfolding of an
altruistic commitment to a set of professional values and an adherence to
certain forms of ethical behaviour. These scholars also dispute the ‘pro-
gressive’ role performed by the imposition of ‘higher’ educational stan-
dards on applicants for the profession. They suggest that the imposition
of such academic standards, with the consequent effect of disaccrediting
non-elite law schools, excluded both the financially disadvantaged and
ethnic minorities from the profession.
It is also suggested by these ‘market control’ theorists that the imposi-
tion of ‘standards of conduct’ on members of the profession has had the
effect of excluding non-conformists and political radicals from the pro-
fession. By arrogating for themselves the authority to define what consti-
tuted ‘misconduct’ professional associations were able to exercise
enormous power over who did and who did not practise law. It is also
argued by these critical scholars that professional associations often used
their disciplinary powers to exclude the ethnically, socially or politically
‘undesirable’ from the profession, rather than use them to generally raise
the standards of behaviour amongst practitioners.
Additionally, it is claimed that the imposition of ‘professional’ stan-
dards and the establishment of self-regulatory mechanisms is simply a
means by which to better assert control over the market in legal services
and supply of practitioners. In addition to excluding ‘undesirables’ from
practice the imposition of ‘professional standards’ ensures that para-
legals and ‘professionals’ in associated disciplines are excluded from a
wide variety of self-defined ‘legal’ tasks. The labelling of particular tasks
as ‘legal’ prevents those without professional qualifications in law from
performing those tasks, irrespective of their competence to do so. This
narrowing of the range of individuals who can perform these ‘legal’
tasks, of course, has the salutary effect of lessening competition, and the
unfortunate result for consumers of ‘legal’ services of substantially
increasing the cost of having such services performed.
Richard Abel and his associates have been the main proponents of this
‘market control’ thesis of the history of the legal profession and its
professional associations. They assert that the consumer gleans little
benefit from such mechanisms, whilst the profession gains considerable
influence and prestige. Abels’ formulation of the ‘market control’ thesis
clearly delineates the principal characteristics and implications of such
an approach:
[Professionalism is] a specific historical formation in which members of an occu-
pation exercise a substantial degree of control over the market for their services,
usually through an occupational association. . . .
The foundation of market control is the regulation of supply . . . occupations
that produce services constrain supply principally by regulating the production of
producers . . . Market control is inextricably related to occupational status, not
only symbolizing status but also enhancing it instrumentally, both by restricting
numbers . . . and by controlling the characteristics of entrants. Professions pursue
market control and status enhancement through collective action. Having erected
barriers to entry, professional associations seek to protect their members from
competition, both external and internal. In order to avert external surveillance
they engage in self regulation.3
The ‘market control’ thesis itself has recently been subjected to criti-
cism.4 The loose grouping of legal scholars represented in this volume are
all, in some way or other, united by an implicit or explicit unease with the
‘market control’ thesis as advanced by Abel and his associates. These
scholars reject the meta-theoretical role assigned to a desire for market
control by Abel and his associates. This loose grouping of scholars sug-
gest that local ‘cultural’ factors have often played a far more significant
role in the evolution of specific legal professions than the desire to con-
trol the market in legal services. A number of recent studies have indeed
demonstrated the need to qualify the ‘market control’ thesis in specific
contexts. Such studies complement, rather than completely displace, the
‘market control’ thesis. They suggest that market factors may indeed
have been of great significance in specific legal professions during some
3 R Abel, ‘England and Wales: A Comparison of the Professional Projects of Barristers
and Solicitors’ in R Abel and P Lewis (eds), Lawyers in Society: Volume One, The
Common Law World (University of California, Berkeley, 1988) 23–24.
4
In the course of his excellent analysis of the history of legal aid in Victoria Lynch
comments on the flawed assumption at the heart of the ‘market control’ thesis, that there
is an homogeneous profession pursuing a common goal of market control:
The notion of a professional demand creation project of the type suggested by Larson
and Abel has been criticised because conspicuous, collective and intentional striving
for this type of goal seems inherently implausible given that sectional groups within
the profession pursue divergent interests.
(JA Lynch, Legal Aid and the Legal Profession in Victoria 1841–1995 (Unpublished PhD
thesis, Latrobe University, 1996,) 33).
298 Rob McQueen
periods of their history. However, what these studies also show is that at
other times and in other places the desire for market control was of little
importance in shaping specific legal professions.
Wes Pue’s work on the development of the legal profession on the west-
ern prairies of Canada is an example of such a study.5 In introducing this
study Pue states that as the suppression of non-lawyer competitors and
fee control was integral to the development of the profession on the
prairies ‘it would be possible to conclude . . . that “professionalism” is a
sham and that professions are “essentially” about market control’.6 He
then goes on, however, to assert that any such characterisation of the
process of ‘professionalization’ on the western prairies of Canada would
be a gross misrepresentation of the real nature of developments in that
context. Elsewhere, in a review of Abels’ contribution to the history of
the legal profession, Pue has remarked:
Scholarship about the legal profession will have to transcend market control
rather than merely renounce it. Scholars will have to direct considerably more
attention than in the past to the multiple fracturings of professions from within,
to the contested nature of professionalism both within and without. Visions of
lawyering will need to be related much more directly than has been the norm to
wider cultural understandings. Clients—who are largely ignored in most studies
of professionalism—will need to be acknowledged as central. The role of lawyers
outside of narrowly defined professional roles merits attention.7
A common assumption which is shared by ‘traditional’ teleological his-
tories of the legal profession and those studies inspired by Abel and
Lewis’ work on ‘market control’ is that there is a high degree of homo-
geneity within the legal profession. In the case of ‘traditional’ histories it
is often assumed that there is a common belief system shared by legal
practitioners regarding the core attributes of professionalism. In the case
of Abel and Lewis’ work, and others advocating the ‘market control’ the-
sis, there is an assumption of a shared value system amongst legal prac-
titioners as to the need to ensure that certain ‘standards’ be maintained
in order to exclude undesirables from entry to the profession and to pre-
vent competitors from encroaching on ‘legal work’. Whilst most practi-
tioners certainly would not articulate their shared system of values and
standards as one that was designed to entrench monopoly and arrogate
privileges to themselves, the assumption in Abel and Lewis’ work is that
there is nevertheless a consensus around a number of matters which have
that effect in practice.
5
W Pue, Becoming Professional: Western Canadian Lawyers (Unpublished paper pre-
sented to the ISA Working Party on the Cultural History of the Legal Profession, Aix en
Provence, June 1992).
6 Ibid, 4–5.
7
W Pue, ‘ “Trajectories of Professionalism?”: Legal Professionalism After Abel’
(1991) Manitoba Law Journal, 417–418.
As we will observe below the high degree of homogeneity in the pro-

fession which has been assumed in previous historical analyses of the
legal profession (whether ‘traditional’ or ‘critical’) is often confounded
by studies of specific legal professions. Whilst in some places for short
periods of time there may be a considerable degree of homogeneity in the
legal profession, usually such a state of affairs does not last for long. As
we will see in the following, there are, and always have been, significant
fault lines between different groupings within the legal profession in the
various colonies/states in Australia. The legal profession in Victoria is no
exception.
THE DEVELOPMENT OF AN ‘ORGANISED’ LEGAL PROFESSION

IN VICTORIA: THE DOMINANCE OF DEBATES REGARDING
AMALGAMATION OF THE PROFESSION 1859–1917
In its early years the Law Institute of Victoria was neither representative
of the profession or influential in matters pertaining to policy. In fact it
was such an inconsequential body that only six members attended the
Annual Meeting in 1865.8 Most practitioners were at this time still
located outside urban areas and consequently belonged to regional Law
Societies, rather than to the small but growing Law Institute situated in
the metropolis of Melbourne. The Institute had grown to over a hundred
members by the 1890s, but nevertheless was still a small and unrepresen-
tative body, covering less than 20 per cent of all solicitors and barely 10
per cent of solicitors in country areas. Before the 1890s it principally
operated as a social club, occasionally making comments on proposed
legislation and intermittently, through its complaints committee, refer-
ring cases of ‘misconduct’ to the Supreme Court for further action.9
The problems being encountered by the Law Institute in Victoria were
not unique. Similar attempts to retain rural members, and thus ensure
that the local association remained representative of both metropolitan
and country solicitors, were being made by the NSW Law Society at the
same time. The historian of the New South Wales Society has noted that
even when fees were increased in the early twentieth century that ‘coun-
try subscriptions were kept low to try to encourage country membership,
which continued to be small’.10
However, despite these considerable efforts to recruit members it was
still the case that, as late as 1909, membership of the Institute was still the
8
Centenary History of The Law Institute of Victoria 1859–1959 (Law Institute of
Victoria, Melbourne, 1959), 34.
9 Ibid, 35.
10
JM Bennett, A History of Solicitors in New South Wales (Legal Books Limited,
Sydney, 1984), 184.
300 Rob McQueen
exception, rather than the rule, amongst practitioners in Victoria. This

was particularly the case for country solicitors. Whilst only 27.8 per cent
of solicitors practising in Melbourne in 1909 were members of the
Institute an even lower proportion of country solicitors bothered to
join—in 1909 only 13.1 per cent of country solicitors belonged to the
Institute.11
In addition to their difficulty in recruiting country members from the
‘lower branch’ of the profession the Law Institute at this stage did not
represent the ‘upper branch’ of the profession. Even though they had a
Rule, introduced in 1891, which encouraged barristers to join, the prac-
tice was for barristers to belong to the Bar Association . The representa-
tive status of the Bar Association was effectively recognised in 1903 when
it was given separate representation on the newly established Council of
Legal Education.12
Nevertheless, the relationship between the two branches of the legal
profession in Victoria was a matter which was unclear for some time:
there was no legislation or regulations prescribing the type of work which
could be undertaken by practitioners of either branch of the profession,
the only guide for most of the nineteenth century being the ‘usual prac-
tice in England’.13 Even then, this was rarely adhered to. Due to the
scarcity of qualified practitioners in many locations solicitors often
performed tasks traditionally associated with the ‘upper branch’ and
barristers quite often performed tasks traditionally ascribed to their
brethren in the ‘lower branch’. As one historian of the legal profession in
Victoria notes:
The sole thing which seemed clear was that only a barrister could appear and con-
duct a case in the Supreme Court. The County Court Act of 1852 provided that a
party to a case where the claim exceeded (10 might appear in person or by a solic-
itor or attorney or agent. Attorneys were also entitled to appear in the Court of
Mines (for many years an important Court), in the Insolvency Court and all infe-
rior Courts. In the country attorneys did a considerable part of the business of
these courts . . . [on the other hand] many persons admitted as barristers found it
11
Percentages based on membership figures cited in the President’s Jubilee speech,
1909, LIV Annual Report, 1909, 4.
12
The Centenary History of the Law Institute of Victoria, op cit at 35 observes:
After the two branches of the profession were amalgamated by the Legal Profession
Practice Act 1891, the Institute accepted the situation and amended the by-laws to pro-
vide for membership of any person admitted to practice as a barrister and solicitor of
the Supreme Court of Victoria. A few who had previously practiced as barristers
accepted the invitation and became members of the Institute, but the majority agreed
amongst themselves to maintain a separate Bar which has continued de facto to the
present day.
13A Dean, A Multitude of Counsellors: A History of the Bar of Victoria (FW
Cheshire, Melbourne, 1968), 86.
more profitable in the country than in Melbourne, and it seems plain enough that
away from Melbourne little regard was paid to the rules of etiquette governing
the respective functions of barrister and attorney. In any case such rules were not
reduced to writing and were vague and uncertain.14
The history of the first half century of the profession in Victoria could
almost be said to be dominated by the debate surrounding fusion of the
two branches of the profession. Even before separation from New South
Wales it was being argued by the Legislative Assembly member for the
District of Port Philip (ie Victoria), Dr Brewster (a barrister himself), that
there should be a fusion of the profession. He introduced a Bill into the
House of Assembly to that effect in 1846.15 Whilst the Bill was not passed
into legislation it nevertheless was reflective of the thinking of ‘liberals’
of the time with respect to the appropriate structure of the profession in
a colonial setting. At intermittent intervals over the next 25 years Bills
were introduced proposing fusion of the profession, but none were
enacted into legislation. Then, in 1871, the then Attorney General of
Victoria called a meeting of interested parties to ascertain support for a
proposal to amalgamate the profession.16 This seemed eminently sensi-
ble, as over three quarters of the litigation in the Colony of Victoria was
conducted by solicitors in courts where barristers did not have exclusive
rights of appearance. All this meeting revealed, however, was the sharp
divisions between practitioners on the question of fusion. At the meeting
of barristers called by the Attorney-General, those who practised in the
country were generally supportive of fusion—many were effectively
already practising both as barrister and solicitor. A number of these
country barristers operating ‘fused’ practices indicated that they could
only make an adequate living in rural areas if they practised functions
traditionally regarded as the sole preserve of the ‘lower branch’. One gave
evidence that in five months in the country he had earned 250 pounds
whereas in the five preceding years in Melbourne, practicing solely a bar-
rister, he had not even earned 50 pounds.17 It was true that for most of
the latter half of the nineteenth century whilst in Melbourne there was a
relatively close adherence to the ‘etiquette’ practised in England as to the
respective functions of the two branches of the profession, in country
areas most practitioners, from whichever branch of the profession they
14
Ibid.
15
A Bill to Amalgamate the Professions of Barrister and Solicitor, NSW, 1846. One of
the strong allies of Brewster in proposing this legislation was the young Robert Lowe
who was then very active in ‘liberal’ political circles in New South Wales (later to be
President of the Board of Trade and even later, as Viscount Sherbrooke, Chancellor of
the Exchequer in the ‘home’ country).
16 See the report of the meeting in The Argus, 21 Oct 1871.
17 A Dean, A Multitude of Counsellors: A History of the Bar of Victoria (FW
Cheshire, Melbourne, 1968), 88.

302 Rob McQueen
originally came, practised as if the profession was already amalgamated.

This reality is reflected in yet another report on possible amalgamation
of the profession in 1884. The Committee appointed by the Attorney-
General to make this report on the possible amalgamation of the profes-
sion noted:
As to the relations of the Bar towards solicitors in Victoria, these relations are in
practice different in different parts of the Colony. In Melbourne and its suburbs
the relations maintained and the professional etiquette observed are professedly
and as a rule those maintained and observed in England, but in all other places in
the Colony the distinctions between the two branches of the profession are virtu-
ally ignored.18
A new Bill was introduced into Parliament regarding amalgamation in
1884.19 The views of a range of interested parties were sought, and these
again reflected nothing but the high degree of division between practi-
tioners (particularly the differences in attitude between rural and city
practitioners) as to the desirability of fusion.20 The 1884 Bill was the
most radical and sweeping of the various attempts to effect amalgama-
tion of the profession in the late nineteenth century. Its drafters were
quite aware of the practices in other countries, in particular those in the
United States, where there was an undivided profession. In the course of
argument on the Bill in Parliament one Member asserted that reason
would suggest that a client who engaged a solicitor to transact a case on
their behalf would prefer that practitioner to carry that case to its con-
clusion.21 The same Member also noted that the principal effect of the
so-called rules of etiquette as to division of responsibilities between prac-
titioners often only led to an inflation in costs to the client, something
that clients, if given a choice, would not support. Australian clients were
of the same democratic temper as their United States counterparts where
clients objected to being ‘lathered in one shop and shaved in another’.22
This was even more so the case in circumstances where the ‘two shops’
were not available—a reference to the difficulty often experienced in rural
areas of obtaining a barrister at all to argue ones’ case before a court.
On the other side of the argument a number of members of the Bar
tried to argue the case for separation on the basis of the preservation of
English traditions of ‘independence’. These arguments, whilst infused
with a healthy dose of romanticism did not really address the real ques-
tions of cost and availability of counsel which lay at the core of many of
18 See (July 1884) 6 Australian Law Times Journal, xiii.

19 Legal Profession Practice Bill, Victoria, 1884.
20 A Dean, A Multitude of Counsellors: A History of the Bar of Victoria (FW
Cheshire, Melbourne, 1968) 94.

21 Ibid 98.
22 Ibid.
the debates surrounding amalgamation. Sir John Madden,23 one of the

then leaders of the Bar in Melbourne (and later Chief Justice, Vice
Chancellor of the University of Melbourne and President of the exclusive
Melbourne Club), defended separation by reference to the ‘special’
gentlemanly qualities of those called to the ‘upper branch’:24
At the very outset of his career, during his education, a barrister is supposed to be
trained apart from the whole community, with a view to educate feelings of inde-
pendence and a knowledge of the principles upon which that independence exists.
An attorney earns a livelihood as an articled clerk; he comes into contact from
day to day with all classes, and a barrister is kept perfectly aloof from them in
order that he may be trained to disassociate himself from the everyday life of the
public, as constituting in due time, as part of the education necessary for a judge;
because as I take it, that quality of independence, both in barrister and in a judge,
is a matter of education . . . he must absolutely ignore all the community and
know no man. That is a thing which cannot be easily be done, unless a man is
trained to that particular direction, and therefore it is that a barrister from the
earliest period does not see his client direct. He does not know them.25
As unconvincing as this rationale for separation may seem to us today
there were nevertheless enough ‘traditionalists’ to prevent the enactment
of the Amalgamation Bill in 1884. However, it was only by a slim margin
that the creation of a single, undivided profession was averted. One
upshot of this wide-ranging discussion of the profession in 1884 was the
introduction of Victoria’s first comprehensive Bar Regulations, and the
establishment of a body which could argue the case for the ‘upper
23 Madden was himself subject to a scathing, if improvident, attack in the local press
as to his suitability when he was appointed Chief Justice by an incumbent Supreme Court
judge, and soon to be colleague. One of the most senior of the existing Justices of the
Supreme Court, Justice Hartley Williams, stated in a letter to The Argus that he consid-
ered Madden to be simply ‘an advocate’ and not a ‘lawyer’ and that his ‘skills were not
those of a judge’ . Justice Williams concluded this open letter to the major Melbourne
daily newspaper by stating that under the leadership of ‘such a person’ he would do no
more than his ‘bare duty’ and that the appointment of such ‘an advocate’ to such a pre-
eminent position was ‘an insult to the present occupants of the Bench’. (The letter pub-
lished in The Argus of 8 Jan 1893 is reprinted in A Dean, A Multitude of Counsellors, op
cit (n 20 above), at 153–154).
24 This notion of the ‘barrister as gentlemen’ also characterised the profession in a
number of other colonial settings. In their book, Professional Gentlemen: The

Professions in Nineteenth Century Ontario (Ontario Historical Studies Series, Toronto,
1994), RD Gidney and WPJ Millar, note the hierarchical and class boundaries between
barristers and attorneys in mid-nineteenth century Ontario. They cite an article from the
Upper Canada Law Journal of 1855 which contrasts the gentlemanly characteristics of
the ‘upper branch’ of the profession with the ‘illiterate and unrefined’ members of the
body of attorneys. This article was written in the context of moves to allow attorneys to
represent clients in some superior courts, a move which the author of the article saw as
‘unacceptable’ (at 76–77).
25
A Dean, A Multitude of Counsellors, op cit. (n 20 above), 95.
304 Rob McQueen
branch’—the Bar Committee of Victoria.26 One of the noteworthy

aspects of the Bar Regulations of 1884 was the manner in which they
hedged their bets on the question of ‘fused’ practice. Presumably this was
an attempt not to alienate country barristers, whilst at the same time sat-
isfying some of the demands of city barristers to establish a formal basis
for professional etiquette. Regulation 10 stated:
A barrister may, without breach of professional etiquette, see his client, advise
him and earn a fee without a solicitor attorney or proctor being employed unless
and until the litigation shall have actually been commenced by a writ or process
issued. In no case, however, . . . is a barrister practicing in Melbourne or its sub-
urbs to act as an attorney, by suing out process, conducting correspondence on
behalf of a client, effecting the engrossment of deeds or other documents, prepar-
ing briefs, paying money into Court or by acting in any similar manner.27
Despite this spirit of compromise the issue of the amalgamation of the
profession refused to go away. After the collapse of the Victorian econ-
omy in the early 1890s the issue again rose to prominence. In a depressed
economy, in which litigation against fraudulent corporate promoters was
rampant, there was a demand for cheap and ready access to legal services.
Amalgamation of the legal profession promised this. Also, the Law
Institute, somewhat weakened by a loss of members through financial
failure, saw this as an opportunity to pick up coverage of the ‘upper
branch’ and become the sole representative of the legal profession in
Victoria. Consequently they strongly supported legislation for the amal-
gamation of the profession, which was introduced into Parliament in
1891.28 This legislation repeated the terms of the 1884 Bill almost word
for word. However, in the vastly different social and economic circum-
stances prevailing in the early 1890s the legislation this time passed both
Houses of Parliament. The Legal Profession Practice Act of 1891 for-
mally ended the separation of the two branches of the profession in
Victoria.29 However, as we shall see, subsequent events meant that the
practical result of this legislation was nil. So too did the aspirations of the
Law Institute of Victoria to be the sole representative of the profession in
Victoria come to nix.
26 For details on its formation see (1884) 6 Australian Law Times Journal, xiii.
27
The Regulations can be found in (1884) 6 Australian Law Times Journal, clxxvi.
28 However, Dean disputes this fact, and notes that in its annual report for 1891 the
Council of the Institute had stated that the Institute was ‘neutral’ on the question of
amalgamation of the profession: see A Dean, A Multitude of Counsellors, op cit (n 20
above) 99–101.
29 Ss 3 and 4 were the provisions which provided for the cessation of ‘separation’: s 3
stated that any person heretofore admitted (in the State of Victoria) as a barrister was
now also admitted as a solicitor from the date of the passing of the Act, whilst s 4 stated
that any person previously admitted as a solicitor in the State of Victoria was also admit-
ted as a barrister form the date of the passing of the Act.
Indeed the attempted fusion of the two branches of the legal profession
in 1891, with the enactment in that year of the Legal Profession Practice
Act, proved ultimately to be counterproductive to the development of the
Institute as a professional organisation representing the legal profession
in Victoria. The Institute had, as we have noted above, initially supported
the ‘fusion’ of the profession, hoping that as a consequence of the amal-
gamation of the profession they would become the sole representative of
the profession in the colony of Victoria. The Council of the Institute, in
anticipation of numerous applications to join from members of the Bar,
changed their Rules in 1892 due to the fact that ‘the Rules heretofore only
provided for the admission of Solicitors’. At the same meeting of the
Council of the Institute:
It was also thought fit to suggest . . . the desirability of increasing the number of
members of Council from ten to fifteen, there being every prospect of a large
influx of members during the coming year.30
The expected flood of applications from members of the Bar, however,
never transpired. The Institute remained almost exclusively an organisa-
tion of solicitors despite the fusion of the profession. The Institute found
that the existence of a de jure amalgamation hindered, rather than
helped, their ambitions to obtain corporate status and statutory recogni-
tion for their complaints committee along the lines of the Incorporated
Law Societies in England and in New South Wales.31 Rather than becom-
ing members of the Law Institute, practitioners at the Bar formed their
own rival organisation in 1891, the Bar Association. Though this body
was, in its first manifestation, short-lived, another similar body was
again quickly formed. This rival organisation was granted formal recog-
nition with the enactment of the legislation establishing the Council of
Legal Education in 1903. That legislation provided for separate repre-
sentation from the Law Institute of Victoria and the Committee of
Counsel on the Board of the Council.32 As Dean comments:
The final triumph of the Bar as a separate body came in 1903 when Parliament by
the Legal Profession Reciprocity Act . . . created a Council of Legal Education
[which provided for three representatives to be nominated by both the Law
Institute and the Bar Association (formally referred to as the Committee of
Counsel)] . . . This recognition by Parliament of the separate existence as a
30
Law Institute of Victoria, Annual Report, 1892, 3.
31
Space does not permit a fuller discussion of the whole question of why the Law
Institute and other similar bodies so ardently sought corporate status. ‘Incorporation’
must have meant something more to these bodies and their members than simply obtain-
ing corporate status as they could have done this under the Companies Act if they were
so minded. Incorporation under an Act of Parliament or Royal Charter surely must have
conjured up something more like an ancient and venerable guild to these bodies rather
than a modern, limited liability enterprise.
32
Legal Profession Reciprocity Act 1903.
306 Rob McQueen
respectable body of the Bar which only twelve years before it had set out to
destroy must have been a source of satisfaction to the Bar.33
Throughout the late nineteenth and early twentieth century barristers
and their representative professional association continued to exercise
their influence to prevent the Institute from obtaining statutory identity.
The ‘upper branch’ of the profession was unlikely to accept such a devel-
opment until all controversial matters pertaining to fusion were resolved
to their satisfaction. The Law Institute itself recognised this impediment,
lamented it, but could do very little in the short term. The Address of
the President of the Institute to the Annual General Meeting in 1897
commented in this regard:
I feel disappointed that the members of the practising Bar, as a body, still stand
aloof from us, but trust in the near future advances will be made towards effect-
ing a union which members of the Institute feel would be beneficial to both
branches of the profession, and which, I am sure, could be accomplished without
in any manner trenching upon any little differences of opinion which may exist in
reference to the adoption by any gentleman of the whole of the principles
involved in the Legal Profession Amalgamation Act. Until such a union is effected
there appears little or no possibility of our obtaining an Act of Incorporation,
without which the services of this Institute cannot, to my mind, be efficiently
employed.34
The reasons for the failure of fusion in Victoria and the ‘triumph’ of the
Bar are relatively straightforward. After the collapse of the Victorian
economy in the 1890s, along with declining returns from gold mines in
the Colony, there was a significant decline in the prosperity of many rural
areas. Many of the rural barristers who had been strong supporters of
fusion were now either forced out of business or back into the city of
Melbourne. With less work to go around the ‘upper branch’ became
more jealous of the rules of etiquette in place in England. Whilst the
formal fusion of the profession had been provided for in 1892, this was
possibly the worst time at which it could have occurred if it were to be a
success. If the 1884 Act had not been narrowly defeated and the amalga-
mation legislation had been passed during the boom, the ‘one shop’ prac-
tice of Australian practitioners’ American counterparts may have become
so entrenched by the turn of the century that it would have become ‘nor-
malised’. Even such speculation must be doubtful, however, as the other
significant event which occurred between 1884 and 1903 which turned the
tide against the amalgamation movement within the profession was the
creation of the Australian Federation. With Federation, Parliaments in all
former colonies had to address the question of reciprocal recognition of
33
A Dean, A Multitude of Counsellors, op cit (n 20 above), 107–108.
34
Address to the Annual Meeting of the Law Institute of Victoria by SG Pirani, Esq.,
President, 26 Nov 1897.
legal practitioners. Victoria was out of step with the other States, and
thus it is not surprising that it was indeed the Legal Profession
Reciprocity Act 1903 which effectively brought to an end the possibility
of a real fusion of the profession occurring in Victoria.
A final important factor in the failure of the Legal Profession Practice
Act 1891 to lead to a truly amalgamated profession was the relatively
weak political position of the Law Institute after the collapse of the
Victorian economy in the 1890s. At the time of the enactment of the
Legal Profession Practice Act a number of solicitors, and in particular
powerful allies in the form of sympathetic company promoters, sat in the
Victorian Parliament. This was no longer the case by the mid 1890s.
Whilst the Bar Association of the day was quite weak organisationally
compared to the Law Institute, it nevertheless held one trump card. Even
after the economic collapse of the early 1890s many barristers, former
barristers and aligned members of the local ‘aristocracy’ were still mem-
bers of the Victorian Upper House of Parliament and continued to exert
considerable political power. The sympathies of this powerful political
bloc with respect to fusion of the profession naturally lay with the Bar.
Using their political clout this group of interests sympathetic to the con-
cerns of the Bar delayed the grant of the very thing which the Law
Institute wanted most—formal recognition of the Institute by Parliament
and the grant of corporate status along the lines of the English
Incorporated Law Society. Whilst the Law Institute clung on to some
grandiose notion of representing all practitioners in Victoria and main-
taining in its Rules a provision which stated that it was the representative
of both branches of the profession the Bar Association (however called at
the time) would (and did) consistently oppose the granting of corporate
status to the Law Institute35. In this opposition they knew they could rely
upon their political allies in the Victorian Upper House. It was only after
the Law Institute removed its Rule allowing it to represent members of
the ‘upper branch’ of the profession in 1912 that the momentum toward
incorporation gathered36.
35 The Law Institute acted quite provocatively in the late 1890s, electing two practis-
ing barristers as senior office bearers in 1898—Sir Samuel Leon, QC as President and
O’Hara Wood, a prominent member of the Bar, as Honorary Secretary. However, the
Bar Association retaliated by making it practically impossible for any ‘solicitor’ (who
were ineligible to join the Bar Association) to practise as an advocate. A practitioner who
had attempted to practise as an ‘amalgam’, Mr TP McInerney, stated in his evidence to
the Royal Commission on Legal Reform 1897–1899 that: ‘. . . any member of the bar who
[was not] a member of the Association was practically a pariah. The whole profession
was combined against him. He could not get any legal opinion nor any legal assistance ,
or hold a brief from any member of the bar It is the strongest trade union that was ever
formed.’
36
Indeed, the Bar Committee and the Law Institute were at loggerheads as late as 1906
when it was proposed to appoint the then Victorian Attorney-General JM Davies, a
308 Rob McQueen
The leaders of the Institute had hoped that fusion of the profession
would both accelerate the process of obtaining statutory recognition and
augment the importance of the Institute as a professional association.
The Council of the Institute had envisaged that after fusion the Law
Institute would become the sole representative of the legal profession in
Victoria. They were quite wrong in this prediction. Fusion, whilst a leg-
islative reality, was never, as we have seen, a practical reality in Victoria.
Former members of the Bar in Victoria continued to practise at the Bar
after ‘fusion’, and members of the ‘lower branch’ of the profession
continued to practise as solicitors after ‘amalgamation’. Instead of accel-
erating the process of statutory incorporation of the Institute, as antici-
pated, the legislative attempt to fuse the profession in Victoria delayed
the attainment of this objective at least a decade. Commenting on the
deleterious effect the practical failure of fusion had caused in obtaining
statutory recognition for the Institute the President, Robert Beckett, in
his 1909 address to members stated:
The incorporation of the Institute has been a matter frequently discussed . . . [it
is now, however, recognised] that the amalgamation of what were formerly dis-
tinct branches of the profession and the recent constitution of the Council of
Legal Education have added to the difficulties [nevertheless] it is still hoped that
the incorporation will, at an early date, receive the sanction of the Legislature.
The Incorporated Law Society of New South Wales and the Incorporated Law
Society of England are models that, with such modifications as will fit with local
conditions, we ought to be able safely to adopt.37
Implicit, however, in Beckett’s speech is also the recognition that the Law
Institute would need to take a different political tack with regard to
fusion if it was to obtain its desiderata of corporate status. This was only
achieved through a compromise with the Bar Association after two
decades. Once it gave up hope of representing members of the Bar as their
professional association, the Law Institute was no longer faced with the
influential opposition of key members of the Bar with connections in
high places to legislation granting them corporate status.38
‘solicitor’, to the Supreme Court. The Law Institute had strongly supported the appoint-
ment whilst the Bar Committee had just as vehemently opposed it. In the end the Bar
Committee prevailed and Sir Leo Cussen, destined to be one of the most renowned of
Victorian judges, was appointed.
37
Law Institute of Victoria, Annual Report, 1909, Address on the Jubilee of the
Profession by Robert Beckett, President, 31.
38 The Bar was well represented in the Legislative Council, the Upper House of the
Victorian Parliament, and had sufficient numbers in that House to foil any legislation
incorporating the Law Institute. Gidney and Millars’ wry observation that the Benchers
within the Law Society of Upper Canada were not simply influential with the ‘levers of
power’ in the mid-nineteenth century; they were the ‘levers of power’, is also to some
degree true of the position of the Bar in Victoria in the late nineteenth century (see
R Gidney, and W Millar, Professional Gentlemen, op cit, 74.
CREATING ANOTHER MONOPOLY? STATUTORY

RECOGNITION AND INCORPORATION OF THE LAW
INSTITUTE AND ITS EFFECTS ON THE
COUNTRY LAW ASSOCIATIONS
Attaining corporate status, along the lines of the Incorporated Law

Society in Great Britain, had long been a concern of the Law Institute. In
the very first report of the Law Institute of Victoria in August 1859 the
question of incorporating the organisation and thus placing it on a firmer
footing was discussed:
At the meeting of the Council [later this month] the question of applying for an
act of Incorporation will be considered, and any remarks with which they may in
the meantime be favoured will meet with due attention.39
The consideration of the above matter by the inaugural Council of the
Law Institute was provided for in the Rules of the organisation. Those
Rules recited:
That as soon as practicable after the election of the first Council under these rules,
it shall be lawful for, and the Council are hereby empowered to adopt, such pro-
ceedings as they may deem advisable for obtaining an Act of the Parliament of
Victoria for incorporating the members of the Institute.40
The representations made by the Council of the Institute in 1859 with
respect to incorporation must have fallen on deaf ears as the matter was
again raised in the minutes of the Institute in 1868. The matter, however,
did not come before Parliament for consideration until 1875, when a pri-
vate bill was introduced into the Legislative Council by the then President
of the Law Institute, the Hon RS Anderson.41 This bill, however, was not
passed, the matter of incorporation being deferred until the resolution of
the other important matter concerning the profession then under
Parliaments’ notice—that of the possible fusion of the profession. As we
have seen the saga respecting the amalgamation of the profession in
Victoria dragged on for over 30 years, and was a major impediment to
Parliament even considering incorporation of the Institute.
It was only during the First World War that the Law Institute began to
finally make significant progress in accomplishing its objective of being
granted statutory recognition. This followed the enactment of legislation
in 1916 granting statutory identity to the South Australian Law Council.
When the Victorian legislation was finally enacted in 1917 the Institute
39
Annual Report of the Law Institute of Victoria, 1859.
40
Rules of the Law Institute of Victoria, 1859.
41
Centenary History of The Law Institute of Victoria 1859–1959, op cit (n 8 above),
42.
310 Rob McQueen
was composed exclusively of members who did not practise at the Bar
(due to the Rule change respecting membership noted above).42
Despite the failure of the Institute to achieve its goal of being the sole
representative of the legal profession in Victoria, there were nevertheless
a number of significant gains made as a consequence of statutory recog-
nition. One of the most noteworthy of these improvements in its position
was the effective marginalisation of the rural Law Societies. In the past
these associations had independently represented the views of country
solicitors on matters which affected the profession. Now, they were effec-
tively relegated by the Law Institute Act 1917 to a lesser role. By reason
of its corporate status the Institute now constituted the only ‘legitimate’
voice on professional matters affecting solicitors in the State of Victoria.
The Ballarat and District Law Association, the Bendigo Law
Association and the Geelong Law Association all had histories dating
back as far as the Law Institute itself. Prior to the Law Institute Act of
1917 each of these associations had no formal connection with the
Institute and independently lobbied on behalf of and represented the
interests of those country solicitors in their geographical area of cover-
age. As noted earlier the Law Institute had an extremely small member-
ship in rural areas, and thus would have seen these country associations
as significant rivals, rather than as subsidiary organisations. The Law
Institute Act, however, constituted a new hierarchy amongst these rival
representatives of the ‘lower branch’ of the profession. The legislation
provided that the President of each of the above country associations
should be given ex officio membership of the Council of the Law
Institute.43 However, the only body which was granted statutory recog-
nition was the Law Institute of Victoria.44
In addition to the significant enhancement to the Law Institutes’ status
consequent upon the above arrangement this solution also had implica-
tions with respect to the ability of the Institute to control the market in
legal services for the whole of Victoria. This was not lost on those
opposed to the legislation incorporating the Institute. One of the princi-
pal Parliamentary opponents of the legislation, Mr Hannah, expressed
the opinion that it was extremely undesirable to concede sweeping pow-
ers to the Institute :
There is to be vested in these gentlemen power to say who shall be admitted to
the inner circle of this very powerful and very far-reaching trade union. I do not
42 See Centenary History of The Law Institute of Victoria 1859–1959, and A Dean, A
Multitude of Counsellors, op cit (n 20 above), 161.

43 Compare with the position in Queensland where this did not occur: see H Gregory,
The Queensland Law Society Inc 1928–1988: A History (Queensland Law Society,
Brisbane, Australia, 1991) 134–152.
44
Centenary History of The Law Institute of Victoria 1859–1959, op cit, Introduction
by JR Burt, President, LIV, 24.
think honourable members representing rural districts can, for a moment claim
that such a provision is wise, because it has a narrowing effect . . . this Institute
appears to be a junta of juntas.45
In addition to enhancing its control over the market in legal services in
Victoria by neutralising its principal rivals, the country law associations,
the Law Institute also at this time consolidated solicitors professional
claims to have a monopoly on all categories of ‘legal’ work. In defending
this ‘right’ the Institute resisted the claims of law clerks and conveyancers
to professional recognition for the categories of work which they per-
formed. In 1909 the then President of the Institute, Robert Beckett, noted
in this respect:
The Council has also been vigilant in guarding the entrance to the profession
against those who sought to be admitted without passing the necessary examina-
tions, or submitting to the usual service under articles. More than once con-
veyancers tried to establish special legislation in their favour. At another time
conveyancers and notaries public secured the support of the Hon. George
Higinbotham in a Bill before the House. On several occasions law clerks urged
their claims to admission, and in all these cases strenuous and generally success-
ful opposition was presented by the Council.46
All of these powers of admittance and exclusion conferred on the
Institute, and regarded today as a ‘natural’ adjunct to the profession,
were at the time of their adoption and/or introduction, subject to quite
significant contestation. It was not considered by contemporaries that
these powers were benign. Nor was it uniformly considered that the Law
Institute should have an exclusive right to exercise such powers. Many
bemoaned the demise of the country law associations, asserting that the
interests of rural and urban practitioners were quite different and could
not be represented by the same organisation. Others suggested that the
‘exclusion’ of law clerks and conveyancers from professional recognition
was the result of self-interest on the part of the Law Institute and had lit-
tle or nothing to do with the preservation of ‘standards’ and/or a concern
with the quality of legal services provided to the public. A number of con-
temporaries resisted the granting of public recognition to the complaints
committee of the Institute, arguing that this would be tantamount to giv-
ing the Institute a statutory right to exclude the politically radical and/or
the ethnically unacceptable.47
45 Victorian Parliamentary Debates (Assembly Debates), 9 Oct 1917, 2100.
46
Law Institute of Victoria, Annual Report, 1909, Address on the Jubilee of the
Profession by Robert Beckett, President, 31.
47 In delivering his speech to Parliament on the occasion of the Law Institute being
finally granted a corporate identity by Parliament in 1917 one member, Mr Hannah,

expressed concern that the disciplinary powers of the Institute might be used to exclude
political dissidents and other ‘undesirables’: ‘[I]f this organization (the Law Institute) is
clothed with such powers, it is possible that brainy men . . . may be precluded from it
312 Rob McQueen
Despite considerable opposition to these developments it was the case

that the Institute convinced the government of the day that these were
essential reforms. Nevertheless the form and nature of contemporary
opposition to these innovations should not be ignored or trivialised. Such
antagonism to the profession and the Institute was never completely
submerged. Subsequent to the consolidation of the position of the
Institute with the enactment of the Law Institute Act 1917 it was not until
the late 1920s that public disquiet with respect to the profession again
emerged, with doubt being again expressed as to the ability of the
Institute to properly regulate its members.
FIDELITY FUNDS FOR SOLICITORS
One of the issues which animated the various State Law Societies and
Law Institutes in Australia as the Great Depression took hold was in
determining how to deal with the then increasing numbers of defaulting
solicitors. A spate of misappropriations of trust funds and other financial
improprieties by solicitors led, in the late 1920s and early 1930s, to a cam-
paign in most Australian States for increased public regulation over the
management of trust funds by solicitors. The growing number of solici-
tors who had breached their obligations towards their clients by raiding
their trust accounts represented a real threat to the reputation of the pro-
fession. More particularly it also constituted a real danger to the various
Australian Law Societies’ and Institutes’ claims to legitimacy in respect to
the self-regulation of the profession. The failure of the various schemes
of self-regulation then in place to deal with this apparent rash of dishon-
est colleagues led to proposals for compulsory audits of solicitors trust
accounts and for the introduction of fidelity insurance schemes. The
tenor of public concern over defaults by solicitors (and support for the
introduction of tighter financial controls on solicitors’ trust funds com-
bined with the introduction of a scheme of fidelity insurance) is reflected
in the following comment from one of the leading Melbourne daily news-
papers:
Default is a form of delinquency which appears to increasing in frequency and
audacity. Instances of solicitors misapplying or misappropriating clients’ money
are becoming distressingly familiar items of news in all States . . . There is no sug-
gestion that dishonour and dishonesty are exclusive to the legal profession; every
profession and occupation is at some time or other similarly disfigured. But spe-
cial prominence has been conferred upon the solicitor in this matter, because
within the present generation particularly, he has tended to enlarge the image of
because of their radical proclivities (Victorian Parliamentary Debates (Assembly

Debates), 9 Oct 1917, 2100).
his activities: he is primarily a solicitor, but, as a profitable side line, he has to a

surprisingly wide extent assumed the role of financial adviser, investor and
money lender . . . The Law Institute is the corporate custodian of the legal pro-
fession’s honor in this State, and it is to warmly commended for taking steps in
the right direction [ie the initial proposals to introduce tighter audit controls on
solicitors and to provide for fidelity insurance] . . . In England legislation is at pre-
sent being introduced to control solicitors dealing with trust funds. A measure
having an identical purpose is now under consideration in the Parliament of New
South Wales. There is no need to stress unduly the ugly facts which constitute the
basis of the Law Institute’s request that the legislation outlined should be
passed.48
As we might note from the above newspaper report similar proposals to
those being advocated by the Law Institute of Victoria in the early 1930s
were being considered in England at the same time. In a recent article by
Lunney the complex range of interests cohering around these proposed
reforms is examined. Lunney suggests that in England, despite the threat
to the Law Society’s perceived capacity to self-regulate, which the then
increasing numbers of defaulting solicitors represented, the members of
the Incorporated Law Society were significantly divided with respect to
the manner in which the Society should respond to these developments:
London solicitors were not uniform in their views; neither were their country
brethren, and any attempt to factionalise solicitors must be made carefully and
with reservations. This division made it difficult for the Law Society to introduce
reforms, yet it was held accountable for the failure of all solicitors to do so. The
history of the Law Society, and of the wider profession, can only be told by aban-
doning monolithic views of the profession, for only then can the profession’s
response to external pressures for reform be understood. Nowhere is this better
illustrated than in the history of self-regulation.49
Lunney’s observations on the dilemma presented to the Incorporated
Law Society in England by the large numbers of defalcations of solicitors
at the time of the Great Depression is equally true of the situation pre-
vailing in Victoria during the 1930s. The Law Institute of Victoria was
put into the difficult position of having to react to the public disquiet over
these developments and the potential they contained for bringing the
profession into disrepute, whilst at the same time keeping opposing inter-
ests within the profession satisfied with their handling of the issue of
fidelity insurance. This was, as we shall see, an impossible task. These
difficulties were complicated in Victoria, as they were in England, by the
fact that the Law Institute had also to avert the possibility of the govern-
ment of the day taking a direct hand in the regulation of the profession,
48
The Age, 18 Aug 1930.
49
M Lunney, ‘ “And the Lord knows where they might lead”—the Law Society, the
fraudulent solicitor and the Solicitors Act 1941’, (1997) 4(3) International Journal of the
Legal Profession, 235–266 at 235.
314 Rob McQueen
as a consequence of public concern over the inability of the Institute to

properly regulate its own members.
After a series of press reports on the increasing numbers of financial
defalcations by solicitors the Institute responded in 1930 by holding a
special meeting of Council. There was considerable division of opinion
amongst members of the profession as to how to respond to the ‘prob-
lem’ of financial mismanagement of trust funds which had led to a sig-
nificant deterioration in the profession’s standing within the community.
Even though it was generally considered that greater regulation of the
management of trust funds should occur, it was nevertheless the case that
members of the Institute were not prepared to commit themselves to a
policy on how this might be achieved.50 When one of the members moved
a motion that a solicitors indemnity fund be established by statute no sec-
onder could be found for the motion. Further discussion of the issue of
how to deal with the ‘problem’ of financial mismanagement was then
postponed.51
However, even if the Institute might wish to postpone consideration of
the matter the press and the public were not similarly minded. The enact-
ment of legislation providing for compulsory indemnity insurance in
New Zealand led to renewed demands for similar legislation in Victoria.
The failure in New Zealand of legislation requiring annual audits of
solicitors’ trust accounts to stop the numbers of defaulting solicitors led
directly to the institution of a system of compulsory insurance. The sim-
ilarities with the situation in Victoria was commented on in a number of
newspaper articles at the time:
The provisions of the New Zealand Act requiring annual audit and certificate of
the solicitor did not prove effective in preventing defalcations . . . defalcations by
an average number of 1400 practicing solicitors in the Dominion during the last
ten years amounted to 38,000 pounds. This, of course, was disastrous to clients,
and involved the legal profession in discredit . . . [as a consequence of the failure
of these provisions new provisions providing for compulsory insurance have been
introduced] . . . which became law because [they] had the support as it was said
of 1499 out of the 1500 solicitors in the Dominion.52
The press continued to popularise the issue throughout 1930, running
numerous articles on defaults by legal practitioners, both in Victoria and
in other States. Alarm raged amongst members of the Council of the
Institute. On 1 May 1930 another special meeting of the Council of the
50 To capture the flavour of public criticism over the indecision of the Law Institute
on this matter see the newspaper reports in the Sydney Morning Herald, 16 Jan 1930 and
The Age, 18 Aug 1930.
51 Centenary History of The Law Institute of Victoria 1859–1959, op cit (n 8 above),
50–51.
52 Sydney Morning Herald, 16 Jan 1930.
Institute discussed whether the public had lost confidence in the profes-
sion. Defenders of the status quo suggested that members of the Council
were over-reacting and should not allow themselves to be panicked into
agreeing to ‘unwise’ legislation. A motion was however passed to the
effect that a sub-committee be charged with the task of drafting a Bill on
the matter of indemnity insurance for submission to, and consideration
by, the Institute.53
At a meeting on the 19 May 1930 the Council rescinded all the motions
passed at the earlier 1 May meeting. It would appear that the rural mem-
bers on the Council were instrumental in getting the earlier motions
reversed. The Bendigo Law Association was implacably opposed to the
introduction of any form of indemnity insurance for solicitors and lobbied
its local members of Parliament on the matter throughout 1930 and 1931.54
Despite considerable opposition from its own rank and file and the
uncertainty of a number of members of its own Council, the Law
Institute of Victoria nevertheless recommended to its membership in
August 1930 that legislation should be adopted which provided for the
establishment of separate trust accounts by solicitors and the creation of
a fidelity guarantee fund. The majority of members supported these rec-
ommendations at a meeting on 14 August 1930. A Bill was drafted and
went before Parliament.55 The press reports at the time were supportive
53 Centenary History of The Law Institute of Victoria 1859–1959, op cit (n 8 above),
50–51.
54
The Centenary History of the Law Institute, op cit, notes:
. . . there was a great deal of concern on the part of members of the profession, some
of them not members of the Institute, against the Bill, and also a number of country
law associations, particularly the Bendigo Law Association, were bitterly opposed to
it. Solicitors practising in Bendigo and Warrnambool indicated that they would
attempt to obtain deferment of the Bill through their local members. (at p 51).
At least one country member of the Institute, Mr J Burt Stewart of Murchison was inde-
fatigable in his protests to the various leading newspapers as to the unrepresentative nature
of the Council of Law Institute and the unfairness of an indemnity insurance scheme in deal-
ing with the mounting problem of defalcations by ‘black sheep’ within the profession:
It is a moot question to what extent the Law Institute is representative of the legal pro-
fession in the bill now before parliament. I suggest that means be sought to test the
mind of the rank and file of practitioners . . . There must be many solicitors in practice
who in face of such legislation as proposed would prefer, if means allowed, to retire
from practice rather than carry the odium that their integrity is doubted . . . I regret that
I should draw the lance with the institute, but it is to be borne in mind that its influence
behind the bill may cause the prosed legislation to be enacted without the consideration
that is due to those to be affected by it. (Letter to The Argus, 6 Dec 1930).
55
The Age of 11 Dec 1930 reported on the introduction of the Bill to Parliament:
Protection for clients against the risk of loss through the misuse of funds entrusted to
solicitors is provided in the Legal Profession Practice Bill, which was introduced into
the Legislative Assembly by the Attorney General (Mr Slater) last night. cont./
316 Rob McQueen
of these initiatives and noted the need to ‘do something’. They noted the
ever-increasing number of delinquencies by legal practitioners and the
disastrous effects of these delinquencies on clients. They also observed
that these indiscretions were having a corrosive effect on the reputation
of the legal profession itself.56 However, after the Bill had reached the
Third Reading stage, the Law Institute had a change of heart and agitated
to have the Bill withdrawn. This reversal of the previous stance of the
Institute occurred after a well-attended meeting of practitioners, not offi-
cially sanctioned by the Institute, had passed a motion criticising the
Institute and urging withdrawal of the Bill. The matter again went before
the Council of the Institute which, during 1932, passed a motion to the
effect that Institute policy was now against the establishment of an
indemnity fund. The motion went on to state that the Institute now
favoured the strengthening of penal provisions for fraud to discourage
practitioners from defaulting, rather than a scheme which would effec-
tively constitute a ‘tax’ on honest practitioners to pay for losses brought
about by the dishonesty of a small number of their colleagues.57
Despite their considerable unpopularity with the public and the immi-
nence of government intervention on the matter of financial defalcations,
the Institute nevertheless decided in the end to ‘tough it out’ on the ques-
tion of compulsory insurance. The reason for this change of heart was a
‘palace revolt’ by its country members. Membership of those eligible
members in the country climbed from less than 15 per cent to about 70
per cent in the early 1930s. This led, in turn, to the defeat or retirement
(in 1932) of a number of the incumbent members of the Council of the
Law Institute who supported the introduction of a scheme of fidelity
insurance and/or the imposition of annual audits on solicitors’ trust
accounts.
One of the casualties of the above coup was Mr CH Lucas, who con-
tinued to fight a rearguard action in the letters pages of the major news-
papers of the day in regard to the imposition of tighter standards on
solicitors in the management of trust funds. He was an ardent advocate
of the necessity of introducing a scheme of compulsory fidelity insurance
along the lines of those in New Zealand and Queensland. He considered
that one of the corollaries of being part of a profession was a range of
In moving the second reading of the bill Mr Slater said that if the proposals as set
out in the bill had been in effect years ago it was likely there would have been sufficient
money at the disposal of the Law Institute of Victoria to reimburse all those persons
who had lost money at the hands of fraudulent solicitors. The Bill provided protection
for the community.
56
See, for instance, the report in The Age, 18 Aug 1930.
57
A Report entitled ‘Trust Funds: Another Bill Proposed’ in The Argus of 9 Aug 1933
contains a brief history of the tortuous passage of the Bill through Parliament between
1931 and 1933 (see also below at n 53) .
obligations towards the public (ie ones clients). Amongst those obliga-
tions was the duty to ensure that members of the profession acted
honestly in their dealings with their clients, and when they did not, that
the culprits should be punished and affected clients be restored to their
former financial position. Mr Lucas had laid out his position as early as
1929 and stuck with it throughout the ensuing years of tension within the
community at large and the Law Institute itself. Commenting in 1929 on
the responsibilities of the profession in respect to the clients of defaulting
members Lucas stated:
The severity of the economic depression during the last year has caused the his-
tory of such occasions to repeat itself in the increase of crime against money and
other property . . . People lacking rigid principles of honesty have stolen what
they could not earn. Those whose callings have been connected with the handling
of money have succumbed to the same temptation, and, being prevented by the
high cost of commodities from maintaining their previous degree of comfort,
have embezzled . . . Unfortunately solicitors are not absent from the list . . . solic-
itors are alive to the serious fact that in recent times there has been a distressing
increase in [defalcations of trust funds]—distressing to the professional man as
well as the victim of the dishonesty. To tell the sufferer that his case is relatively
a rare one would be a mockery.
Restitution is his need, and if he has not in any way contributed to the wrong-
doing, the writer of these lines submits to the profession that the client is entitled
to restitution, and submits with equal confidence that it is possible to give it to
him . . . restitution . . . is what the client requires, and statutory provisions to that
end should take precedence over all preventative measures. We enjoy the
unbounded confidence of our clients, and the writer submits we should show our
gratitude for it by protecting them by paying a moderate annual subscription to
an Indemnity Fund.58
By 1932 Lucas, and others like him who advocated the introduction of
indemnity insurance, were in a minority within the Law Institute. For a
brief, but crucial, period in the 1930s urban solicitors from larger prac-
tices lost control of the Institute. This change of leadership was behind the
withdrawal of support for the legislation with regard to trust accounts
and fidelity insurance. The rural members (with the support of a number
of practitioners with small, family practices in the city and suburbs) were
largely concerned with their own economic survival rather than broader
issues of professionalism. Many country practices were small and the cost
of an annual audit, plus a substantial annual payment into a fidelity insur-
ance fund would, so it was perceived, send many of these smaller, country
practices to the wall. Resentment in the country was also considerable in
regard to having to pay for what they perceived to be the improvidence
of their city colleagues. Most defaults were those of members of city
58CH Lucas, ‘Solicitors Trust Funds and an Indemnity’, Law Institute Journal, 1 Dec
1929, 228–229.
318 Rob McQueen
practices. It was asserted by those in the country that it was extremely

unfair that they, who could least afford it, should then have to pay for the
improvidence and dishonesty of their city counterparts.
The tenor of the country opposition and its effectiveness in stalling the
passage of legislation regarding the institution of a scheme of compul-
sory insurance for solicitors in Victoria can be gauged from the following
report on the (still stalled) passage of the legislation in 1933:
In 1931 the Hogan Ministry introduced a bill to safeguard trust funds handled by
solicitors, its principal object being the establishment of an indemnity fund of
contributions from solicitors, which would be used to meet clients’ needs. The
Bill reached the Legislative Council, but there it was practically shelved. As nine
out of every ten solicitors are said to oppose this method, it is understood it will
not be recommended to Cabinet. Opponents of the indemnity fund contend that
it would be tantamount to making honest practitioners pay for the misdeeds of
the dishonest ones, without solving the primary difficulty of preventing the mis-
use of trust funds altogether. It has also been suggested that solicitors should be
required to have their trust funds audited at intervals of six months or a year, but
this method is opposed chiefly on the ground of expense, particularly to country
solicitors.59
The Bill which was ultimately introduced into Parliament contained no
provisions regarding either compulsory insurance or audit, despite the
public clamour for the introduction of such measures. There was an
immediate response in the letters pages of the major daily newspapers in
Melbourne. Large numbers of correspondents put pen to paper to sug-
gest that the legal profession in Victoria was a ‘disgrace’. Characteristic
of the letters published is one from J Elder Walker of Ringwood who
expressed the view that if one listened to the members of the legal pro-
fession closely they ‘couldn’t help being struck by the fact that clients and
their interests seem to be a secondary issue’. Mr Walker continued:
The main issue [in the debate surrounding indemnity insurance] seems be to ensure
that solicitors should not suffer any inconvenience, owing to having their accounts
audited or to having a burden cast upon them having to give a bond to ensure their
honesty . . . The legal profession is very jealous of its status and its monopoly in all
manners which touch its honour and its pocket, and it seems strange that in this
matter, which is the issue most vital to the honour of the profession, it should adopt
such a helpless attitude. The general public is not greatly interested in the steps
which may be taken by the legal profession to deal with members who fail to con-
form to the ethics of the profession. What the public wants is to be assured against
loss in dealings with the legal profession, as in dealing with any other. If the pro-
fession cannot agree to be guaranteed by fidelity insurance for which each person
would pay his premium according to the extent of his possible liability, there seems
no alternative to forcing restitution by legislation.60
59
The Argus, 9 Aug 1933.
60 Letters to the Editor, The Argus, 12 Aug 1933.
In addition to the general public, members of a range of other professions

and quasi-professions, who were themselves subject to some form of
fidelity insurance, wrote to the papers expressing outrage at the special
treatment being given to the legal profession. Whilst the Law Institute
became more entrenched in its opposition to fidelity insurance, public
opinion became more and more strident in the face of their intransigence.
So too were the voices of the opposition within the Law Institute itself
(such as the indefatigable Mr CH Lucas) raised more loudly with respect
to the damage they perceived was being done to the integrity and public
esteem of the profession. Even the professional bodies representing
lawyers in other States looked askance at the policy of the Law Institute
of Victoria on compulsory audits of trust accounts and fidelity insurance.
At the inaugural Australian Legal Convention in 1935 many of the papers
contained thinly veiled criticisms of the Law Institute of Victoria and the
damage it was doing to the profession.61
This inscrutability on the part of the Law Institute in the face of almost
daily defaults of practitioners and considerable financial losses to the
public, estimated in the mid-1930s to amount to over 100,000 pounds per
year, is in stark contrast to the treatment of the same issue in England.
The (English) Incorporated Law Society’s response to a similar dilemma
was to ultimately cave into public criticism, even in the face of internal
opposition to such a capitulation on the part of the members of the
Associated Provincial Law Societies (a body not unlike the country law
associations in Victoria). The unfolding of events in Victoria were even at
odds with developments in the rest of Australia and in New Zealand.
It is hard to pinpoint exactly the reasons for the failure of fidelity insur-
ance and audit proposals in Victoria and their success elsewhere. Perhaps
the answer lies in the level of organisation of country solicitors in key
rural districts in Victoria, and a certain timidity on the part of Parliament
to legislate for the reforms in the face of opposition from sectors of the
profession. Lunney’s analysis of the relative power balances in England
indicates a different mix than that prevailing in Victoria. Despite the vig-
orous opposition to the reforms by rural practitioners in England,
through the aegis of the Associated Provincial Law Societies, these voices
61
For instance, The Age of 30 Oct 1935, quite pointedly reported a speech to the
Convention by Mr PT Cross, a Queensland solicitor and member of the Council of the
Law Society of Queensland, on the experience in that State of an indemnity insurance
scheme similar to that proposed for Victoria: ‘The solicitors of Queensland, Mr. Cross
said increasingly approved of what had been done, and 95% of them would not think of
reverting to the old system . . . the society [had supported the scheme on the basis] that it
was practising a very honourable profession, and one worthy of public trust, and that
whenever a member defaulted it wished to make what redress it could. The experience
of the society had been eminently satisfactory. The standing of the profession in
Queensland was better than ever it had been, and commanded more respect.’
320 Rob McQueen
of opposition were eventually silenced by the perception that if nothing

was done by the profession itself then the government would take mea-
sures to remove the privilege of self-regulation from the profession and
legislate to take control of the its affairs:
The usual effect of a rejection by the Associated Provincial Law Societies of a pro-
posal for reform was to kill off the reform for the immediate future. On the issue
of defalcations, however, pressure began to mount from outside the Incorporated
Law Society for action.62
Lunney observes that a crucial turning point in the acceptance on the
part of the profession of the inevitability of audits and fidelity insurance
was the trial of a leading and apparently respectable member of the
profession for fraud whilst these proposals were being considered by
Parliament. This fortuitous event largely silenced opposition from
provincial solicitors.
However, despite the effect such legal actions and publicity surround-
ing the defaults of leading and respected solicitors might have on public
opinion it was by no means inevitable that such exposure of the profes-
sions ‘dirty linen’ would necessarily lead to support for indemnity insur-
ance and annual audits of trust accounts. This is borne out by the fact
that similar cases emerged in Victoria (and most other States in
Australia) at crucial stages of the debate as to the introduction of indem-
nity insurance without the same result as in England. The leading daily
papers in Victoria, The Age and The Argus and The Herald, all featured
a story on a 50,000 pounds deficiency in the trust fund of a well-known
and respected Sydney solicitor during August 1933.63 Whilst this, and a
number of other articles on lesser defalcations in Victoria, fuelled public
dissatisfaction with the handling of the issue it did not lead to a signifi-
cant change in opinion within the Law Institute. With the ‘hard-liners’ in
control of the Institute and the perception amongst opposition forces
62
M Lunney, ‘ “And the Lord knows where they might lead”—the Law Society, the
fraudulent solicitor and the Solicitors Act 1941’ (1997) 4(3) International Journal of the
Legal Profession, 237.
63
Mr Arthur Davies was the solicitor. His case was all the more dramatic for the fact
that upon discovery of his defalcations Davies had committed suicide on the 18 April
1932. The Herald of 17 Aug 1933 reported the statements of the trustee in bankruptcy
charged with dealing with the case: ‘The books and general accounts of the bankrupt
were in a terrible state and form them little information could be obtained . . . I came to
the conclusion that Davies was a solicitor with a very large practice . . . and there was at
the time of his death a large number of clients who had confidence in him.
Miss Tattersall, the bankrupts clerk, advised me that there were no books kept and the
only records of transactions with trust moneys were the cheque butts . . . To imagine such
a state of affairs is permissible is hardly conceivable, but I regret that the law of the land
as it stands does not render it necessary that a person handling trust funds shall keep
proper books.’
within the Law Institute that the majority of lawyers in the State were
against the introduction of indemnity insurance, even scandals such as
this were insufficient to dampen the Institute’s continuing opposition to
the introduction of indemnity insurance and compulsory audits.
Another factor, which may have made the trajectory of the debate on
fidelity insurance and compulsory audits somewhat more laboured in
Victoria than elsewhere was the growing concern on the part of the
Council of the Law Institute that by supporting measures such as annual
audits and indemnity insurance they might further alienate their already
hostile country and suburban membership. It was noted with concern by
members of the Council of the Law Institute that a number of semi-
employed and unemployed practitioners were engaging in a flirtation
with the organised fascist movement in Australia. Indeed as war drew
closer this expression of discontent on the part of disenchanted practi-
tioners became a matter of considerable disquiet within the Council of
the Law Institute .
This disquiet may, at our considerable distance from events, seem an
unlikely factor in preventing the adoption of as sensible a measure as the
introduction of indemnity insurance for legal practitioners. However, at
the time, it was felt by the Council of the Law Institute that further impo-
sitions on members of the legal profession would lead disenchanted
members into political activism. Already quite a number of frustrated
and disillusioned practitioners had joined extremist organisations,
particularly Australian fascist groups, and it was felt that further
administrative and financial demands on practitioners would lead ever
increasing numbers of underemployed practitioners to follow in their
footsteps.
The dissatisfaction of under-employed and financially straitened
members of the profession was, by the late 1930s, quite significant. The
professional life they had envisaged had not materialised. Instead of
being financially comfortable and respected by the community in which
they practised, legal practitioners with small practices were, by the
middle of the 1930s, more likely to be in severe financial difficulties and
sometimes also in disgrace within the communities in which they lived
and practiced. The disillusionment of a number of these less successful
members of the legal profession found its expression in political extrem-
ism. Some of these practitioners became advocates of fascism and joined
the then fledging Australian fascist movement. This flirtation by some
members of the profession with extremist movements was one of the
main preoccupations of the leadership of the Law Institute during the
mid- to late 1930s. Their concern was not entirely without foundation. In
New South Wales over a third of the key activists in the New Guard (the
proto-fascist organisation in that State, which had been modelled
on Moseley’s black shirts in England) were members of the legal
322 Rob McQueen
profession.64 The historian of the New Guard notes that ‘one group
strongly represented [in the membership of the New Guard] was the legal
profession, the Guard being able to count among its members at least six
kings counsels’.65 Similarly, in Victoria, a large number of key members
of the White Army (the Victorian equivalent to the New Guard) were
members of the legal profession.
In his President’s Annual Address to the Law Institute in 1935 Mr
G O’Crowther voiced his concerns as to the dangerous propensities of
under-employed legal practitioners:
The existence of an underpaid, or worse still, an unemployed professional class,
constitutes a definite danger to the social structure of the community.
Professional associations and professional men are normally stabilising elements
in a community. Their traditions and habits of thought run along the lines of
peaceful evolution rather than revolution. Per contra the unemployed profes-
sional man seems, from the experience of other countries, to pass to violent
extremes of doctrine and practice that threaten the stability of the State itself.66
This was not the first instance in which these concerns had been
expressed. In 1934 an editorial in the Law Institute Journal had expressed
grave concerns as to the prospects of many of those then studying law.
The University of Melbourne was continuing to enrol about 350 students
a year at a time when high levels of un- and under-employment already
existed within the profession. As the editorial noted the profession was
significantly ‘overmanned’, with a ‘substantial proportion of the solici-
tors admitted during the past few years being unable to establish them-
selves in practice’. The editorial continued in much the same vein as the
President of the Law Institute in his speech to the Institute a year later:
. . . [I]t seems likely that there will be a serious over-supply in the profession. An
unemployed intelligentsia, particularly one trained in law, has been found to be a
grave mischief in other countries. Possibly a similar fear is groundless in
Australia. But, however that may be, there can be little doubt that to the profes-
sion itself over-supply is likely to be a menace.67
Fortunately, these dire predictions proved wrong. Whilst numbers of
legal practitioners did join the Australian fascist movement during the
64 This figure has been arrived at by matching the lists of members of the New Guard
command structure contained in K Amos, The New Guard Movement 1931–1935
(Melbourne University Press, Melbourne, 1976), 116–118 against the NSW Law List for
1933.
65 K Amos, The New Guard Movement 1931–1935 (Melbourne University Press,
Melbourne, 1976), 44–45.

66 Presidential Address, G O’D Crowther, President of the Law Institute of Victoria,
reported in the Law Institute Journal, Vol IX 1 Jan 1935.

67
‘The Prospects of the Profession’, in May 1934(8) La w Institute Journal, 71–73 at
73.
1930s their flirtation with extremist political doctrines did not ultimately
threaten the State, nor prove to be enduring. However, even if the concern
of the Council of the Law Institute with respect to the ‘dangerousness’ of
un- and under-employed solicitors ultimately proved to be misplaced, for
a short time in the 1930s their paranoias of a fascisti led by disenchanted
legal practitioners seemed very real possibility to themselves and their
contemporaries. The minutes of a number of the meetings of the Council
of the Law Institute during the mid 1930s reflect this concern. This fear
of the political volatility of their unemployed members combined with
the vigorous opposition of country members of the Council to the intro-
duction of a scheme of indemnity insurance was enough to steel the
Council of the Law Institute against public criticism. They felt that by
delaying the introduction of these measures until times again became
more prosperous they were holding the profession together. The Council
was acutely aware of the fracture lines within the profession and wished
to avoid making matters worse than they already were.
Through a range of circumstances, perhaps unique to Victoria, the
Law Institute of Victoria was able to delay consideration of indemnity
insurance and annual audits far longer than was the case for any other
equivalent professional body in Australia. It was not until 1936 that the
matter again came before Parliament. The Law Institute had submitted a
draft bill which had proposed that the Institute itself be responsible for
the regulation of solicitors’ trust accounts. Parliament had responded by
enacting the Legal Profession Practice Act 1936 which required by law the
keeping of separate trust accounts and gave the Attorney General, upon
a complaint being made, the power to inspect and audit a solicitors’ trust
account. These measures proved to relatively ineffectual and led to a fur-
ther attempt to legislate on the topic in 1939. In that year the Council
proposed the introduction of a ‘relief’ fund for indemnifying clients
affected by the defaulting solicitors. They proposed that the annual con-
tributions of solicitors to the fund should vary between five and ten
pounds per annum, depending upon the number of years of practice. The
terms upon which the Council proposed this scheme were that member-
ship of the Law Institute should be made compulsory. Unlike the Council
of the early 1930s who were voted out of office on the basis of their sup-
port for a similar scheme, the Council in 1939 proclaimed that ‘in princi-
ple it has the majority of the profession behind it in its latest move’ and
that Parliament should consequently legislate for such a measure.
Unfortunately, due to the exigencies of war the proposed legislation was
again put on hold. Thus, the question of fidelity insurance for members
of the profession remained unresolved for almost a further decade.
It was only after a decade and a half of wrangling that a Solicitors
Guarantee Fund was finally established in Victoria, 15 years later than
was the case in New Zealand and most other States in Australia. This
324 Rob McQueen
Guarantee Fund was established under the terms of the Legal Profession
Practice Act 1946. The legislation provided for a fidelity fund to which
every practising solicitor in the State was required to subscribe. In the
case of pecuniary losses resultant upon a misappropriation of trust
monies the aggrieved client would be compensated from the fund if
recovery was not possible against the defaulting solicitor.68
The Institute, despite the considerable delay in achieving its original
objective of establishing a solicitors’ guarantee fund, nevertheless further
entrenched its position as the voice of the lower branch of the profession
by having the legislature tie membership of the Institute to the issue of
practising certificates. The Rules established in association with the
Legal Profession Practice Act of 1946 provided for the payment of a solic-
itors practising fee to the Institute and stipulated that forthwith mem-
bership subscriptions should be credited in payment of the members’
practising fee. The tying together of practising fees and membership of
the Institute ensured that the Institute would forthwith command a much
greater and more representative membership as, in practice, it meant that
membership of the Institute was now virtually compulsory. Membership
of the Institute immediately sky-rocketed from a mere 20 per cent69 of
practising solicitors to a more than respectable 80 per cent of all
Victorian practitioners (excluding ‘barristers’ who separately belonged
to the Bar Council).70
The considerable delay in introducing fidelity insurance in Victoria
might be mistaken for an example of the conservatism of the Institute
and its power to delay reforms. This, however, would be too simplistic an
explanation. The question of the introduction of a scheme of fidelity
insurance was not a matter over which the Institute had a single view. It
was internally divided on the matter, with the city-based leadership of
the Institute initially supporting the measure, and a loose amalgam of
country law associations and urban solicitors in sole practice opposed to
it. The internal friction around this issue was so great that some long
standing leaders of the Institute were defeated in election for Council
during the 1930s.71 This indicates that there were considerable differ-
68
Centenary History of the Law Institute, op cit (n 8 above), 51–52.
69
What is noteworthy in this figure is that the battle around the introduction of
fidelity insurance and audits had led to a haemorrhaging of city members from the
Institute in the mid to late 1930s. from being a largely city-based Institute it had become
an almost exclusively rural club in the late 1930s. Membership of solicitors had dropped
from over 40% of those eligible to 20% in the late 1930s.
70 These figures are based on a comparison of the 1939 and 1947 Law Lists for
Victoria.
71 Centenary History of The Law Institute of Victoria 1859–1959, 51. CH Lucas, a
long time member of the Council of the Law Institute had retired from the Council in
1931 rather than face almost certain defeat at the hands of the members after his unequiv-
ocal support for a compulsory scheme of insurance in 1930.
ences of opinion during these years within the Institute on major matters
of policy. City-based practitioners were more concerned with maintain-
ing the reputation of the profession, whilst country solicitors and sole
practitioners in the city were more concerned with keeping costs low and
maintaining market control, particularly in bread and butter areas of
practice.
CONCLUSIONS
In his presidential speech to the Law Institute at its 1939 Annual Meeting,
Mr Frederick Gubbins speculated on the role of professional associations
such as his own in the post-depression environment:
. . . [T]he chief object of a professional body such as ours . . . is the establishment
of friendly relations amongst those members of the profession who desire to
uphold its dignity and reputation . . . I think the establishment of friendly under-
standing should be the first aim of the Law Institute; friendly understanding
amongst our members and with other bodies whose opinions and friendships
mean a great deal to us.
At the beginning of this speech Mr Gubbins had noted that this was the
first presidential address to the Law Institute for some considerable time
and then proceeded with his call for unity and friendship. He concluded
by noting that in ‘recent years’ members of the profession had been
accustomed to hearing that the profession ‘was deteriorating and dis-
united’. He then went on to deny that this was the case and that the pro-
fession was, as ever, united by a ‘strong sense of professional duty’.
The unsaid and the passing remark often reveals more than a ream of
official documents. This is certainly the case with Gubbins’ speech. The
fact that there had not been a presidential address since 1936 was not
serendipitous. It was a consequence of deep divisions within the Institute
over important matters of policy. The profession had fractured into war-
ring camps over the related issues of compulsory audits of trust accounts
and the establishment of a fidelity insurance scheme. In the early 1930s
country and suburban members had vigorously denounced the then lead-
ership of the Law Institute as ‘not representing’ their views on these
issues. For a brief period these humbler members of the profession gained
control of the Institute and caused it to reverse its policy on these key
issues. Arguably this reversal in policy cost the Law Institute and the pro-
fession dearly in respect to their credibility with the public. It also
demonstrated in vivid relief the fact that the ‘legal profession’ was by no
means a homogenous entity. Whilst idealised versions of the ‘profession’
see it as a body united by a common set of ethical and professional ideals
the truth is that is characterised by a series of divisions over those very
ideals.
326 Rob McQueen
However, despite these significant differences between sections of the

profession there is nevertheless also some congealing force which seems
to bind the profession together. The legal profession is, in this respect,
not unlike other groupings (such as political parties) in which there is a
commitment to some broad notion of what it means to belong to that
particular group, but in which there is wide difference of opinion on
matters of detail.
Sugarman rightly points to the error of conceiving legal (or for that
manner any other form of professional practice) as monolithic. The legal
profession is full of ambiguity, cohering around some issues, and frag-
menting over others. Sometimes one can point to a ‘single’ unified pro-
fession, and in other instances one can only observe the incoherent and
often conflicting views held by sectional groupings within the profession.
In the course of introducing the complexity of the forces that shape the
‘legal profession’ Sugarman has made the following observations:
Transcending the divisions between lawyering and business and the private and
public roles of lawyers in society helps to focus attention on a related set of
connections that are often neglected within the history and sociology of the pro-
fession: namely, the relationship between the ideas and culture of the profession,
the work lawyers undertake, the organisation of legal practices and their eco-
nomic context, how they change over time, and the larger cultural and political
significance of lawyers in society . . . An examination of these issues . . . illumi-
nates the in-built conflicts of interest and the plurality of voices, logics, ‘tradi-
tions’, audiences and spheres of action that are an important feature of legal
work, thought, culture and authority. From this broader perspective, we can
investigate the relative elasticity of the ideology of legal professionalism and the
ways in which that ideology sustains apparently divergent conceptions of the pro-
fession, while asserting a common culture and history binding lawyers together
as a community (my emphasis).72
At the outset of this account of the Law Institute of Victoria Allen
Hutchinson’s remarks on the ‘declining homogeneity’ of the legal profes-
sion in recent times were noted. At least in respect to the Law Institute of
Victoria one might wish to revise such remarks. The legal profession in
Victoria has always been subject to considerable division. In the 1890s the
divisions were as between barristers and solicitors, and as between rural
and city based members of the profession. In the Great Depression of the
1930s significant fault lines appeared as between city and country mem-
bers of the profession. Whilst these divisions were repaired after the
immediate crises passed, it is nevertheless the case that the level of homo-
geneity claimed by both ‘institutional’ historians of the profession and by
72 D Sugarman, ‘Blurred boundaries: the overlapping worlds of law, business and
politics’ in C Harrington and M Cain (eds), Lawyers in a Postmodern World:
Translation and Transgression (Open University Press, Buckingham, 1994), 105–106 (my
emphasis)
‘market control’ theorists never appear to have existed within the profes-
sion in Victoria. Dissent and friction between sectors of the profession
have been the ‘norm’. These divisions are most obvious at times of crisis
such as those which existed during the financial depressions of the 1890s
and 1930s, but are never far from the surface. Sometimes these divisions
might produce benefits to the wider public or lead to an improvement in
professional practice, and sometimes they will not. The divisions of the
1890s within the legal profession in Victoria, for instance, could not be
said to have improved the position of the public vis-à-vis the profession.
The continuing division between barristers and solicitors simply led to
increased costs for clients. Nor could it be said that the public was a
major beneficiary of the friction between different sectors of the profes-
sion over indemnity insurance in the 1930s. Many clients lost their life
savings whilst the Law Institute and the legislature prevaricated. Even the
delayed resolution of the matter in 1946 mainly benefited the Law
Institute. Insurance was introduced in return for practising solicitors
being forced to take out Law Institute membership—giving the Law
Institute a guaranteed membership and augmenting their power base.
Also, whilst clients had somewhat better protection from rogue solicitors
after the legislation, this was of little comfort to those clients who had
lost hundred of thousands of pounds as a consequence of dishonest
lawyers absconding with their trust funds in the 1930s.
As historians of the legal profession such as David Sugarman73 and
W Wesley Pue74 have reminded us on a number of occasions, bodies such
as Law Societies (or Institutes) have had to balance a range of contradic-
tory interests in their activities. On the one side they have to act as a form
of trade union for their members, ensuring that other professions do not
encroach on that of the legal profession, and that monopolies in specific
areas of practice are preserved. On the other side, representative bodies
of lawyers have to maintain the professional ideals and standards of the
profession and ensure that members act with honesty and integrity when
dealing with clients. Sometimes these two roles of the professional bod-
ies are impossible to reconcile and the profession breaks down into con-
tending camps. This is what happened in the 1890s and 1930s in Victoria.
Some members considered the civic responsibilities and ideals of the pro-
fession as pre-eminent whilst others saw the need to keep costs low and
protect their incomes as the most important goal for the Law Institute.
73 For example, see D Sugarman, ‘Bourgeois collectivism, professional power and the
boundaries of the State. The private and public life of the Law Society 1825 to 1914’,
(1996) 3(1/2) International Journal of the Legal Profession, 81–134, in particular at 121.
74 See W Pue, ‘Exorcising Professional Demons: Charles Rann Kennedy and the
Transition to the Modern Bar’, (1987) 5 Law and History Review 135–187; Pue, W,
‘Moral Panic at the English Bar: Paternal vs Commercial Ideologies of Legal Practice in
the 1860s’, Law and Social Inquiry (1990), 49–118.
328 Rob McQueen
The manner in which these irreconcilable concepts of the role of repre-

sentative professional bodies is played out is always contingent on a range
of factors, some within the profession itself, such as the relative balance
of power as between the groups representing these contending views; and
some external to the profession, such as political pressures being exerted
on the profession by public opinion and government.
12
Cultural Chasm: ‘Mennonite’ Lawyers
in Western Canada 1900–1939
HAROLD DICK
INTRODUCTION
In a real sense, there were no Mennonite lawyers in Western Canada in

the first four decades of the twentieth century. To be sure, at least seven
members of the legal profession in this period had been born into
Mennonite homes and had grown up speaking Plattdeutsch, eating
verenike, roll kuchen and zweibach and attending Mennonite churches.1
In addition, three of these men had attended a Mennonite High School
and two had married Mennonite women.2 It is also true that all but one
of these men practised law near Mennonite settlements for some period
of time during their careers, using their connections with the Mennonites
to build a clientele.3 Moreover, at least two of these men used their skills
1
These men were: Abraham Buhr (1880–1960), Henry Vogt (1886–1968), Peter J
Hooge (1886–1963), John E Friesen (1895–1987), David Vogt (1900–1979), Erdman
Friesen (1904–1969) and Elmer A Driedger (1914–1985). For more information concern-
ing these men, see HJ Dick, Lawyers of Mennonite Background in Western Canada
Before the Second World War (Winnipeg, Manitoba, Legal Research Institute of the
University of Manitoba, 1993) at 97–157. Plattdeutsch is also referred to as Low German.
It is a dialect adopted by the Mennonites while living along the Vistula River in Prussia
(now Poland) and has not traditionally been a written language. Verenike, roll kuchen
and zweibach are Mennonite dishes of German or Ukrainian origin.
2 Abraham Buhr, Henry Vogt and David Vogt all attended the Mennonite Collegiate
Institute in Gretna, Manitoba. Henry Vogt married Agenetha Buhr and David Vogt mar-
ried Katherine Wiens: Ibid. at 97–157.
3 Abraham Buhr practised law for many years in Winnipeg, Manitoba which con-
tained a sizeable Mennonite population, and maintained an office in Steinbach, situated

well within the East Reserve of Manitoba which had originally been set aside for
Mennonite settlement. Henry Vogt practised for a time in Morden, Manitoba, near the
West Reserve which had also been set aside for Mennonite settlement. Peter Hooge prac-
tised law in Rosthern, Saskatchewan for several years, near a sizeable Mennonite settle-
ment. Both John and Erdman Friesen had their beginnings in law in Herbert,
Saskatchewan, the site of a Mennonite settlement, and later moved to Swift Current,
Saskatchewan, about 30 miles away. Only Elmer Driedger never practised law near any
significant Mennonite settlement; after brief periods in Saskatoon and Yorkton,
Saskatchewan, he moved to Ottawa: Ibid at 97–157.
330 Harold Dick
in an extra-legal capacity to defend the interests of the Mennonite com-

munity before the government and society at large.4
Nevertheless, despite these connections with the Mennonite commu-
nity, none of these men can be considered Mennonites by the standards
of that community at that time and, almost certainly, by their own
standards as well.5 As will become clear, the cultural distinctives of
Mennonites on the Canadian prairies in this era cannot be separated
from their faith, their language and their agrarian lifestyle. By choosing
a career which required residence in an urban environment, these seven
lawyers had abandoned one key stake which held erect the ‘sacred
canopy’ of Mennonite culture. The loss of Plattdeutsch as the language
of everyday speech represented the surrender of another stake. Most
importantly, however, the fact that none of these men joined or even
regularly attended a Mennonite church signalled a conscious choice to
reject their cultural community in favour of another.
The reality and the implications of this choice would have been read-
ily apparent both to these seven individuals and the Mennonite commu-
nity. Few of them made any significant attempts to retain ties to the
Mennonite community other than by maintaining contact with relatives.
Even more significantly, they did not pass on the Mennonite faith or other
cultural distinctives to their children.6 As for the Mennonites, while they
4 Abraham Buhr was the most heavily involved in representing the interests of the
Mennonite community to that of Canadian society. He helped form Mennonite
Immigration Aid, an organisation dedicated to assisting Mennonites from the Soviet
Union to settle in Canada. He also engaged in a series of radio broadcasts which
explained Mennonite distinctives. Professionally, Buhr represented numerous
Mennonites who had been drafted during World War II and wished to obtain conscien-
tious objector status: See, for example, R v Giesbrecht, [1944] 1 WWR 353 (Man CA).
See also Ibid at 110–114. Henry Vogt was also involved in defending Mennonites from
the outside world; for example, in 1917 and 1920, he wrote letters to the Premier of
Saskatchewan, advancing the position of the conservative Mennonites who rejected
provincial curricula and the use of English in their schools: W Janzen, Limits on Liberty:
The Experience of Mennonite, Hutterite, and Doukhobor Communities in Canada
(University of Toronto Press, Toronto, 1990) 107–113.
5 The one possible exception is Abraham Buhr, the first Mennonite who entered the
legal profession. Despite marrying an Icelandic woman, living in an urban environment

and failing to attend a Mennonite church, Buhr gave indications throughout his life that
he continued to consider himself a Mennonite: Dick, supra, n 1 at 113–114.
6 The extent to which the children of these men felt distanced from their fathers’
Mennonite pasts is notable. One was unaware that her father had a Mennonite back-
ground until after his death; another, in his autobiography, referred to his father’s ances-
try as ‘Dutch’ and failed to mention the word ‘Mennonite’ at all. Even the children of
Abraham Buhr, the man who, arguably, remained most connected to his faith and com-
munity, never considered themselves to be Mennonite despite describing their cousins
(who lived in the same town) as Mennonites. Significantly, all of Buhr’s sons who were
able to do so entered the Canadian Armed Forces in the Second World War, a violation
of a major tenet of the Mennonite faith: Ibid at 97–157.
‘Mennonite’ Lawyers in Western Canada 1900–1939 331
may have preferred legal services provided by these lawyers over that of
lawyers without a Mennonite background, they could not have helped
but recognise that these men had chosen a life outside the Mennonite
community. A choice had been made and a chasm leapt. From the per-
spective of the Mennonite community, these lawyers might be good men
who spoke Plattdeutsch and understood Mennonite culture, they might
be people to turn to in times of need, especially when relations with the
larger world involved legal issues, but they were not Mennonites.
The fact that every one of the seven ‘Mennonites’ who entered the legal
profession in the early decades of this century also left behind the
Mennonite community may not necessarily say a great deal about either
Mennonites or the legal profession in that era. One possible explanation
is that the experiences of these seven individuals were coincidental. Every
decision is the result of an individual’s personality, experiences and cir-
cumstances; it may be that all of these men chose to practise law and, for
entirely independent reasons, also decided to abandon participation in
the Mennonite community. Yet coincidence appears a weak explanation
for the unanimous experience of seven individuals who entered the
profession over a 26 year period.7
Another obvious hypothesis is that the legal community demonstrated
such prejudice against lawyers from immigrant communities that aspir-
ing immigrant practitioners felt compelled to divest themselves com-
pletely of their linguistic and cultural heritage. This theory must be taken
seriously; there is no doubt that prejudice toward certain ethnic groups
existed in the legal profession during this period. Nevertheless, no evi-
dence has been discovered which suggests that prejudice was directed
against these men or against Icelanders who also entered the legal pro-
fession during this period. In fact, the success enjoyed by several of these
Mennonite lawyers in their legal careers suggests just the opposite.8
A more subtle and compelling theory is that ‘Mennonite’ lawyers were
forced to abandon full participation in the Mennonite community, not
because of prejudice directed against immigrants personally, but because
of a bias within the legal profession against immigrant cultures. The
legal profession of Western Canada in this era was dominated by Anglo-
Canadian lawyers and the belief in the superiority of British culture and
tradition, as we shall see, was widespread. Certainly, the period exam-
ined here preceded by many decades an era in which multiculturalism
was celebrated as a cornerstone of Canadian identity. Yet, this theory also
appears inadequate. For example, it fails to account for the ability of
7 Abraham Buhr, the first of these men to enter the legal profession, was called to the
Saskatchewan Bar in 1911 while Elmer Driedger, the last, was called to the same Bar in
1937: Ibid at 103 and 154.
8 Of the seven Mennonites who entered the legal profession during this period, two
became judges and one a respected legal academic: Ibid at 97–157.

332 Harold Dick
Icelandic lawyers to achieve prominence in the legal profession while not

only remaining firmly within the Icelandic community but becoming
leaders of it.9
Still, the uniform experience of ‘Mennonite’ lawyers in Western
Canada prior to the Second World War strongly suggests that a convinc-
ing explanation must take into account the two cultures which these men
had in common. In this paper, I will briefly examine these two cultures
and argue that Mennonites inhabited a culture which was, in critical
areas, incompatible with that of the legal profession. Moreover, while
committed to starkly different visions of the future, each of these two cul-
tures sought to occupy the same geographical territory on the Canadian
prairies; conflict between them was therefore inevitable. The incompati-
bilities of and conflict between these cultures in the early decades of this
century made it impossible to straddle the two communities. Therefore,
unlike their Icelandic counterparts, the seven ‘Mennonites’ who wished
to practise law were forced to choose between remaining within their
ethnic community and entering the legal profession; they could not do
both.
First, then, brief accounts of the two cultures in question.
MENNONITE CULTURE
The Mennonites of Western Canada have their roots in the Radical

Reformation of the sixteenth century. Mennonites are one branch of the
Anabaptist Movement, which also produced the Amish and Hutterites.10
9 Two examples are sufficient to demonstrate the pattern. Walter J Lindal

(1887–1976) enjoyed a successful legal practice and served as a Manitoba County Court
Judge for 20 years. He was the first President of the Canada Press Club of Winnipeg and
the Citizenship Council of Manitoba. He was also active in the Icelandic community,
however, serving as President of the Icelandic Canadian Club of Winnipeg and the
Viking Club of Manitoba. He was awarded the Coronation Medal and made a Knight of
the Order of the Falcon by the Icelandic Government.
Joseph T Thorson’s (1889–1978) achievements in the legal and political fields are even
more spectacular. A successful lawyer, he served as Dean of the University of Manitoba
School of Law, Member of Parliament, Canadian delegate to the League of Nations,
Canadian Minister of National War Services during the Second World War, President of
the Exchequer Court of Canada for 20 years and President of the International Congress
of Jurists. Yet, although his formal positions within Icelandic circles do not match
Lindal’s, he took pains to retain his command of the Icelandic language and connections
to the Icelandic community. He too was named to the Order of the Falcon and a Grand
Cross Knight by the Icelandic government: J Collins, DT Anderson and A Esau, Iceland
Law and Lawyers in Manitoba: A Research Guide (Legal Research Institute of the
University of Manitoba, Research Report Number 5) 91–96, 156–158.
10 The term ‘Mennonite’ was applied to the followers of Menno Simons, an
Anabaptist leader in the Netherlands. Nevertheless, it has subsequently come to describe

Those Mennonites who eventually arrived in Western Canada can trace

their history to the Netherlands of the sixteenth century.
Anabaptist theology was not a systematic affair. It placed great
emphasis on ethics and very little on intellectual and academic theory.11
This is encapsulated in a famous early Mennonite adage: ‘No one can
know Christ truly unless one follows him in life’.12 For Anabaptists, true
knowledge was not a result of education, logic or original thought but of
obedience to God in daily life.13 Partly as a result of this belief and partly
because much of the persecution experienced by the Anabaptists was
instigated by academics and the clergy of the Roman Catholic and
Lutheran churches, Mennonites traditionally displayed a deep-seated
suspicion of higher learning.14
One of the more distinctive ethical positions of the Anabaptists was
the doctrine of non-resistance or non-violence. This doctrine gave rise to
other descendants of Anabaptists whose roots may be traced to Switzerland and

Southern Germany. However, Hutterites and the Amish, groups which also grew out of
the Anabaptist movement, are not usually identified as Mennonites.
11 C Redekop, Mennonite Society (The Johns Hopkins University Press, Baltimore,
1989) at 55 states the the Anabaptist belief system should be seen: ‘in the context of a con-
tinuing dialectic with the majority of Christendom on the issue of ethic or lifestyle—that
is, on the concrete expression of the Christian faith.’
The controversy that ultimately caused the formation of the Anabaptist movement
seemed to be basically an issue of accepting the Christian teaching at face value and liv-
ing it . . . The conclusion that naturally emerges is that the Anabaptist-Mennonite
utopian movement was much more an ethical response than a creedal one. The ideolog-
ical and philosophical dynamic of the movement was a derivative one, focusing on the
application of the basic Christian beliefs in personal and social life, rather than on an
emphasis on abstract doctrine which was then expressed in elaborate ecclesiastical
liturgy and litanies.
12 The original phrase in German is ‘Christsein heist Christum im Leben nachfolgen’
and is attributed to Hans Denk: L Driedger, Mennonite Identity in Conflict (The Edwin
Mellen Press, Lewiston and Queenston, 1988) at 38 and CJ Dyck, An Introduction to
Mennonite History (Herald Press, Scottdale, Pennsylvania, 1967) at 47.
13 According to WE Keeney, The Development of Dutch Anabaptist Thought and
Practice From 1539–1564 (B de Graaf, Nieuwkoop, The Netherlands, 1968) at 192: ‘The
Mennonite stress upon the obedient will rather than reason as the primary means for
obtaining spiritual knowledge led to and reinforced their interpretation of the Scriptures.
Their approach to the Scriptures affected most directly the Mennonite position on teach-
ers and preachers. The moral consequences of a man’s life gave the evidence for judging
whether he had the charismatic gift which confirmed a call to the ministry. The qualifi-
cations for office were not dependent upon education or formal training.’
14 Melchoir Hoffman, an early Anabaptist leader, said: ‘Therefore, I warn all lovers
of truth that they do not give themselves over to lofty arguments which are too hard for
them, but that they hold themselves to the straightforward words of God in all simplic-
ity’: Redekop, supra, n 11 at 107. Menno Simons echoed this view in replying to his crit-
ics: ‘You say, we are inexpert, unlearned and know not the Scriptures. I reply: the Word
is plain and needs no interpretation’: JC Wenger (ed) The Complete Writings of Menno
Simons, trans L Verduin (Herald Press, Scottdale, Pennsylvania, 1956) at 214.
334 Harold Dick
their refusal to participate in war15 and also contributed to their some-

what ambivalent view of the State. On the one hand, they acknowledged
that the State was ordained by God to maintain order and limit evil in a
sinful and fallen world and they recognised that violence was necessary
to achieve that goal.16 On the other hand, they saw the State as itself
sinful and fallen.17 This resulted in their advocacy of a radical separation
of Church and State.18 They refused to participate in the activities of the
State while simultaneously demanding that the State remove itself from
all issues of religion and personal ethics which they considered ultra vires
the State’s divinely-ordained jurisdiction.
The Mennonite commitment to pacifism was actually only one mani-
festation of a larger ethic of love for one’s neighbour. This ethic was most
fully manifested within the Mennonite community. Mennonites self-
consciously committed themselves to the creation of a community rather
than an institutional church. Made up only of those who had made a
personal commitment to Christ (as evidenced by adult baptism),19 the
Mennonite congregation was to be a community which encompassed all
forms of human relationship and which was characterised by ‘personal
intimacy, emotional depth, moral commitment, social cohesion and
continuity in time’.20
Although early Mennonites were highly evangelistic and did not advo-
cate a physical separation from the world,21 the persecution inflicted
upon them by the authorities in Holland reinforced a tendency toward an
15
See, for example, Menno Simons’ contention that the Bible teaches Christians not
to take up the sword: Ibid at 423.
16
The Dordrecht Confession, an early Anabaptist confession of faith, stated: ‘God
has instituted civil government for the punishment of the wicked and the protection of
the pious; and also further for the purpose of governing the world . . . and to preserve its
subjects in good order and good conditions’: GF Hershberger, The Way of the Cross in
Human Relations (1958) 165 in Redekop, supra, n 11 at 217. Menno Simons said, ‘That
the office of the magistrate is of God and His ordinance I freely grant . . .’ Ibid, n 14 at
922.
17
The Schleitheim Confession, an early Anabaptist statement of faith, describes civil
authority as ‘outside the perfection of Christ’: JC Wenger, Glimpses of Mennonite
History and Doctrine (Herald Press, Scottdale, Pennsylvania, 1947) at 210 as cited in
Redekop, supra, n 11 at 127.
18
A Friesen, Emigration in Mennonite History with a Special Reference to the
Conservative Mennonite Emigration from Canada to Mexico and South America After
World War I (MA Thesis, University of Manitoba, 1960) at 2. See also Redekop, supra,
n 11 at 11 and W. Klaassen, Anabaptism: Neither Catholic Nor Protestant (Conrad Press,
Waterloo, Ontario, 1981) at 46–52.
19
The term ‘Anabaptist’ is derived from Latin for ‘rebaptised’: Dyck, supra, n 12
at 36.
20
RA Nisbet, The Sociological Tradition (Basic Books, New York, 1966) as cited in
Redekop, supra, n 11 at 129.
21
CH Smith, Smith’s Story of the Mennonites (Faith & Life Press, Newton, Kansas,
1981) at p 14 and Redekop, supra, n 11 at 31.
inward-looking and self-reliant community.22 This tendency was further

strengthened by their emigration from the Netherlands to Prussia (in
what is now Poland) in the seventeenth century and later to southern
Russia, near the Crimean peninsula. In a new place, unfamiliar with the
local language, they found comfort in old traditions and language and
over time began to resemble an ethnic as well as a religious group.23 This
was especially the case in Russia where State policy deliberately kept
Mennonites separate from the surrounding Ukrainian and Russian
population and granted them a high level of autonomy to manage their
own affairs.24
Early Mennonites had practised a variety of trades and were largely
urban dwellers.25 However, they became increasingly rural during their
sojourn in Prussia; in 1776, two-thirds of the heads of Mennonite house-
holds in West Prussia were farmers.26 The trend toward an agricultural
community was reinforced by the Mennonite migration to Russia in the
late eighteenth century. In the early years of settlement, almost all
Mennonites earned their livelihood from the soil and, although various
crafts and trades emerged as the Mennonite colonies in Russia developed,
these commercial enterprises were viewed as second-best occupational
pursuits.27 The Mennonite ideal was that of a simple farmer living in
harmony with God, his community and the rhythms of nature.28
After 80 years in Russia, the Mennonites had developed a distinct
identity. They retained the use of Plattdeutch, the German dialect they
had absorbed during their years in Prussia, but spoke High German in
church and on formal occasions. In addition to their unique faith, they
developed a unique cuisine, a distinctive style of dress and their own
22
F Epp, Mennonite Peoplehood: A Plea for New Initiatives (Conrad Press, Waterloo,
Ontario, 1977) at 23 as cited in Redekop, supra, n 11 at 138.
23 F Epp at 28–29 as cited in in Redekop, supra n 11 at 139.
24
The Mennonite settlers were granted such significant autonomy that their secular
leaders ‘held all the powers and duties of authorities in the modern secular state’:
Redekop, supra, n 11 at 81. For example, they had the authority to develop and maintain
roads, schools and hospitals, to regulate commerce and to deal with social deviance. This
latter authority included the power to impose fines or imprisonment and, with the con-
sent of the Russian authorities, to impose corporal punishment: J Urry, None But Saints:
The Transformation of Mennonite Life in Russia 1789–1889 (Hyperion Press, Winnipeg,
Manitoba, 1989) at 72.
25 C-P Clausen, Anabaptism: A Social History, 1525–1618 (Cornell University Press,
Ithaca, New York, 1972) as cited in Driedger, supra, n 12 at 17.

26 H Penner, Die Ost- und Westpreussischen Mennoniten in ihren Religiosen und
Sozialen Leben in ihren Kulturellen und Wirdschaftlichen Leisstungen (Mennonitischer

Geschichtsverein, Weirhof, West Germany, 1978) at 414–469 as cited in Driedger, supra,
n 12 at 19.
27 Redekop, supra n 11 at 200 and J Urry, supra, n 24 at 144–45.
28 R Friedman (ed and trans), ‘Faith and Reason: The Principles of Mennonitism
Reconsidered in a Treatise of 1833’ (1948) 22 Mennonite Quarterly Review 75 at 91.

336 Harold Dick
traditions.29 They lived in villages, holding some land for common pas-
ture and dividing the rest into small portions in an ‘open field’ pattern.
They were largely self-sufficient, operating their own schools and local
governments, both at the village and colony levels. They lived quite inde-
pendently; to a significant extent, they were physically separated from
Russians and Ukrainians and years might pass between visits from
Russian government officials. The need for communication in Russian or
Ukrainian was minimal.30 In this secluded environment, Mennonites
began to feel a commitment, not only to their village or even their colony
but to all Mennonites in Russia. They began to refer to themselves as ‘das
Mennonitische Volk’.31
By the mid-nineteenth century, Mennonites were also becoming
increasingly wealthy, especially in comparison to neighbouring Russians
and Ukrainians. Through hard work, frugality and a commitment to one
another, they had succeeded beyond all expectations and had turned
barren steppes into the ‘breadbasket of Europe’. Their material success
had been assisted by a modernisation initiative within the Mennonite
community which had introduced new farming techniques, new breeds
of livestock and new strains of vegetables, fruits and grains as well as
contributing to the emergence of large-scale commercial farming opera-
tions.32 Mennonites also began to industrialise, sometimes establishing
large industries in towns and cities near the Mennonite colonies.33
Of course, modernisation benefitted some Mennonites more than
others. Mennonites who had adopted progressive agricultural practices
or had invested in modern industries grew extraordinarily wealthy. Some
bought vast estates outside the Mennonite colonies.34 At the same time,
however, commercial farming drove numerous subsistence farmers off
the land and many traditional crafts were virtually eliminated by indus-
29 C Redekop, ‘Anabaptism and the Ethnic Ghost’ (1984) 58 Mennonite Quarterly
Review 133 at 143.
30 The Russian government deferred to the Mennonite settlers to the extent of dealing
with the leaders of the community rather than with individual Mennonites and using
German as the language of official correspondence: EK Francis, In Search of Utopia: The
Mennonites in Manitoba (DW Friesen & Sons, Altona, 1955) at 21 and Urry, supra n 24
at 71.
31 Urry, supra, n 24 at 103 and J Urry, ‘ “The Snares of Reason”—Changing Mennon-
ite Attitudes to “Knowledge” in Nineteenth-Century Russia’ (1983) 25 Comparative

Studies in Society and History 306 at 320.
32 Urry, supra, n 24 at 134–35.
33 GK Epp, ‘Urban Mennonites in Russia’ in J Friesen (ed), Mennonites in Russia:
Essays in Honour of Gerhard Lohrenz (CMBC Publications, Winnipeg, 1989) 239 at 241;
J Urry, ‘Mennonite Economic Development in the Russian Mirror’ in J Friesen (ed),
Mennonites in Russia: Essays in Honour of Gerhard Lohrenz (CMBC Publications,
Winnipeg, 1989) 99 at 102.
34 Urry, supra, n 24 at 143 notes that, by 1841, over 130,000 acres of land were owned
by nine Mennonites outside the Mennonite colonies.

trially-produced goods. A landless working class, prohibited from par-

ticipation in civic affairs, grew increasingly restless.35
Reforms also affected the Mennonite education system. Historically,
elementary schooling had been required for all Mennonite children
because it was thought that everyone should have the ability to read the
Bible and to become proficient at basic arithmetic needed for farming.
Nevertheless, teachers were not expected so much to instruct as to main-
tain order in the classroom while older children taught the younger.36
Higher education had been traditionally frowned on both because it
tended to disrupt to the community by giving rise to sins of pride and envy
and because it created an opportunity for new and dangerous ideas to
enter the community.37 Truth, to most Mennonites, was the known rather
than the knowable; it was to be maintained and lived, not discovered.
The modern approach to education flew in the face of this traditional
understanding. It centralised control of schools, expanded the curricu-
lum, introduced grades and competition to the classroom, improved
school buildings and resulted in the hiring of teachers who were prepared
to teach rather than merely to supervise. Secondary schools were estab-
lished to train teachers, civic administrators and agricultural experts.38
All of these changes were resisted by conservative Mennonites who
regretted the loss of the small, egalitarian village ideal. They complained
of a spiritual malaise, a loss of humility and a desire for wealth, educa-
tion and status within the Mennonite community.39 One conservative
Mennonite leader expressed the anxiety of many in this fashion:
Therefore, presumptuousness comes first, then pride, ostentation and arrogance
and this was already happening to us, because we already drove in large, magnif-
icant buggies and coaches, and when we passed the native Russians, they hardly
knew whether we were aristocrats or only German farmers. That is how the
farmers had already changed, and this led to our downfall, for God grants grace
only to the humble, but He resists the arrogant.40
35 Ibid at 143–146.
36
Besides its practicality, this was seen as giving children an opportunity to practise
concepts of community and mutual aid: Urry, supra, n 31 at 313.
37 Urry, supra, n 24 at 153–155 and Ibid at 312.
38
Urry, supra, n 24 at 160–165.
39 Urry, supra, n 24 at 217–218 notes: ‘Although recent government reforms, especially
those that affected the status of the colonists, had acted as a catalyst forcing many to
reconsider their position in Russia, long-term tensions within the Mennonite communi-
ties undoubtedly contributed to their decision to emigrate . . . There were serious, long-
standing doubts among many concerning the direction of Mennonite life in Russia. These
doubts included not just the willingness of many to accept official policies, but also the
eagerness of some to seek economic reward at the expense of their fellow brethren, as well
as the enthusiasm and the desire for new kinds of knowledge and higher learning. . . .’
40
G Wiebe, Causes and History of the Emigration of the Mennonites From Russia to
America, trans H Janzen (Manitoba Mennonite Historical Society, Winnipeg, 1981) at 23.
338 Harold Dick
The conservative Mennonites saw the majority of the Mennonite com-

munity becoming ensnared by ‘reason’ (Vernunft) rather than seeking
‘understanding’ (Verstand). ‘Reason’ sought higher education, more
efficient civic administration, industrialisation and greater wealth; it
resulted in worldly attitudes, ambition and pride. By contrast, ‘under-
standing’ permitted one to live a simple, humble and godly life in
community with one’s neighbours.41 This was the goal of the conserva-
tive group.
Besides their unease with the direction of the Mennonite community,
conservative Mennonites were also upset about policy changes instituted
by the Russian government which was intended to integrate the
Mennonite colonies more fully within the broader Russian empire. In
particular, they rejected plans to require Mennonite young men to spend
several years in the State forestry service (as an alternative to military ser-
vice),42 the requirement that Russian be taught in Mennonite schools and
the elimination of some self-governing powers, including the power to
own land collectively.43
Eventually, both internal and external concerns resulted in a decision
by many of the conservative Mennonites to leave Russia for North
America. Of the group which left Russia, however, the most conservative
chose to settle in Manitoba rather than the United States. They preferred
Manitoba over the better land in the American mid-west because of the
better prospects for autonomy and isolation; the Canadian government
had promised them an exemption from military service, block settle-
ments exclusively reserved for Mennonites and the right to educate their
children free of state interference.44 In other words, they were not princi-
pally interested in achieving wealth or success but rather saw Canada as
41
Friedman, supra, n 28 at 75. See also Urry, supra, n 31 and Urry, supra, n 24 at
123.
42 The claim that the emigrants left because of their refusal to compromise on the issue
of military service ‘seems to have reached the status of myth in Mennonite circles at the
time,’ according to H Loewen, ‘A House Divided: Russian Mennonite Non-Resistance
and Emigration in the 1870s’ in J Friesen (ed), Mennonites in Russia: Essays in Honour
of Gerhard Lohrenz (CMBC Publications, Winnipeg, 1989) 127 at 127. Although Loewen
contends that Mennonites had in fact long since abandoned any commitment to non-
resistance as a way of life, the fact remains that, in the minds of the emigrants, this was
a key reason for their departure. See, for example, K Peters, The Bergthaler Mennonites
(trans M Loewen Reimer) (CMBC Publications, Winnipeg, 1988) at 8 who states: ‘It was
not hardship or persecution in the Fatherland that motivated us to cross the vast ocean
to a distant land, but the fact that we were soon to lose our exemption from military ser-
vice. . . .’
43
Francis, supra, n 30 at 32ff and J Urry, supra, n 24 at 210.
44
JH Warkentin, The Mennonite Settlements of Southern Manitoba (PhD
Dissertation, University of Toronto, 1960) at 32; FH Epp, Mennonites in Canada,
1786–1920: The History of a Separate People (Macmillan, Toronto, 1974) at 195.
a potential utopia where they could return to an idyllic simple and

communitarian life-style which they believed was being lost in Russia.45
In keeping with this vision, Mennonite settlers began by reproducing
on the Canadian prairies a lifestyle identical to that of the steppes. They
built homes patterned after those in Russia in small villages with the
surrounding land divided into a traditional ‘open ‘field’ arrangement.
They maintained the same style of dress used in Russia, cooked many of
the same dishes and spoke High German on Sundays and Plattdeutsch on
weekdays.46 They also brought with them and re-established in Western
Canada many of the customs and ‘legal’ institutions developed in
Russia.47
Very quickly, however, their dreams were under attack by the same
forces they had faced in Europe. The prairies were virtually unsettled
when the Mennonites arrived in the 1870s but in the next 50 years they
experienced an explosion of growth.48 As the Mennonite settlers became
surrounded by other immigrants and as merchants began establishing
towns near or within Mennonite block settlements, pressure to adopt
alien ideas, practices and language increased. Natural inclinations
toward individualism, modern technology and the accumulation of
wealth threatened traditional Mennonite values. In addition, whether to
find sufficient land, to relieve the growing pressure to assimilate or to
escape the conservatism of the Mennonite community, the Mennonite
settlements became extended geographically; many Mennonites seized
the chance to move west, to Saskatchewan and Alberta, in order to find
yet another fresh start.49
The Mennonite community was also threatened by more formal
forces. The Canadian government had been willing to offer Mennonites
a substantial level of autonomy in order to encourage settlement by a
45 Urry, supra, n 24 at 217–218.

46 Warkentin, supra, n 44 at viii.
47
One such institution was the Waisenamt which can be described as a combination
of an estates court, insurance company, social agency, trust company and bank. The
administrators of the Waisenamt sorted out inheritances, held inheritances in trust for
minors, lent money within the community, appointed guardians for orphans and
removed children from abusive homes. See J Peters, The Waisenamt: A History of
Mennonite Inheritance Custom (Mennonite Village Museum, Steinbach, Manitoba,
1985).
48 G Friesen, The Canadian Prairies: A History (University of Toronto Press,
Toronto, 1984) at 202 notes that, between 1870 and 1886, the population of Manitoba
grew from 19,000 to 109,000. In the same period, Winnipeg grew from a population of
200 to 20,000.
49 PD Zacharias, Reinland: An Experience in Community (Reinland Centennial
Committee, Altona, 1976) at 197–200; Epp, supra, n 44 at 304, 335–336; A Sawatsky, The
Mennonites of Alberta and their Assimilation (MA Thesis, University of Alberta, 1964)
at 44.
340 Harold Dick
successful group of farmers on empty land.50 However, soon both the

Canadian and provincial governments saw dangers in permitting the
existence of an effectively self-governing entity within its borders. These
governments were anxious to impose their own control over this territory
and began to adopt policies which were designed to assimilate the
newcomers. Initially passive in nature,51 government policies became
increasingly aggressive, culminating in a successful initiative to wrest
control of their schools from the Mennonites. After two decades of con-
flict, and the imprisonment of many Mennonite parents who refused to
send their children to government schools, a court challenge to the
authority of the provincial government to compel Mennonite children to
attend government schools was heard by the Manitoba Court of Appeal.
Despite the fact that the Canadian government’s promise of freedom to
educate their children had been critical to the Mennonites’ decision to
locate in Canada, the Court held that this promise was not binding on
the Province of Manitoba because the Province, rather than the Canadian
government, had constitutional jurisdiction over education.52
This legal defeat and other external pressures prompted some of the
most conservative prairie Mennonites to emigrate once more; in the
1920s, several thousand Mennonites left Western Canada to attempt to
build their utopias in Mexico and Paraguay.53 Their departure coincided
with a second wave of immigration of Mennonites who arrived in
Canada after fleeing the horrors of revolution and civil war in Russia.54
50
A Canadian government internal communication indicated that the lands desig-
nated for the Mennonites in southern Manitoba was considered ‘unfit for settlement by
their being destitute of timber’: PAC, Department of the Interior, File 3129(1), Telegram,
Donald Codd to JS Dennis, 23 July 1875 as cited in Warkentin, supra, n 44 at 37.
51 One example of a passive but effective assimilationist policy concerns the ownership
of land. As noted, the traditional Mennonite approach to land ownership was for a vil-
lage to own some land in common and to divide the rest into strips. The Canadian gov-
ernment’s policy in the West was to award homestead land to individuals in quarter
sections after they had lived on it and farmed it for three years. Because of their eagerness
to attract the Mennonites as settlers, the government was prepared to permit several quar-
ter sections to be farmed by several Mennonite families as a group rather than insisting
that each family live on and farm a separate quarter section. This allowed Mennonites to
settle in Manitoba in a traditional village style. However, Canadian law imposed no
impediments which prevented an individual from leaving the village to set up a homestead
on the land which was legally his. If the village happened to be located on the land of the
dissenting individual, he could force the other villagers to relocate. Therefore, Canadian
law was able to undermine the traditional arrangement simply by failing to support it.
52 R v Hildebrand, [1919] 3 WWR 286 (Man CA). See GJ Ens, ‘Die Schule Muss Sein:
A History of the Mennonite Collegiate Institute 1889–1989 (Mennonite Collegiate

Institute, Gretna, Manitoba, 1990) at 5–6; Francis, supra, n 30 at 169–186; JJ Bergen,
‘The World Wars and Education Among Mennonites in Canada’ (1990) 8 Journal of
Mennonite Studies 56 at 158.
53 Francis, supra, n 30 at 191.
54
Ibid at 207.
These newcomers were better educated than those who left Canada,
more open to new ideas and the English language and more willing to live
in urban centres.55 Nevertheless, although these ‘liberal’ tendencies
would be influential in determining the shape of the Mennonite commu-
nity in subsequent decades, for the time being, poverty and the alien
nature of life in Canada drew them closely together and apart from the
rest of Canadian society.56
Therefore, despite the existence of assimilationist pressures they had
not anticipated, the Mennonites of the Canadian prairies were largely
able to maintain the integrity of their vision in this era. The tightly-knit
community and traditional agricultural lifestyle of the Mennonites
offered comfort and security which served to negate to a significant
degree the attractions offered by the non-Mennonite world. Their
conservative and communitarian instincts were reinforced by elders and
ministers of the Mennonite churches who defended Mennonite tradi-
tions, principally by sacralising nearly every aspect of Mennonite life and
punishing departures from the norm by imposing church discipline.
Depending on the church group to which they belonged, Mennonites
could be excommunicated for moving from the farm to town, selling
their land to non-Mennonites, allowing their children to attend public
school or adopting a variety of ‘worldly’ practices.57
The result of these natural conservative inclinations and formal
religious sanctions was a Mennonite community which was characterised
by
strong social coherence, intensive interaction on a face-to-face level, readiness to
cooperate and offer mutual aid, and a common value system which [left] few
alternatives in one’s everyday conduct. . .58
Mennonites remained heavily rural,59 spoke German and Plattdeutch,60
55
See, for example, H Loewen, Intellectual Developments Among the Mennonites of
Russia: 1880–1917’ (1990) 8 Journal of Mennonite Studies 89 at 89; NJ Klassen,
‘Mennonite Intelligentsia in Russia’ (1969) Mennonite Life 51.
56
Francis, supra, n 30 at 220–226.
57
A Mennonite could, for example, be disciplined for owning a sleigh with bells or
dressing in clothes deemed too fashionable. See E Epp-Tiessen, Altona: The Story of a
Prairie Town (DW Friesen & Sons, Altona, Manitoba, 1982) at 64, 288; Redekop, supra,
n 11 at 207; Epp, supra, n 44 at 208.
58 Francis, supra, n 30 at 64.
59 Francis, supra, n 30 at 243 notes that, in 1955, the Mennonites were the least
urbanised group in Manitoba. Driedger, supra, n 12 at 84 points out that, of 20 religious

groups identified in the 1981 Canadian census, Mennonites were the only group with
more than half of its members living in rural areas.
60 Francis, supra, n 30 at 275 surveyed 40 Mennonite students at the University of
Manitoba in 1955 and found that over half spoke only German or Plattdeutsch at home.
A study of Mennonites in North-Central Saskatchewan in 1972 found that 97% could
speak either German or Plattdeutsch and 69% did so frequently: A Anderson,
342 Harold Dick
rarely married outside the community61 and retained the church as an

important, if not the primary, focus of their identity.62 In other words,
Mennonites remained a distinct and largely separate cultural group on
the Canadian prairies until the Second World War and beyond.
CULTURE OF THE LEGAL PROFESSION
This brief account of Mennonite ideology and culture provides some

obvious reasons why Mennonites would not be inclined to enter the legal
profession. For example, the Mennonite view that no Christian could
participate in a fallen, sinful structure such as the legal system seems to
preclude the idea of a Mennonite lawyer from the outset. Nevertheless,
there are deeper, more profound incompatibilities between the
Mennonite culture and the culture of the legal system which, although
few Mennonites could have articulated them, made full and simultane-
ous membership in both communities impossible.
In his work on early lawyers in Manitoba (and therefore in Western
Canada), Richard Willie notes the extent to which they achieved a promi-
nent place in the developing industrial Anglo-Canadian community,
primarily made up of settlers from Ontario.63 This community was
characterised by a strong commitment to the English language, a parlia-
mentary form of government, the English common law and the British
Crown.64 However, while proud of their British heritage, immigrants
from Eastern Canada were not satisfied merely to transplant in the West
institutions and ideas from more settled regions.65 Their vision for the
thinly-populated vastness of the prairies was of a new civilisation where
‘Britishness’ crossed the Atlantic to be freed from the fetters of an outmoded
political and class system, released from a tiny island economy to flourish in the
Assimilation in the Bloc Settlement of North-Central Saskatchewan: A Comparative
Study of Identity Change Among Seven Ethno-Religious Groups in a Canadian Prairie
Region (PhD Dissertation, University of Saskatchewan, 1972) as cited in Driedger, supra,
n 12 at 81.
61 Anderson’s study of Mennonites in North-Central Saskatchewan found that 97%
had married other Mennonites and more than half expressed disapproval of marriage
outside their ethnic group, the highest percentage of the nine ethnic groups in the study:
Anderson, ibid as cited in Driedger, ibid at 81–82.
62 Anderson’s study found that 86% of Mennonites in North-Central Saskatchewan
attended church regularly: Ibid at 82.

63
RA Willie, ‘These Legal Gentlemen’: Becoming Prominent in Manitoba, 1870–1900
(PhD Dissertation, University of Alberta, 1989) at 76.
64 G Friesen, The Canadian Prairies: A History (University of Toronto Press,
Toronto, 1984) at 342 describes a ‘militant view of British civilization’ as ‘a crucial aspect
of the western Canadian image.’
65 D Laycock, Populism and Democratic Thought in the Canadian Prairies, 1910 to
1945 (University of Toronto Press, Toronto, 1990) at 27.

open spaces, fresh air, pure environment and fertile soils of Canada. The best
traits of all the European ‘races’ would be mixed, talent would rise, British
freedom would be perfected.66
This was a dream as enormous as the prairies themselves.
The frontier in western Canada as in the United States was the land of new begin-
nings. Where all citizens started as social equals, merit and virtue rather than
class would be rewarded. Where farms and rural life, rather than factories and
cities, were the foundations of the economy, true wealth would be created. Where
life was lived close to nature, individuals learned the lessons of God at first hand.
Calculations of prairie greatness and imperial power inevitably ran together; the
west would have a population of 100 million; it would be the breadbasket of the
world; it would be the centre of gravity of all Canada; and, if it ruled Canada, and
Canada led the empire (as it soon would), then, as anyone could see, the west
would lead the world.67
Nevertheless, although the Anglo-Canadian community quickly took
control of the levers of government and business,68 its members were well
aware of the possibility of failure. The raw enormity of nature, mani-
fested in floods, drought, pestilence and bitter cold, threatened to over-
whelm tiny outposts of civilisation. Foreigners, whose labour was needed
to settle the vast landscape, could prove recalcitrant, clinging to ancient
and misguided superstitions while refusing to acknowledge the superior-
ity of British culture and leadership. Democracy could be perverted,
suppressing real talent and leading to government by the mediocre or
self-interested. British freedoms could be twisted, allowing alien ideas to
flourish and producing anarchy or despotism. Newly emergent capital-
ism, the engine of British dominance world-wide, could be overthrown
by revolutionary and socialist ideologies emerging from the sordid
hovels of the industrial, Eastern European proletariat.69
This was the nightmare, the dream gone terribly wrong, and its impli-
cations were terrifying for the Anglo-Canadian community. If it were
allowed to prevail, Canada would fail to assume its place at the head of
the Empire, its mission to the world would be unrealised and the future
of humanity itself would be placed in jeopardy.70
66 W Wesley Pue, ‘Revolution by Legal Means’ in Contemporary Law 1994: Canadian
Reports to the 1994 International Congress of Comparative Law, Athens, 1994 (Les
Editions Yvon Blais Inc, Cowansville, Quebec, 1994) 1 at 17.
67
Friesen, supra, n 64 at 342.
68 H Palmer, ‘Strangers and Stereotypes: The Rise of Nativism, 1880–1920’ in
RD Francis and H Palmer (eds), The Prairie West: Historical Readings (University of
Alberta Press, Edmonton, 1992) 308 at 308 notes that urban areas were ‘universally dom-
inated by Anglo-Saxon Protestants.’
69 Pue, supra, n 66 at 17.
70
Ibid at 17. The dream of Western Canada as ‘the city on the hill’ and the fear of its
failure to achieve this destiny prompted much of the activity of Christian organisations,
344 Harold Dick
As the prairies became increasingly settled, some aspects of these

nightmarish fears abated. Sheer numbers of settlers, assisted by modern
technology, proved successful in subduing nature. The foundations of the
civilisation being developed in the West were increasingly invulnerable to
natural disaster. But what sort of civilisation was it? The flood of immi-
grants from Eastern and Southern Europe had been welcomed initially
but was now viewed with increasing suspicion. Speaking a bewildering
variety of languages and engaging in bizarre cultural and religious prac-
tices, these settlers demonstrated a distressing lack of appreciation of the
benefits of Anglo-Canadian culture.71 For the most part, they showed
little inclination to assimilate, typically choosing to reside near others of
their own ethnicity and establishing organisations designed to preserve
ethnic ties. The fact that the First World War was fought against many of
the nations from which these immigrants had come exacerbated con-
cerns about the perceived failure of these newcomers to become
‘Canadian’.72
These anxieties grew to near terror after the war, when agitation and
unrest in the immigrant working class and the rise of what were under-
stood to be dangerously anti-democratic, anti-capitalist and anti-British
ideas culminated in the Winnipeg General Strike of 1919. The workers of
Winnipeg, having eked out an existence in crowded, cold and unsanitary
conditions for decades,73 brought virtually the entire city to a halt. The
strike was contained with the help of the Committee of 1000 (‘men of
substance’ in the City who had organised to combat the strike) and ‘spe-
cials’ (who had been deputised when the regular City police force had
been fired for demonstrating sympathy for the strikers) and was eventu-
ally put down when the RCMP fired into a crowd of demonstrators on
Main Street, killing two and wounding dozens. Nevertheless, the General
especially Presbyterians and Methodists. For a discussion of this chapter in the history of
the prairies, see DL Butcher, C MacDonald, ME McPherson, RL Smith, AM Watts (eds),
Prairie Spirit: Perspectives on the Heritage of the United Church of Canada in the West
(University of Manitoba Press, Winnipeg, 1985), especially C MacDonald, ‘James
Robertson and Presbyterian Church Extension in Manitoba and the North West,
1866–1902’ and M Owen, ‘ “Keeping Canada God’s Country”: Presbyterian School
Homes for Ruthenian Children’.
71
Friesen, supra, n 64 at 352–354.
72
Palmer, supra, n 68 at 322–324. One example of this rising nativism can be found in
the Introduction to Strangers Within Our Gates, by socialist icon JS Woodsworth’s
book. Principal JW Sparling of Winnipeg’s Wesley College wrote: ‘We must see to it that
the civilization and the ideals of Southeastern Europe are not transplanted to and perpe-
trated on our virgin soil’: JS Woodsworth, Strangers Within Our Gates (Toronto;
University of Toronto Press, Buffalo, 1909) at 4.
73
A 1909 federal government survey in Winnipeg found 837 people living in just 41
houses—about 20 people per house. Moreover, an investigator compared the sanitary
conditions in Winnipeg in the early years of the twentieth century to those of medieval
European cities: Friesen, supra, n 64 at 287–288.
Strike made clear in stark and unambiguous terms what optimistists and
‘boosters’ had long overlooked—their dream of prairie settlement was
not shared by all.
Although the Winnipeg General Strike represented the most serious
threat to the dominance of the Anglo-Canadian culture in Western
Canada, the prairies continued as a breeding ground for unrest, discon-
tent and new ideas in subsequent decades. A multitude of movements
emerged in the 1920s and 1930s, all demanding change. Numerous co-
operative institutions, the Non-Partisan League, communists, socialists,
labour activists, agrarian reformers and xenophobes (including the Ku
Klux Klan) flourished. Populist parties of great variety sprang up and
some, like the United Farmers, Social Credit and the Cooperative
Commonwealth Federation, were elected to form provincial govern-
ments. The dream of a shining prairie civilisation which would lead the
world was fracturing into a thousand pieces.74
There can be no doubt that prairie lawyers identified fully with both the
dreams and the concerns of the Anglo-Canadian cultural community in
the years surrounding World War I. Not only were most lawyers ethnically
part of this community but they considered their profession and the estab-
lishment of Canadian law to be essential to the vision of prairie greatness
it espoused. As one prominent prairie lawyer put it: ‘This youngest of
nations, heir of all the ages, was not born for a position of insignificance
but of greatness. It needs the leadership of our best jurists and lawyers’.75
Lawyers on the prairies knew that the success of Canadian civilisation
in the West required more than formal declarations of sovereignty over
the territory, the defeat by force of Métis uprisings and the arrival of the
North-West Mounted Police. It was necessary to blanket the empty space
with law, stitching together each settled area and bringing each segment
under the comforting canopy of British justice. In a real sense, lawyers
saw themselves as the frontline troops of civilisation, extending the law’s
coverage to the whole and eliminating anomalous pockets of aboriginal
or foreign custom.76 They knew that
all the projects, hopes, fears and plans of financiers, captains of industry and
statesmen are only so much raw material until legal machinery is devised and set
up by which they may be turned to account for human uses.77
74 Ibid at 339–417. See also Laycock, supra, n 65

75
J Aikins, ‘The Advancement of the Science of Jurisprudence in Canada’ (1915) 51
Can LJ 161 at 177 in W Wesley Pue, Common Law Legal Education in Canada’s Age of
Soap, Light and Water (University of Manitoba Canadian Legal History Project
Working Paper Series, Winnipeg, 1993) at 27.
77 IA MacKay, ‘The Education of a Lawyer’ (speech delivered December 1913 to the
Third Annual Meeting of the Law Society of Alberta), (1940–42) Alberta Law Quarterly
103 at 115.
346 Harold Dick
Once the ‘legal machinery’ had been established, the lawyer’s task was
to maintain and operate it for the benefit of the newly established insti-
tutions of civilisation. In this, his (invariably ‘his’)78 role was no less
important for, without the proper functioning of the legal system, prairie
communities could never achieve the wealth or prominence for which
they were destined. Ira MacKay, a Saskatchewan law professor and leader
of the Western Canadian Bar, argued:
The lawyer’s office is unquestionably the most important office in the commu-
nity, and that for the obvious reason that the lawyer is really the only man in the
community who really makes it his business to understand the delicate and com-
plex organization of government and law by which the community directs its
activities for common ends. . . . All our institutions depend implicitly upon their
solicitors to guide them . . . The state itself is an edifice constructed solely out of
legal material. It is literally made of law.79
The institutions to which the legal profession devoted its considerable
energies were intended to produce a thoroughly liberal and capitalistic
West. Like others in the Anglo-Canadian community, lawyers ‘simply
assumed that a capitalistic labour market, private property, and individ-
ualism were part of the environment, like the plains and the river
valleys’.80 Often personally engaged in ‘exploring the parameters of
expectant capitalism’,81 lawyers explicitly identified their profession as
essential for the success of business and the prosperity of Western
Canada:
All that commerce has of security it derives from the law. Step by step, there has
been laid down for it by the great sages of the profession the stones of foundation
principles that define and safeguard its rights. Upon them has been built up the
great fabric of credit and mutual confidence that has brought the vast world of
commerce into being.82
Having identified themselves as leaders of the dominant Anglo-Canadian
culture, lawyers were especially susceptible to the challenge mounted
78
The reader’s indulgence is requested for the occasional use of the male singular in
this article. Its use is important because, as I later argue, the image, training and work of
a lawyer in this era was overwhelmingly and profoundly masculine. It is not an attempt
to slight those women who overcame considerable obstacles to enter the practice of law
but rather to underline the fact that within the legal profession in this era they were
almost universally considered to be unfortunate exceptions to the rule of what a lawyer
should be.
79
MacKay, supra, n 77 at 115. For an account of McKay’s role in early legal educa-
tion in Saskatchewan, see Beth Bilson, ‘ “Prudence Rather Than Valour”: Legal
Education in Saskatchewan 1908–23’ (1998) 61(2) Sask LR 341.
80
Friesen, supra, n 64 at 242
81
Willie, supra, n 63 at 173.
82
WH Trueman, ‘The Place of the Lawyer in the Business Life of Western Canada’
(1917) 37 Can LT 92 at 103.
against the prevailing culture in 1919. The sobering effect of the

Winnipeg General Strike on the legal profession can be clearly seen in the
Presidential Address delivered by Sir James Aikins to the Canadian Bar
Association (CBA) meeting in Winnipeg in the summer of 1919.
A Winnipeg lawyer, Aikins was a national figure when he addressed the
legal profession in 1919. President of the Winnipeg Bar Association when
it expanded to become the Manitoba Bar Association in 1911, he had
later been a driving force behind the creation of the CBA and was elected
its first President. Aikins had also served as a Member of Parliament and
leader of the Manitoba Conservative Party. At the time of his 1919
Presidential Address, he was also serving as the Lieutenant Governor of
Manitoba.83
Aikins’ 1919 speech reveals a man whose dream for the prairie west
and the future of Canada had been badly shaken. Early references to ‘an
intellectual, temperamental and spiritual ferment’ in which there are
those ‘who declare the principles of Adam Smith and Mill to be quite
unsound’ give way to denunciations of those who advocate ‘collectivism
and enslavement to system’, ‘class control’ and ‘Bolshevism’.84
Moreover, Aikins was prepared to make clear to his listeners that the
revolutionary threat exhibited in Winnipeg had been directed at the
legal profession; he reported that one of the strike leaders had shouted
‘Damn the lawyers!’ only months earlier in the very city in which they
were now meeting.85
From the distance of eight decades, it seems obvious that the goal for
Aikins and the legal profession in 1919 and thereafter was two-fold: to
ensure the survival and growth of a British, liberal, capitalistic and demo-
cratic society in the West and to entrench the position of the legal pro-
fession within that society. However, most Western Canadian lawyers at
the time would have been baffled by any such distinction; they believed
the interests of the legal profession and those of civilised society to be
identical. In their minds, the Anglo-Canadian vision of the West could
not be constructed without the leadership of a powerful and successful
legal profession. In instituting a programme of reform designed to regen-
erate the threatened legal profession, therefore, the leaders of the Bar
were not prompted by mere narrow self-interest. For them, a failure to act
83 For more information about the career of Sir James AM Aikins, see D Gibson and
L Gibson, Sir James Aikins’ Seamless Web: Finding Fortune and Fame as a Lawyer in the
Adolescent Canadian West (1992) 21:2 Man LJ 161. See also D Gibson and L Gibson,
Substantial Justice: Law and Lawyers in Manitoba, 1670–1970 (Peguis Publishers,
Winnipeg, 1972), especially at 219 ff.
84 Sir James Aikins, ‘Address of the President to the Canadian Bar Association Annual
Meeting, Winnipeg’ (August, 1919) (1919) 39 Can LT 537 at 539.

85 Ibid at 544.
348 Harold Dick
vigorously to strengthen the legal profession placed the dream of Western

Canadian civilisation in grave jeopardy.86
The reform agenda which developed during and shortly after the First
World War and which was evident during the 1919 CBA meetings in
Winnipeg, therefore, was driven by lawyers from the prairie West who felt
most acutely the need for a new professional vision.87 Western Canadian
lawyers were more aware than their eastern colleagues of the peril they
faced. They also understood, especially after the events of 1919, that the
West required new approaches which may not have been necessary in
‘older’ parts of the country. In the newly-settled prairies, it was inade-
quate to assume an unquestioning belief on the part of the laity in the
values held by lawyers or an automatic deference to their status. The
‘land of new beginnings’ had developed a myth of social equality, ‘a dis-
trust of all elites and deep faith in the common sense and ethical wisdom
of the common people’.88 In the cauldron of ideas and philosophies
which was the West after the First World War, acceptance of the beliefs
advanced by the legal profession and lawyers’ right to leadership would
have to be earned by appealing to the cultural values of prairie dwellers.
In response to this challenge, prairie lawyers focused their efforts on
two complementary initiatives—the adoption of ‘legal science’ as a way
of teaching and thinking about law and the creation of a new breed of
lawyers.
In their restructuring and repositioning, the leaders of the profession
turned naturally for ideas to two sources—their profession’s ancestral
home in Great Britain and to the United States. Looking south came most
naturally to Western Canadian lawyers. The legal profession in Western
Canada had developed close associations with the profession in the US.89
Moreover, in general, Western Canadian thought had been greatly influ-
86
Aikins’ vision and that of the Western Canadian Bar was that ‘[n]ational regenera-
tion would be attained through regeneration of the legal profession’: Pue, supra, n 66 at
24.
87
Ibid at 20 and 24; Pue, supra, n 75 at 21–34; WW Pue, ‘Becoming “Ethical”:
Lawyers’ Professional Ethics in Early Twentieth Century Canada’ in D Gibson and WW
Pue (eds), Glimpses of Canadian Legal History (Legal Research Institute of the
University of Manitoba, Winnipeg, 1991) 137 at 269–271.
88
Laycock, supra, n 65 at 37.
89
W Wesley Pue, Becoming Professional: Western Canadian Lawyers (Paper pre-
sented at the ‘Law for the Beaver, Law for the Elephant’ Conference, Victoria, British
Columbia, 22–25 February, 1991) [unpublished] at 7. (Used with permission of the
author.). See also Pue, supra, n 75 at 31–32 and Pue, supra, n 87 at 268. Sir James Aikins
had developed such a close relationship with the Chicago legal profession that, during his
final year as President of the Canadian Bar Association, the Chicago Bar Association
honoured him with a special dinner during which Aikins was serenaded with popular
songs to which his admirers had composed personalised lyrics: Gibson and Gibson, ‘Sir
James Aikins’ Seamless Web’, supra, n 83 at 187–188.
enced by social and political developments in the United States.90

American thinking seemed particularly appropriate in the context of the
challenge facing Western Canadian lawyers because the American Bar
had faced and defeated similar challenges in the late nineteenth century.
The decades following the Civil War brought about massive changes in
the United States. Industrialisation, mechanisation, massive urbanisa-
tion, political disruption and business disorganisation had created a ‘dis-
tended society’ and a general sense of dislocation and bewilderment.91
The anxiety caused by these huge social forces produced responses not
unlike those found in Western Canada in the early years of the twentieth
century: populism, labour unrest, temperance movements and xenopho-
bia, among others.92 Moreover, many of these social forces had been pro-
duced by the same impulses which were characteristic of Western
Canada—a yearning for wealth, status, personal achievement—and were
made possible by the same rejection of class divisions, elites and perma-
nent social divisions which characterised the Western Canadian ethos.93
Nevertheless, while rejecting traditional structures, Americans, like their
counterparts in Western Canada, exhibited a profound desire for stabil-
ity, order and permanence. They longed for integrity, discipline and
coherence as well as personal freedom and an outlet for their relentless
ambition.94
The modern professional vision grew out of these contradictory
desires. During the laissez faire Jacksonian era, entry to a professional
body in the United States had been only minimally restricted; elevating
an occupation to professional status was often simply a matter of mak-
ing the claim.95 In the late nineteenth century, however, this state of
affairs was no longer acceptable; a means had to be found to imbue the
term ‘profession’ with meaning.
Science provided the solution. A ‘true’ profession came to be identified
with ‘rational, expert, neutral, universal and verifiable knowledge’.96
‘True’ professions
90
Sir James Aikins revealed the influence of American political rhetoric on his own
thought in his speech to the Canadian Bar Association in 1919 when he characterised
Canadian democracy as ‘government by the people, of the people, for the people’: Aikins,
supra, n 84 at 539.
91 RH Wiebe, The Search for Order: 1899–1920 (Hill and Wang, New York, 1967) at
5–43.
92 Ibid at 45–78.
93 BJ Bledstein, The Culture of Professionalism: The Middle Class and the
Development of Higher Education in America (WW Norton & Company, New York,
1976) at 5–7 and 30. See also Wiebe, supra, n 91 at 62–77.
94 Ibid at 30–34.
95 Ibidat 34; Wiebe, supra, n 91 at 13–14;
96 W Wesley Pue, ‘Trajectories of Professionalism: Legal Professionalism after Abel’
(1990) Man LJ 384 at 416.

350 Harold Dick
attempted to define a total coherent system of necessary knowledge within a pre-

cise territory, to control the intrinsic relationships of their subject by making it a
scholarly as well as an applied science, to root social existence in the inner needs
and possibilities of documentable worldly processes.97
As scientific pursuits, professions came to be associated with higher
learning; a place for a profession’s programme of instruction in a univer-
sity curriculum guaranteed its status while the failure of a profession to
secure such a place cast serious doubts upon its claims.98
The notion that a profession had to be based on an area of scientific
study posed difficulties for law. Although it was one of the traditional
professions, the scientific claims of legal study were shaky, at best.
Indeed, far from being logical and scientific in nature, the common law
was described at the time as ‘the empire of chaos and darkness’.99
Undaunted, legal educators, led by Harvard’s CC Langdell, carved out a
place at the university by contending that:
. . . law, considered as a science, consists of certain principles or doctrines. To
have mastery of these as to be able to apply them with constant facility and cer-
tainty to the ever-tangled skein of human affairs is what constitutes a true lawyer
. . . Moreover, the number of legal doctrines is much less than is commonly
supposed.100
Similar impulses were evident in legal thinking on the other side of the
Atlantic. Jurists in England argued that:
. . . although the law may appear to be irrational, chaotic and particularistic, if
one digs deep enough and knows what one is looking for, then it will soon
become evident that the law is an internally coherent and unified body of rules.
This coherence and unity stem from the fact that law is grounded in, and logically
derived from, a handful of general principles; and that whole subject-areas such
as contract and torts are distinguished by some common principles or elements
which fix the boundaries of the subject. The exposition and systematization of
these general principles, and techniques required to find and to apply them and
the rules that they underpin, are largely what legal education and scholarship are
all about.101
97
Bledstein, supra, n 93 at 88.
98
See. P Axelrod, Making a Middle Class: Student Life in English Canada During the
Thirties (McGill-Queen’s University Press, Montreal and Kingston, 1990) 10–11. See also
Bledstein, supra, n 93 at 121–126.
99
J Austen, Lectures in Jurisprudence 5th edn (1885) in D Sugarman, ‘Legal Theory,
the Common Law Mind and the Making of the Textbook Tradition’ in W Twining (ed)
Legal Theory and Common Law (Basil Blackwell, Oxford, 1986) at 29.
100 CC Langdell, A Selection of Cases on the Law of Contracts at vii in R Stevens, Law
School: Legal Education in America from the 1850s to the 1980s (University of North
Carolina Press, Chapel Hill, 1983) at 52.
101 Sugarman, supra, n 99 at 26.
By demonstrating that ‘the grubby, disorderly world of the court room

and the law office could, in fact be regarded as “science in action” ’102
these legal educators staked law’s claim to professional status in a con-
test where science was increasingly the sole yardstick.
Western Canadian lawyers were quick to echo the claims of their col-
leagues in England and the United States. Sir James Aikins endorsed the
view that ‘the number of legal principles [is] few’ and could be taught in
a systematic manner.103 While conceding that some problematic legal
judgments might be ‘binding and awkward for the time being’, another
Winnipeg lawyer argued that these were, in reality, ‘wholly of no account’
because ‘what is not founded on reason has and can have no place in
English law’.104 Law schools, established in all three prairie provinces
during this era, reflected this view by rejecting a practical and technical
legal education in favour of Harvard’s ‘scientific’ model.105
There is little doubt that the claims to a scientific basis for the study
and practice of law would have impressed many Western Canadians. The
inter-war years in Canada were ‘an era in which faith in science and
expertise had reached unprecedented if not mystical proportions’.106
Western Canadian populists, in particular, ‘were attracted by the appar-
ently scientific, conflict resolving and abundance-producing elements of
technocratic thought’.107 Reform movements of many stripes were thor-
oughly enthralled by the prospects of the scientific administration of
society.108 The ‘science of law’ would have appealed mightily to this large
and growing stream of prairie culture.
In order to justify their claim to be teaching law as a science, legal
scholars in both the United States and England embarked on an ambi-
tious project to identify the principles at the core of each area of law and
the many corollaries and sub-rules flowing from them. Of course, the
‘discovery’ of the relatively few legal principles on which the whole of the
102
Ibid at 29–30.
103 Sir James Aikins, ‘Formal Opening of the Manitoba Law School, Inaugural
Address to the Students by Sir James Aikins, KC, MP’ (1914) 34 Canadian Law Times,
1183 at 1189.
104 Trueman, supra, n 82 at 92–93.
105 Pue, supra, n 75 at 10, 11 and 19–20. See also WW Pue, ‘British Masculinities,
Canadian Lawyers: Canadian Legal Education, 1900–1930; in Robert McQueen and

W Wesley Pue (guest eds), Misplaced Traditions: The Legal Profession and the British
Empire, Symposium Issue (1999) 16(1) Law in Context 80–122. WW Pue, ‘ “The disqui-
sitions of learned Judges”: Making Manitoba Lawyers, 1885–1931’ in J Phillips and GB
Baker (eds), Essays in the History of Canadian Law: In Honour of RCB Risk (Toronto,
Osgoode Society, 1981–1990) (Used with permission of the author).
106 Axelrod, supra, n 98 at 66.
107 Laycock, supra, n 65 at 10.
108
Ibid at 52–54. See also M Valverde, The Age of Light, Soap and Water: Moral
Reform in English Canada, 1885–1925 (McClelland & Stewart, Toronto, 1991).
352 Harold Dick
common law was based involved a strong evaluative element.109

Inevitably, those who analysed, organised and provided definitive state-
ments of the law in order to teach it ‘scientifically’, found within its
immutable principles support for their own views.110
One of the core propositions ‘discovered’ within the ostensible chaos
of the common law by legal scholars was a highly individualistic liberal-
ism. According to this view, the common law had always demonstrated a
‘firm grasp of the rights of the individual citizen’ who was dealt with as
‘a centre of force, an active atom, whirling about among other atoms, a
person in whom there inheres certain powers and capacities, which he is
entitled to assert and make effective, not only against other citizens, but
against all other citizens taken together; that is, against the state
itself. . .’111 The legal principles reflecting this philosophy were meant to
carve out for each individual a zone of activity within which the individ-
ual could act with complete freedom.
Closely identified with the rise of modern capitalism, this form of lib-
eralism was fundamentally optimistic. In the same way as the ‘invisible
hand’ of the market would ensure that self-interested economic decisions
would benefit all, liberals believed that freeing individuals to act in their
own best interests would eliminate domination, oppression and con-
flict.112 Science and technology would be allowed to flourish, progress
would be accelerated and society would become wealthier, fairer and
more free.
Legal science’s defence of economic liberalism and modern capitalism
would have been most helpful in justifying the aggressive capitalism of
the Western Canadian business elite, the ‘boosters’ who thought progress
could go on forever.113 A weapon which could demolish the objections of
109 ‘The task of systemization . . . both simplifies and idealizes. The complexities of
actual statements are replaced by generalizations. These, at best, represent but dominant
patterns discernable amid the various pronouncements. More often, they are but the
writer’s views as to what the law ought to be, expressed in language which speaks of prin-
ciples of what the law is. . .’ Montrose, ‘Return to Austin’s College’ (1960) Current Legal
Problems 9 in Sugarman, supra, n 99 at 27.
110 See ibid at 27.
111 J Bryce, The Influence of the National Character and Historical Environment on
the Development of the Common Law (Address delivered to the American Bar
Association at its Annual Meeting, Portland, Maine, August, 1907) in J Bryce, University
and Historical Addresses Delivered During a Residence in the United States as
Ambassador of Great Britain (The Macmillan Company, New York, 1913) at 45–46.
112 RW Gordon, ‘Legal Thought and Legal Practice in the Age of American
Enterprise: 1870–1920’ in G Geison (ed) Professions and Professional Ideologies in

America (University of North Carolina Press, Chapel Hill, 1983) 70 at 93.
113 ‘Boosterism’, prevalent in the early years of prairie settlement and present
throughout the era was the conviction that, by pulling together, communities could har-
ness progress and achieve unlimited prosperity and success. ‘Boosters’ optimistically
sought to encourage almost unrestricted development and ignored the huge social and
socialists and communitarian Aboriginal and immigrant communities

was eagerly grasped by the ideological defenders of that corner of the
‘vast world of commerce’ established on the prairies. In his 1919 address,
for example, Sir James Aikins noted that ‘[t]he essential unit of democ-
racy is the individual’ and asserted that
the strong bent of the profession has been to uphold and develop the law of per-
sonal liberty, freedom to contract, and the right to hold property, checked only
by the reciprocal liberty and rights of others.114
Despite the freedom it proclaimed, liberalism was not anarchy. The
atomised individual of classic liberal imagery did not only act
autonomously. The individual sphere of freedom was bounded by others’
autonomous zones as well as by contractual and other obligations to
them. Moreover, the State retained legitimate authority in liberal theory
to ensure ‘peace, order and good government’ which, in this era, included
the power to enact and enforce aggressive social and moral regulation
aimed at prostitution, alcohol consumption, illegitimacy, obscenity,
divorce and other social evils.115
Nevertheless, the focus of liberalism in this era was the individual’s
freedom to act within a zone of complete autonomy. To maintain this
freedom, the law was seen as essential. Indeed, only within the context of
the ‘rule of law’ in which the rights of each individual were scrupulously
observed could freedom flourish. The task of the law was not only to pro-
tect individual rights against incursions by the State, but also to referee
conflicts between individuals’ spheres of freedom, ensuring by the impar-
tial application of objective rules that everyone would enjoy the benefits
of freedom. The message of liberalism, therefore, was that:
. . . law (primarily through case law) and the legal profession (centrally, the judi-
ciary) play a major role in protecting individual freedom; and that the rules of
contract, torts and constitutional law, for example, confer the maximum freedom
on individuals to act as they wish without interference from other individuals or
economic inequities which were evident to the ‘knockers’. See AFJ Artibise, ‘Boosterism
and the Development of Prairie Cities, 1871–1913’ in RD Francis and H Palmer (eds),
The Prairie West: Historical Readings (The University of Alberta Press, Edmonton,
1992) 515 at 517–522. See also Friesen, supra, n 64 at 283–284.
114
Aikins, supra, n 84 at 539.
115 For example, after advancing the image of ‘the individual citizen’ as ‘an active
atom, whirling about among other atoms’, Bryce hastened to characterise the State as
‘entitled to require and compel the obedience of the individual wherever and whenever it
does not trespass on the rights which are legally secured to him.’ Moreover, outside the
protected sphere of rights, it was the individual’s duty, not only to obey but to co-
operate with the State in imposing its will: Bryce, supra, n 111 at 46. For an excellent dis-
cussion of social and moral reform and regulation in Canada in this era, see Valverde,
supra, n 108.
354 Harold Dick
the state. Policing the boundaries within, and between, legal subject areas consti-
tutes a major foundation of the rule of law.116
In this way,
the form as well as the content of the law [became] synonymous with [the] very
definitions of individual freedom and liberty, and thereby acquire[d] an addi-
tional patina of reverence and universality.117
Veneration for the common law to the point where it could be fairly
described as a ‘civil religion’118 led naturally to an association of the
Anglo-Saxon race (of which the common law was a reflection) with a
unique respect for the rule of law and a love of personal liberty.
Authorities claimed to be able to trace ‘an unbroken genetic preference
for freedom and individual rights, from the Teutonic forests via the vil-
lage communities of Anglo-Saxon England to America.’119 At the same
time, Anglo-Saxons were described as possessing an unequalled commit-
ment to law and order. An Ambassador of Great Britain to the United
States asserted in a 1907 speech:
Our forefathers were fierce and passionate, like other half-civilized peoples, but
they had this power [of self-control] and they restrained themselves from over-
riding the process of law and letting passion work injustice many a time when
men of other races, Greeks, or Slavs, or Celts, would have yielded to their
impulses.120
This reverence for the common law was also common among prairie
lawyers. One prominent Winnipeg lawyer waxed poetic in his description
of the law of partnership ‘worked out by the master minds of the English
Bench’:
To consider that piece of workmanship and to perceive its grasp of sound and
balanced principles and to realize the far-reaching provision it makes for well-
nigh every conceivable case is to comprehend the claim that the Common Law is
the highest product of human wisdom.121
116
E Mensch, ‘The History of Mainstream Legal Thought’ in D Kairys (ed) The
Politics of Law: A Progressive Critique (Pantheon Books, New York, 1982) at 23–24.
117
D Sugarman, ‘ “A Hatred of Disorder”: Legal Science, Liberalism and
Imperialism’ in P Fitzpatrick (ed) Dangerous Supplements: Resistance and Renewal in
Jurisprudence (Pluto Press, London, 1991) at 35. The irony of the law being trumpeted
as the guarantee of individual liberty while simultaneously being wielded to impose on
often recalcitrant individuals moral reforms ranging from prohibitory offensives against
prostitution and alcohol to legislation which forcibly subjected the mentally challenged
and mentally ill to the most ‘modern’ and ‘beneficial’ treatment is considerable.
118 Sugarman, supra, n 99 at 40.
119
Sugarman, supra, n 117 at 57.
120
Bryce, supra, n 111 at 53. Bryce fails to provide any evidence to support this
astounding statement.
121
Trueman, supra, n 82 at 92–93.
A view of the common law as ‘the perfection of reason’122 could only

have reinforced the belief, widely held by the Anglo-Canadian cultural
group on the prairies that ‘the Anglo-Saxon peoples and British prin-
ciples of government were the apex of both biological evolution and
human achievement. . .’123
The Anglo-Canadian conviction that the English common law was
‘the highest product of human wisdom’ and therefore superior to all
other legal systems permitted the belief that its application must be uni-
versally beneficial. If the common law was the ‘perfection of reason’, the
guarantor of personal freedom and human flourishing, then imposing it
on other people, far from being oppressive, must necessarily be liberat-
ing.124 Indeed, the Anglo-Canadian imperial project could be pursued
with missionary zeal as a means of freeing pre-modern peoples from the
chains of irrational and superstitious beliefs. If the bearers and imple-
menters of this gospel of liberalism and the rule of (the common) law
were Anglo-Saxons, uniquely qualified by reason of their ancestry to lead
a multi-ethnic society, so much the better.
‘Legal science’, as developed in England and the US therefore supplied
the leaders of the Western Canadian Bar with a powerful bulwark against
the forces of disintegration and destruction. Faced with ‘scientific social-
ism’, the profession could counter with ‘legal science’ which demon-
strated the superiority of liberalism and capitalism. The genius of the
evolutionary common law was put forward as superior to revolution; the
belief that those who were of British stock were more fit to steer the ship
of state and guide the community provided an antidote to the alien
notions of immigrants from Eastern and Southern Europe. Moreover,
legal science provided an offensive weapon; it granted the legal profes-
sion the legitimacy to proceed with the implementation of modernity
and progress despite the objections of the working classes, communitar-
ian immigrant groups and other naysayers. Finally, and best of all, legal
science allowed lawyers to act within a cloak of disinterested neutrality.
Their authority, like that of other professionals, ‘transcended the
favoritism of politics, the corruption of personality, and the exclusiveness
of partisanship’.125
While powerful, however, ‘legal science’, was recognised by the leaders
of the prairie Bar as insufficient in itself to accomplish the task of creat-
ing in Western Canada a civilisation which would surpass that of the Old
World. Prairie lawyers were practical men; they knew that law could not
122
Ibid at 92.
123
Palmer, supra, n 68 at 311.
124 P Fitzpatrick, ‘Imperialism and Law in the Experience of the Enlightenment’ in A
Carty (ed) Post-Modern Law: Enlightenment, Revolution and the Death of Man
(Edinburgh University Press, Edinburgh, 1990) 90 at 90–106.
125 Bledstein, supra, n 93 at 90.
356 Harold Dick
exist as an abstraction, in the form of statutes or judicial pronounce-

ments on paper alone. Law had to be transformed into reality in the
cities, towns, villages and farmsteads of the west. Even more importantly,
it had to conquer the ‘psychic space’ of the prairies—the minds and
hearts of those living there. Ever realistic, Ira MacKay pointed out:
The law is what the consensus of legal opinion in the community believes it to be,
first the judges, next the lawyers, and finally the mass of intelligent laymen who
direct the organized activities of the state.126
No less down-to-earth, Sir James Aikins acknowledged: ‘That what gives
sanctity to law in a democratic country is not the passing of it by a legis-
lature but the fact that it represents the calm judgment of right-minded
citizens’.127
If their dreams for the West were to become reality, the leaders of the
Bar recognised that it would be necessary to develop a ‘consensus of legal
opinion’ on the prairies, not only among lawyers but also among the
laity; it was necessary to create sufficient numbers of ‘right-minded citi-
zens’. This would not be easy. As the events of 1919 had demonstrated,
the verities of the Anglo-Canadian community would not necessarily be
accepted as self-evident. For hard-bitten prairie-dwellers, a point of view
was only as credible as the person who advanced it. Therefore, if the
Canadian West was to be won, its residents would have to be convinced
of these truths by credible and respected advocates. In ‘the land of new
beginnings’, where citizens believed that virtue and merit would be
rewarded, the necessary credibility would have to be earned through
unimpeachable integrity, strength of will, hard work and intelligence. In
other words, the success of the legal profession, of the common law and,
indeed, of Anglo-Canadian civilisation on the prairies, depended on the
creation of lawyers of competence, virtue and character.
The legal profession in the West turned to two mechanisms in order to
create these lawyers. The first was the Code of Legal Ethics, adopted by
the Canadian Bar Association in 1920. A formal ethical code was not
endorsed by all leaders of the Bar; a minority, led by Ontario Supreme
Court Justice Riddell, mounted several arguments against the introduc-
tion of a written code of conduct. One of these was that, fundamentally,
ethics could not be codified; a man was either a gentleman or he wasn’t.
Riddell asserted:
. . . there is and can be nothing in the practice of law inconsistent with the high-
est type of scholar, gentleman and Christian. With that as text, all else follows—
the lawyer, a gentleman, will act as such, he will treat all, whether professional
126 MacKay, supra, n 77 at 108.

127
brethren or laymen, as he would be treated in like case—that, it seems to me, is

the whole of the law and the prophets. . .128
As Pue notes, the difference of opinion within the CBA about a code of
conduct was based on geography. The CBA was dominated by prairie
lawyers and they carried the day on this issue over the objections of the
minority, primarily from Eastern Canada.129
In contrast to their eastern colleagues, Western Canadian lawyers
would have had several reasons to support a written code. Despite a
recent and massive influx of immigrants, Western Canada was still
sparsely settled in comparison to the East. Opportunity for easy contact
with fellow practitioners was limited in many cases. Creating a consen-
sus of opinion among these far-flung practitioners was therefore a
difficult task, made more difficult by the diversity of backgrounds repre-
sented by prairie lawyers.130 A code of ethics was undoubtedly therefore,
at least in part, an attempt to develop a consensus on ethics or, if that
proved impossible, to inform practitioners of what their leaders had
determined that consensus to be.
It is also clear that prairie lawyers, especially after 1919, were acutely
aware of the scepticism and occasional hostility with which they were
viewed by the lay public. In the raw and turbulent West, unlike the East,
it was not possible to rely on a traditional deference to an ancient
profession in order to achieve credibility; it was necessary to demonstrate
the ethical commitment and public spirit of prairie lawyers in an explicit
and unequivocal manner.131
Despite the value of the Code of Legal Ethics to the Western Canadian
profession, however, it suffered from the same deficiency as statutes and
judicial decisions—it was only an abstraction until put into practice. The
legal profession in Western Canada knew that it could not rely on prac-
tising lawyers to consistently consult and comply with a code of ethics
nor on law societies to detect and punish all violations of the Code. A ‘by
the book’ approach to legal practice provided, at best, a tool by which the
worst offenders could be removed from the profession and those com-
mitted to ethical practice guided. A far better solution would be to ensure
128 Justice WR Riddell, ‘A Code of Legal Ethics’ (1919) 39 Can LT 620 at 623.
129
Pue, supra, n 87 at 269.
130 Pue argues, perhaps cynically but plausibly, that the imposition of a code was con-
sidered especially critical on the prairies because, to a greater extent than in the east, the
Western Canadian Bar was in danger of being infiltrated by immigrants whose moral
qualities were considered to be dubious by Anglo-Canadians. Pue, supra, n 87 at 258,
271; Pue, supra, n 66 at 24. I am only prepared to go so far as to suggest that the arrival
in the legal profession of individuals from non-British communities made the task of
creating and disseminating a consensus on ethical matter both more urgent and more
difficult.
131
Pue, supra, n 87 at 269–270.
358 Harold Dick
that those admitted to practice would have, not only the requisite know-
ledge, but the commitment and dedication required to practice compe-
tently and ethically. Western Canadian lawyers were prepared to disagree
with their Eastern colleagues about the need for a code of ethics but they
were in complete agreement over the need for the law to be administered
by ‘the highest type of scholar, gentleman and Christian.’
In order to produce lawyers with ‘the qualifications of mind and
character’132 fit to serve as ambassadors of the law on the prairies, the
leaders of the Bar put their faith in the instrument which had served the
US profession well—the university law school. Moreover, to ensure the
best possible results, law schools in all three prairie provinces adopted
the most modern pedagogical techniques—the study of cases and the
Socratic method of instruction.133 Manitoba’s Law School, in particu-
lar, was considered on the cutting edge of Canadian legal education.
The first law school in Canada to embrace the case method, it was also
the first to adopt the CBA’s model curriculum in 1921 and in 1926 and
1927 it was recognised by the Carnegie Foundation’s ‘Annual Review of
Legal Education’ as the best law school in Canada.134 Saskatchewan’s
law school featured one of the foremost early practitioners of the
Socratic method, Thaddeaus Hebert, and Alberta introduced a ‘full-
time, three year programme, entrance standards set at two years of col-
lege work, stiff examinations, and instruction by means of “large, well
organized casebooks containing leading English and American deci-
sions” ’.135
There is little doubt that the decision to associate law schools with uni-
versities in all three provinces was heavily influenced by the American
experience. American professions had discovered that the association of
professional training with universities was important, not only because it
certified the scientific credentials of the profession, but because it guar-
anteed that scientific methods would be employed in the selection and
training of students. In this way, it ensured that only the most meritori-
ous would be permitted to enter and graduate from professional pro-
grammes.136 A professional university education was a test of mental
132 In his 1919 speech, Aikins argues in favour of limiting entry to the legal profession
to those ‘who possess the qualifications of mind and character’ necessary for this task:
133 Pue, supra, n 75 at 10, 11 and 18. See also Pue, ‘Colonizing Canadian Space’, supra,
n 105. For a sense of the faith invested in these schools by leaders of the Bar, see Aikins,
supra, n 103 at 1189 and MacKay, supra, n 77 at 112–113.
134 Pue, supra, n 75 at 20. See also Pue, ‘The disquisitions of learned Judges’, supra, n
105 at 14–25.
135 Pue, supra, n 75 at 11. See also Pue, ‘The disquisitions of learned Judges’, supra, n
105.
136 According to Bledstein, supra, n 93 at 127, ‘By invoking the highest ideals—talent,
merit, achievement—the educational system sanctioned the privileges, indeed, the

acuity and physical endurance. Graduation certified that one was among
the brightest and the best, an important source of credibility in the merit-
driven cultures of the United States and Western Canada.
Similarly, the adoption in all three prairie law schools of the study of
case law and the Socratic method of instruction, pioneered at Harvard,
was driven by some of the same impulses as had been in play in the United
States. One of these was an attraction to the rigour of this system.
Students were expected to study legal cases on their own and be prepared
to respond correctly to queries about these cases tossed at them like hand
grenades by professors. Students who were unprepared faced humiliation
before their classmates. The Harvard system no doubt encouraged study
and honed students’ ability to think on their feet, but it also provided a
very public means of separating the weak scholars from the strong:
The case method fulfilled the latest requirements in modern education: it was
‘scientific’, practical and somewhat Darwinian. It was based on the assumption
of a unitary, principled system of objective doctrines that seemed or were made
to provide consistent responses. In theory, the case method was to produce mech-
anistic answers to legal questions; yet it managed to create an aura of the survival
of the fittest.137
Pue argues, convincingly, that other factors also contributed to the enthu-
siasm for the case method expressed by the leaders of the Western
Canadian legal profession. He suggests that the case method grew out of
a belief that sufficient and direct exposure to the actual words of judges
who were both learned in the law and distinguished gentlemen would
result in some of these qualities rubbing off.
[T]he logic of the case method was an ‘irrational’ logic founded on mystical
notions that exposure to ‘great’ literature in their original would make not just
better scholars (or lawyers) but also better people, better gentlemen, better
‘souls’.138
Related to this belief was the view that requiring students to engage in
a process of self-discovery of the text would ensure that the lessons
learned would be fully internalised. By refusing to explain the text and,
in fact, challenging students’ insights into the text with rapid-fire and
difficult questions, the Socratic method was intended to force students to
wrestle with the case law, resulting eventually in a more profound under-
standing of it. However, the ultimate goal of the Socratic method was not
simply to ensure that the legal principles set out in each case was firmly
affluence, of an accredited individual in American society. Theoretically, neither birth

nor prejudice nor favoritism restricted those privileges.’
137
R Stevens, Law School: Legal Education in America from the 1850s to the 1980s
(University of North Carolina Press, Chapel Hill, 1983) at 55.
138
Pue, ‘Colonizing Canadian Space’, supra, n 105 at 37.
360 Harold Dick
imbedded in the student’s mind. Rather, the purpose of this enforced

struggle was
inner transformation, understandings of self so intimately bound with doctrinal
truth . . . that the transformation would endure for a lifetime, withstand all temp-
tation, be immune from challenge from those who understand not.139
The frustration and struggle forced upon students by the Harvard
model was itself seen as valuable because it was thought to build a stu-
dent’s character. ‘Character’ was highly important on both sides of the
border and of the Atlantic in this era. For Americans,
[t]he person with an ideal character was distinctive, intellectually and emotional
confident. He paced life properly, heard the true rhythm of the universe; and
chose the real over the illusory, the natural over the artificial. He demonstrated
such judiciousness, discretion, equanimity, and balance that right and wrong
became clear to him, duty defined and worldly matters set straight, perhaps for a
lifetime. . . Beyond confusion the person of character discovered meaning,
beyond chaos he perceived a rational order, beyond doubt he settled upon hard
facts, beyond youthful experimentation he pursued a career that suited his
nature. The person of character never wandered aimlessly in a bleak and dessi-
cated world.140
The importance of character was equally obvious to leading
Canadians. Indeed, the development of character among the Canadian
elite was considered critical if the nation was to acheive its destiny.
An individual without character . . . was a miniature mob: disorganized,
immoral, and unhealthy as well as an inefficient member of the collectivity. . .
character-building was an inner, subjective task. It involved learning to lead a
morally and physically pure life, not only for the sake of the individual health and
salvation but for the sake of the nation.141
In the United States, a professional university faculty was considered
the best place to build one’s character. Unlike the carefree time of drink-
ing, gambling, sexual excapades and campus hijinks associated with an
undergraduate degree, a professional education was a serious undertak-
ing, designed to develop the character of the young men enrolled in it.
The earnest young man regenerated himself during his college years; he purified
his character and reformed his intelligence in order to fight the battle of an
American life on the terms of his own permanent choosing.142
Leaders of the Western Canadian Bar took a similar view of the pur-
pose of law schools. In his address at the formal opening of the Manitoba
139
Pue, ‘Colonizing Canadian Space’, supra, n 105 at 42.
140
Bledstein, supra, n 93 at 147.
141
Valverde, supra, n 108 at 27.
142 Bledstein, supra, n 93 at 250.
Law School in 1914, for example, Aikins exhorted law students to exert
control over themselves and to avoid excesses, especially alcohol. He
stressed the importance of integrity, moral fibre, honour and charac-
ter.143 Ira MacKay scorned what he described as the ‘dilletantism and
intellectual play’ of arts programmes. ‘But’, he said, ‘a law course is a
serious matter. An arts course is intended for boys, a law course for
men’.144
It was, of course, the creation of ‘men’ which was a basic function of
law schools as far as leaders of the Bar were concerned. When they
thought of the ideal ambassadors and administrators of the law, these
men pictured men. The law schools they created reflected the masculin-
ity of the ideal student. Complete with ‘[c]lassroom battles of wits and
aggressive contests for “true” understandings’ of case law, ‘[e]verything
about the Socratic engagement was “masculine” ’.145 At the same time,
however, shared hardships of law school also created a sense of cama-
raderie akin to that of a fraternity.146 Whether intended or not, the law
school experience created bonds between students which often lasted for
life.
The masculine ideal which the law schools were designed to produce
was grounded in a vision of the British gentleman. ‘He’ was, of course, a
scholar and a Christian but was also convinced to his bones of ‘the intrin-
sic superiority of British ways, the virtues associated with British law’147
and the absolute necessity that both flourish on the prairies. Accordingly,
prairie law schools were charged to ‘teach law in a big way’ in order to
create lawyers who would be ‘leaders in thought, promoters of the intel-
lectual and moral development of our young nation, so that it may
become a strong and forceful leader in the Empire.’148
For those who saw a strong legal profession as a critical component in
the struggle for civilisation on the prairies, the creation of a new sort of
lawyer through study at a law school provided hope. They believed that
law schools would transform individuals who in turn might transform
Canada, the Empire, the world.149 Despite the challenge to the dream of
a shining prairie civilisation posed by recalcitrant Aboriginal and immi-
grant groups, labour unrest and radical political thought, the creation in
law schools of disciplined, rational, scientific, educated, authoritative
143 Aikins, supra, n 103 at 1183–1187. RW Lee, Dean of McGill’s Law School also
expressed the need to ‘instill into the student a sense of professional honour and civic
duty’, to create a man who was learned, reflective, ethical and public-spirited: RW Lee,
‘Legal Education: A Symposium’ (1919) 39 Can LT 138 at 141 in Pue, supra, n 75 at 31.
144 MacKay, supra, n 77 at 108
145 Pue, ‘Colonizing Canadian Space’, supra, n 105 at 44.
146 Ibid at 43.
147 Ibid at 9.
148 Aikins, supra, n 103 at 1190.
362 Harold Dick
men, full of character and devoted to patriotic ends, held out a promise
that Western Canada could be led to its rightful destiny after all.
CONCLUSION
Both Mennonites and lawyers of the prairie West in the early decades of
the twentieth century inhabited cultures which controlled their percep-
tions, guided their thoughts and motivated their actions. These cultures
were, however, profoundly incompatible and, because they each sought
to occupy the same geographical space at the same time, were destined to
come into conflict.
Lawyers were, and understood themselves to be, part of a larger
Anglo-Canadian cultural community. Primarily of British stock, lawyers
were proud of their heritage and of their place within an Empire which
spanned the globe. Like the rest of the Anglo-Canadian community on
the prairies, they were animated by the dream of constructing a prairie
civilisation which would not only incorporate Western Canada fully
within Canada and the British Empire, but would result in the prairies
achieving national and even imperial prominence.
This was a modern project conceived by an optimistic and forward-
looking culture. Anglo-Canadians believed that modern technology,
education and science could overcome social ills, including alcoholism,
promiscuity and poverty, and could produce superior people—healthier,
more intelligent and more virtuous. They were convinced that knowledge
could be used to create a better society on the prairies—wealthier, fairer
and more free—than existed anywhere else. The solution to virtually any
problem could be found by right-thinking people applying the appropri-
ate scientific and techological solutions.
Lawyers on the prairies during the first decades of the twentieth cen-
tury fully embraced this modern vision. Although the common law was
itself vulnerable to the accusation that it was an irrational vestige of an
ancient past which ought to be abandoned in favour of a more modern
and rational legal system, the legal community was able successfully to
contend that the apparently disordered common law was in fact, upon
close and scientific examination, ‘the perfection of reason’, the culmina-
tion of centuries of evolution and ideally suited to the modern age. To
certify this claim, the legal profession moved to establish law as an appro-
priate subject of academic inquiry by creating law schools at Western
Canadian universities. Taught in a university law school, law could lay
claim to the authority of a neutral and objective science which, like other
sciences, was essential for progress and prosperity. The placement of law
in a university setting alongside medicine, engineering and other profes-
sional faculties whose scientific credentials were unassailable not only
lent weight to the depiction of law as a science but also helped to secure
the position of law as a profession, worthy of the same respect as profes-
sions whose achievements were more self-evidently valuable.
In contrast to the modern values and vision embraced by lawyers and
the Anglo-Canadian community, the Mennonites of the Canadian
prairies were a pre-modern people. Despite having travelled from Russia
to reach the prairies, Mennonites lived in a much smaller world than
Anglo-Canadians; their vision was deliberately and resolutely bounded
by the Mennonite community. Mennonite culture looked more to the
past than to the future, stressed tradition rather than progress, and val-
ued a simple agrarian lifestyle more than prosperity. Emphasising prac-
tice over thought, right-living over education, and established truths over
new ideas, Mennonites instinctively rejected education, rationality and
science as incapable of sustaining moral values. They were deeply suspi-
cious of higher education and sought nothing more than the opportunity
to live out known religious truths in daily life.
It was taken for granted by the Anglo-Canadian community that the
civilisation under construction in the West would be one in which indi-
viduals would be freed from the bonds of class, ethnicity and ancient
traditions to flourish on the strength of their own abilities and hard work.
By releasing the full potential in each individual, progress and prosperity
were assured. Though attacked by socialists and resisted by the commu-
nitarian cultures of the First Nations and many of the immigrant com-
munities in the West, this liberal philosophy was endorsed by ‘legal
science’. The common law, ‘scientifically’ understood, was portrayed by
legal scholars and the legal profession as vindicating a view of the indi-
vidual as an entity with personal prerogatives free of society’s control. It
was the function of the law to protect the autonomy of each individual
from improper interference by the State and other individuals. The law
was therefore essential liberty and human flourishing.
This commitment to individual freedom was alien to prairie
Mennonites. Mennonites viewed society, not as a collection of
autonomous individuals, but as a collectivity. Individuals were defined,
not by a sphere of autonomy, but by their place within their immediate
family, their larger circle of relatives, their village, church and, ultimately,
das Mennonitische Volk. An individual could be understood only within
the complex web of relationships which defined his or her life. These rela-
tionships were held together by shared values and behavioural norms
which left little room for independent thought or action. Mennonites
were trained from childhood to subordinate their personal desires to the
interests of the group. In return, they received a level of security and sup-
port which was rare in a more individualistic society.
In economics, the liberalism of the Anglo-Canadian elite supported a
laissez faire approach to business and commerce, a result enthusiastically
364 Harold Dick
embraced by prairie lawyers. If allowed to flourish, they believed,

capitalism would create on the prairies the prosperity and greatness for
which they believed the region was destined. They were convinced that
only unfettered trade, industry and business could develop the West’s
economic potential. Themselves often privately involved in business ven-
tures, lawyers saw their primary task as creating a legal environment
which would provide the stability and freedom needed by business. They
vigorously resisted challenges to the aggressive and free-wheeling
business practices of the day.
The Mennonites of the Canadian prairies had had experience with the
emergence of modern capitalism in the Mennonite colonies in Russia and
had emphatically rejected it. In fact, they had abandoned Russia in large
part because of the social strife, economic dislocation and loss of simple
community associated with these economic changes. They were, conse-
quently, suspicious of the raw, energetic capitalism of Western Canada.
For the most part, Mennonites viewed the offer of material prosperity
held out by modern capitalism as dangerous, threatening their faith, their
traditional way of life and their closely-knit communities.
To secure their position within Western Canadian society, lawyers
could not afford to rely exclusively on the status of law as a science and
their association with other, more clearly ‘scientific’ professions. They
sought to create an elite corps of legal professionals whose personal qual-
ities would be so worthy of admiration and respect that the position of
the legal profession would be unquestioned. The adoption of a formal
and written code of ethical conduct assisted in this project but a law
school education played a more critical role. The study of case law and
the Socratic method of instruction were only partially intended to ensure
that students mastered the relevant subject matter. Their more important
function was both to instil and to demonstrate in law school graduates
the full spectrum of gentlemanly attributes: perseverance, virtue, force of
will, intelligence, self-discipline and character. These, as much or more
than claims to unique skills and knowledge, were meant to justify the
influence, prestige and wealth afforded lawyers in prairie society.
Like other prairie dwellers, Mennonites respected self-discipline, hard
work, honesty, and character. However, the undisguised goal of the legal
profession—to achieve prestige, wealth and power—was antithetical to
Mennonite values. The Mennonite commitment to community was such
that actions which could give rise to pride on the part of the individual
and envy on the part of others were discouraged or even prohibited.
Competition, school grades, public performances and conspicuous
wealth were all seen as dangerous because they threatened to result in
envy and conflict, disrupting the cohesiveness of the community. Those
who stood out from the group were generally viewed with suspicion.
Humility was seen as a key attribute for leadership; indeed, a desire for
prominence was likely to scuttle the leadership ambitions of anyone who

displayed it.
Of course, the desire of lawyers for respect, influence and leadership in
Western Canada was not solely or even principally due to self-interest.
Most genuinely considered the success of their profession to be crucial to
the achievement of the Anglo-Canadian dream for the West. Lawyers saw
themselves as the bearers of the common law, its front-line troops, its
missionaries, its planters and gardeners. It was up to them to replace the
superstitious, irrational and alien traditions of Aboriginals and ethnic
immigrants with a system of justice which was ‘the highest product of
human wisdom.’ It was their task to blanket the West with the common
law, eliminating anomalies until it could be presented as a single, uniform
whole.
The Mennonites were one of the ethnic immigrant groups whose very
existence as a distinct cultural entity stood in the way of the Anglo-
Canadian dream. Their traditional, semi-formal legal system offered an
unacceptable alternative to the common law. Unsurprisingly, they were
targeted by the legal system and the legal profession; both passive and
aggressive methods were used to force Mennonites into the patterns of
the Canadian legal system. The hegemonic impulses inherent in Anglo-
Canadian culture, and especially within that of the legal profession, and
the tenacity with which Mennonites defended their traditional way of
life, inevitably resulted in conflict. On questions of land ownership,
education and numerous other issues, tensions and clashes between
Mennonites and the Canadian legal system were the norm.
The Mennonite dream was to re-create the early years of their settle-
ment in Russia. Plenty of good land for every man to live as a simple
farmer, closely-knit villages in autonomous block settlements with
Mennonite control over schools and local government, freedom to prac-
tise their faith and to maintain their own culture—this was the vision
which had led them to abandon prosperity in Russia and to choose the
Canadian prairies over better land in the American mid-west. The
Mennonite utopia held no place for non-Mennonites or the society out-
side the Mennonites’ cultural and geographical frontier. Indeed, all
Mennonites asked of Canadian governments and Canadian society was
to be left alone.
Such a vision was unacceptable to Anglo-Canadian society and the
lawyers who were its central and leading figures. Itself threatened by the
fractured and chaotic enormity of the prairies, this cultural group was
driven by a vision of coherence and uniformity. It set itself the task of
civilising the West, bringing it firmly within Anglo-Canadian (and British
imperial) control and encouraging those progressive and modern institu-
tions which would allow it to attain its destiny. It was the specific task of
the legal profession to fill up the terrifying space of the prairies with law,
366 Harold Dick
binding it together and eliminating unseemly anomalies. From this per-

spective, the pockets of traditional Mennonite culture were intolerable
flaws in the tapestry of Canadian culture which had to be eliminated if
the dream of the West was to be realised.
These were the two cultures in which the seven ‘Mennonite’ lawyers of
this era lived their lives. Born and raised in a traditional, tightly-knit and
besieged community, each one at some point turned his back on this
world and embraced the modern, individualistic and ambitious culture
of the dominant Anglo-Canadian community and the legal profession.
As each did so, however, he must have been profoundly aware that the
vast differences between these cultures meant that it would not be pos-
sible to hold membership in both simultaneously. The chasm between
these cultures could not be straddled; it could only be leapt.
13
Cultural Projects and Structural
Transformation in the Canadian
Legal Profession 1
W WESLEY PUE
The problem of state power . . . is a problem of how to distill a ‘single

will—or rather, the constitution of a unitary, singular body animated
by the spirit of sovereignty—from the particular wills of a multiplicity
of individuals’.
...
The ultimate end of government is not the achievement of a coexistence
of autonomous sovereignties, but the production of a happy, healthy,
virile and integrated social body.
Anne Barron, 19902
A group of lawyers met in a small, dusty railway town in cattle-
country east of the Rocky Mountains in the spring of 1899. Their meet-
ing established the Calgary Bar Association, reflecting their consensus
that the Bar of Calgary were sufficiently numerous to form an association for the
purpose of cultivating a feeling of professional brotherhood, discussing various
matters affecting the interests of the profession and taking united action
thereon. . . .3
1 This paper draws on research supported by the Social Sciences and Humanities
Research Council of Canada, the Legal Research Institute, University of Manitoba, and
the University of British Columbia. I am grateful for the advice, encouragement and
assistance of colleagues at the University of Manitoba (Professors Anderson, Esau,
Gibson, Harvey, McGillivray in particular) and elsewhere (L Gibson, A Diduck,
T Halliday, L Karpik, L Spelman, D Sugarman and R McQueen), and to excellent
research assistants (B Williams, J Bermel, M McVicar, and J Bliss). Thanks are due also,
to archivists and officials who facilitated access to significant records at the Law Societies
of Manitoba, Alberta, British Columbia and Ontario, the Alberta Legal Heritage Society,
and the Glenbow Institite. The University of Adelaide provided an outstanding environ-
ment for research and writing during my term as Distinguished Visiting Professor in
History, Law and British Studies from May to September, 1999.
2 Anne Barron, ‘Legal Discourse and the Colonisation of the Self in the Modern State’
in Anthony Carty (ed), Post-Modern Law: Enlightenment, Revolution and the Death of
Man (Edinburgh University Press, Edinburgh, 1990), 107–125, at 108 and 117.
3 Minute Book of the Calgary Bar Association, dated 12 May 1899 (Glenbow
Institute).
368 W Wesley Pue
The matters most urgently in need of collective action, they thought,

were the development of a conveyancing tariff, agreement on uniform
office hours, and confronting the problem of ‘unlicenced conveyancers’.
I wish to demonstrate that such objectives were integrally related to the
project of government sketched out by Anne Barron in the introductory
quotation.The Calgary Bar Association, in common with the Canadian
Bar Association and similar bodies, participated in professional projects
oriented toward creating the preconditions for effective state governance
in a land which was, in principle, ungovernable.
From some viewpoints the lawyers’ projects discussed in this essay
seem to provide inauspicious origins for organised professionalism, even
in the cowboy capital of British Empire. Whereas professional rhetoric
makes much of public service—sometimes elevating professional self-
governance to the status of an entrenched constitutional ‘right’4— the
nitty-gritty of professional organisation seems to have been self-interest.
Their specific objectives were classic trades-union stuff: money, work-
week and monopoly. From one viewpoint this hints of professional
conspiracy against clients, community and state.
Alluring though it may be, such interpretations dreadfully caricature
processes of professionalisation. I wish to interrogate the history of the
‘professionalisation’ of Canadian lawyers in order to develop broader
understandings of professionalism and lawyers alike. There is more here
than meets the eye.
THE NOVELTY OF LAWYERS’ PROFESSIONALISM
Lawyers west of Ontario spearheaded the movement which created mod-

ern professional forms in Canada. Although historical antecedents of
some sort exist for every ‘innovation’, this is almost entirely a twentieth
Century story. The forms and cultures of the professionalism we experi-
ence did not exist anywhere before the twentieth Century.5 The high water
mark of European Imperialism, the spatial extension of both the USA and
the Canadian Dominion, and the creation of modern professional struc-
tures occured simultaneously. Each process affected the others.
In it’s paradigmatic expression professionalism incorporates demand-
ing admission standards, mandatory and extended formal education,
4 I have reviewed such arguments in ‘In Pursuit of Better Myth: Lawyers’ Histories
and Histories of Lawyers’, (1995) 33(4) Alberta Law Review, 730–767.

5 I do not wish to be taken as making the nonsense argument that ‘professionalism’ or
‘professions’ did not exist in earlier times, only that twentieth century Canadian profes-
sionalism is distinctive in its forms, manifestations and cultures. Earlier forms of profes-
sionalism are also to be treated seriously in their own right: see Wilfrid Prest (ed), The
Professions in Early Modern England (Croom Helm, London, 1987).
Cultural Projects and Structural Transformation 369
examinations, admissions screening, state licencing, prohibitions on

‘unauthorised’ practice, self-regulation, written ‘codes’ of conduct and
technocratic or meritocratic culture. In its peculiar combinations and in
its relationship to a culture which was being consumed by ‘galloping
hegemony of instrumental reason’, all this is very much part of larger
twentieth century phenomenon.6 The whole, distinctly greater than the
sum of its parts, combined in our grandparents’ and great-grandparents’
generations to form the core ‘structures’ or forms of contemporary
professionalism.7 North American professionalism was a new social
technology for new times.
Noting this suggests the importance of several oft-overlooked themes.
Most obviously, the novelty of contemporary professional form deserves
greater emphasis than it is generally accorded. This is particularly so in
the case of the legal profession. Because ‘law’ is obviously an ‘ancient’
profession the suggestion that some essence of the existing profession
might be of recent origin strikes many as very nearly heretical.
Understandings of lawyers’ professionalism in Canada and in other
‘British Diaspora’ lands (including the United States) characteristically
assume that, although much changes in professional culture, the essential
forms or structures have a timeless quality about them. The distilled
‘essence’ of professionalism—corporate structures, codes of ethics, effec-
tive ‘self-regulation’, rigorous training programmes and admissions stan-
dards—are often assumed to have existed since time immemorial, only
relatively inconsequential matters of ‘detail’ changing over the genera-
tions. Not infrequently, key features are traced back through presumed
6 Charles Taylor, The Malaise of Modernity (House of Anansi, Concord, Ontario,
1991) 112 (and on the nature of instrumental reason see 5–6).

Cf the tracings-out of professionalism provided by Harold Perkin, The Rise of
Professional Society: England since 1880 (Routledge, London, 1989), James C Foster,
The Ideology of Apolitical Politics: Elite Lawyers’ Response to the Legitimation Crisis of
American Capitalism, 1870–1920, (Garland Publishing, NY, ‘Distinguished Studies in
American Constitutional and Legal History,’ second series, 1990), Jerold S Auerbach,
Unequal Justice: Lawyers and Social Change in Modern America (Oxford University
Press, NY, 1976), Andrew Abbott, The System of Professions: An Essay on the Division
of Expert Labor (University of Chicago Press, Chicago, 1988). cf Dorothy Ross, The
Origins of American Social Science (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, New York,
1990); John McLaren and Hamar Foster ‘Hard Choices and Sharp Edges: the Legal
History of British Columbia and the Yukon’ in Foster and McLaren (eds), Essays in the
History of Canadian Law, Vol. VI: British Columbia and the Yukon, ch 1, 3–27 at 18–19.
7 I invoke this convenient and commonsensical understanding of professional ‘struc-
tures’ in order to avoid the necessity of taking on the full-blown debate as to what, pre-
cisely, constitutes ‘structure’ in social analysis. My work-a-day approach to professional
structures in the twentieth century seems to fit Sewell’s definition that ‘Sets of schemas
and resources may properly be said to constitute structures only when they mutually
imply and sustain each other over time’: William Sewell, ‘A Theory of Structure: Duality,
Agency, and Transformation’ (1992) American Journal of Sociology 98, 1–29, at 13.
370 W Wesley Pue
genealogies to mysterious origins at the English Inns of Court in a time

before recorded professional history. A heavy overlay of myth needs to be
peeled back if the cultural origin of professionalism in our age is to be
understood.8
STRUCTURES AND CULTURES OF LEGAL PROFESSIONALISM
The second theme is more complex. Broadly, it is that professional forms

themselves need to be understood as cultural artifacts, that ‘culture’ and
‘structure’ are properly understood as mutually constitutive, not as dis-
tinct forces. There is no ‘base’, no bedrock professional core which is
unmoved by the currents of time. Equally, there is no superstructure, no
‘determination’, no ‘overdetermination’. The case study of Canadian
legal professionalism adds support to the ‘general theoretical argument
that conceptual distinctions between structure and culture have lost force
and utility in providing compelling theoretical maps, accounts, and
images of the social world’.9 Amongst many possible ways of under-
standing the relationships between culture and form, I wish to canvass
four, for convenience labelled ‘structural determinism’, ‘disengagement’,
‘metasomatism’ and ‘cultural efficacy’.
Structural determinist understandings treat structures as timeless (or,
in a more modest version, as immutable over the longue durée) and
assume that structures determine the essential features of professional
culture. Conversely, approaches based on some notion of disengagement
between the two spheres perceive professional culture as dynamic and
important whereas professional form is thought of as static, unchang-
ing—and hence rather uninteresting. Structural determinism sees profes-
sional culture as mere epiphenomena, barely noteworthy. On the other
hand, research premised on the assumption of disengagement commits
an opposite error, tending to focus exclusively on the most visible forms
of cultural change—such as the poetry, plays, books, classroom dynam-
ics, politics, sporting activities or the homosociability of gentlemen
lawyers—without taking structure seriously into account.
Founded on opposite errors, neither approach is satisfactory. Form is
neither everything nor nothing. Structures and cultures influence each
8
See Pue, ‘Better Myth’, (n 4 above); Sewell, (n 7 above), addresses the ways in which
actors often falsely invoke history in order to effect transformation. See also Eric
Hobshawm and Terence Ranger (eds), The Invention of Tradition (Cambridge
University Press, Cambridge, 1983).
9 Lyn Spillman, ‘How are structures meaningful? Cultural Sociology and theories of
social structure’, (1996) 22(2) Humboldt J of Social Relations, 31–45 at 41; See also
P Bourdieu, Outline of a Theory of Practice, translated by R Nice (Cambridge University
Press, Cambridge, 1977).
other through innumerable feed-back mechanisms: ‘Structures shape

people’s practices, but it is also people’s practices that constitute (and
reproduce) structures. . . . human agency and structure, far from being
opposed, in fact presuppose each other’.10 Certainly, structures fre-
quently demonstrate an impressive durability by contrast with the
ephemeral, seemingly fleeting, realm of ‘culture’. This indeed is precisely
why revolutionaries or legislators labour mightily to demolish, transform
or create structures: they hope to give permanence to their visions.
Structural transformation unaccompanied by cultural revolution is,
however, doomed to failure. Noting the complexity of all this, we should
seek to transcend habits of thought and speech which treat structure and
culture as distinct spheres, preferring instead to recognise that such
language crudely parses a hugely complex web. Our limited descriptive
vocabularies should not be permitted to legislate our perceptions: struc-
tures are, as Giddens reminds us, ‘both the medium and the outcome of
the practices which constitute social systems’.11 The language seems
inescapable and, modestly understood, the fictions of structure and
culture provide convenient entry into a rather complexly integrated
whole. Bearing all this in mind, two further models of the relationship are
helpful in approaching the history of legal professions.
Models which foreground cultural efficacy, emphasise that structures
themselves are cultural artifacts. Whether deliberately created in fulfill-
ment of a self-conscious plan or emerging from ad hoc or contingent
processes, professional forms are human creations, constructs made and
remade from generation to generation. In many circumstances a time
‘lag’ between cultural change and the transformation of structures can be
expected, but the relationship is always mutually constitutive, the forces
never unidirectional. On occasion, structural projects can take concrete
form with dramatic speed. The argument for cultural efficacy is espe-
cially strong in understanding the history of legal professionalism in
newly colonised places or in the wake of revolution.12 Just as rock forms
10 Sewell, n 7 above, at 4.
11
Anthony Giddens, A Contemporary Critique of Historical Materialism, Vol. 1:
Power, Property and the State (Macmillan, London, 1981), 27 as quoted in Sewell, ibid.
12
In studies of the history of the legal profession, scholars who emphasise the eco-
nomic monopoly of professions tend to appreciate that many professional structures are
of relatively recent vintage or, alternatively, that inherited structures have been trans-
formed to new use during the nineteenth or early twentieth century. Surprisingly, how-
ever, most such studies fail to recognise the ‘cultural’ rather than merely ‘economic’
significance of such transformations. The same, to lesser degree, might be said of even
the ‘power’ theorists of professionalism. See, for example, Richard L Abel, ‘The Rise of
Professionalism’ (1979) 6 British Journal of Law and Society 82; Richard L Abel, The
Legal Profession in England and Wales (BH Blackwell, Oxford, 1988); Richard L Abel,
American Lawyers (Oxford University Press, New York, 1989) (monopoly theory);
Terence J Johnson, Professions and Power (The Macmillan Press Ltd, London, 1972)
372 W Wesley Pue
can be made, transformed and shaped either slowly and subtly (over
‘geological time’) or rapidly by catastrophic event, so too social transfor-
mations take place on many different time-scales. Discontinuities are
possible.
The second social process is less catastrophic. In human affairs ‘social
institutions may change their substance, though not necessarily their
form, in unplanned response to events’, producing a metasomatism of
sorts.13 Incremental change ‘at the level of culture’ can transform or even
reverse the meanings, functions and effects of enduring structures. Such
change occurred in England’s legal profession during the course of the
eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, when a series of molecular-level
transformations turned the English Inns of Court from loosely structured
gentlemen’s guilds into modern, efficient (more or less), ‘professional’
regulatory bodies. The transformation was real and substantial even
though surface forms proved remarkably resilient. The Bar remained
organised around four separate ‘Inns of Court’ in London and circuit
‘Messes’ outside of the capital. Customs of dining and debate persisted,
boundary lines between solicitors and barristers remained important,
and governance continued to be the prerogative of unelected ‘benchers’.
All this survived a period of massive political, economic and social dislo-
cation relatively unscathed. Despite apparent stasis in structure both
meaning and effect were culturally and dynamically constructed.14
In the twentieth century history of Canadian legal professions both
processes have been at play. A cultural revolution of sorts transformed the
(‘power’ theory), W Pue, ‘Trajectories of Professionalism: Legal Professionalism after
Abel’ in Alvin Esau (ed), Manitoba Law Annual, 1989–1990 (Legal Research Institute,
Winnipeg, 1991), 57–92 [reprinted from (1990) 19 Manitoba Law Journal, 384–418).
13 James Willard Hurst, The Growth of American Law: The Law Makers (Little
Brown & Co, Boston, 1950) at 273. The geomorphological process of metasomatism is
one in which essential transformation is achieved by the migration of elements in and out
of an apparently unchanging structure. Though Hurst does not use the term the analogy
is apt.
14
These transformations are sketched in W Pue, ‘Moral Panic at the English Bar:
Paternal vs. Commercial Ideologies of Legal Practice in the 1860s’ (1990) 15 Law and
Social Inquiry, 49–118; ‘Rebels at the Bar: English Barristers and the County Courts in
the 1850s’ (1987) 16 Anglo-American Law Review, 303–352; ‘Exorcising Professional
Demons: Charles Rann Kennedy and the Transition to the Modern Bar’ (Spring, 1987) 5
Law and History Review, 135–174; ‘Lawyers & Political Liberalism in 18th & 19th
Century England’, in Lucien Karpik and Terrence Halliday (eds), Lawyers and the Rise
of Western Political Liberalism: Legal Professions and the Constitution of Modern
Politics (Clarendon Press, Oxford; Oxford University Press, New York, 1997), 239–302;
‘Trajectories of Professionalism’, n 12 above.
The contemporaneous transformation of the Paris Ordre des Avocats from associa-
tion into ‘corps’ is analagous: David A Bell, Lawyers and Citizens: The Making of a
Political Elite in Old Regime France (Oxford University Press, NY, 1994), 52. Cf Lucien
Karpik, French Lawyers: A Study in Collective Action, 1274–1994 (Oxford University
Press, Oxford, 1999).
structures of legal professionalism between 1867 and the Second World

War. The lawyers who led these efforts imagined that, by getting the
structures of legal professionalism ‘just right’, they would transform the
country as a whole. Once their goals of structural transformation were
attained, however, the larger cultural project fell into disfavour. Less
perceptible, lacking dramatic moment, subsequent changes were real
nonetheless.
This paper identifies changes in the first third of the twentieth century,
illustrating how professional forms emerged from the cultural predispo-
sitions of reforming lawyers. Though subsequent metasomic processes
cannot be explored here, they need to be noted so as to avoid leaving a
misleading impression of the effects of the transformations described in
this essay. Often operating in directions opposite to those intended by the
cultural revolutionaries of the earlier decades, a narrow and constrained
technocratic pragmatism supplanted the essentially moral vision of mod-
ern professionalism’s founding fathers.
DOMINION AND EMPIRE
Before considering professional transformations in detail it is useful to

pause briefly to consider the social contexts from which they emerged.
The bursts of Canadian professional reform between 1910 and 1939
occurred in the best of times, the worst of times.
For a brief period Canadians fantasised that the world was theirs to
lead and believed in turn that Canada’s future lay in the west:
Calculations of prairie greatness and celebrations of imperial power inevitably
ran together; the west would have a population of 100 million; it would be the
bread-basket of the world; it would become the centre of gravity for all Canada;
and, if it ruled Canada, and Canada led the empire (as it soon would), then, as
anyone could see, the west would lead the world.15
Not surprisingly, many reform initiatives originated in the Canadian west
and especially in the prairie provinces (Manitoba, Saskatchewan and
Alberta). This now forgotten periphery was once an important place,
simultaneously the object and the soul of Canadian imperialism.
Conditions were ripe for social experimentation.
Numerically small and finding themselves in a ‘new’ land, prairie legal
professions lacked the inherited social capital enjoyed by lawyers in
Ontario and the east. They faced special difficulties in attempting either
to assert cultural leadership or to establish its condition precedent, a
secure market niche. The political communities of the prairies were
15Gerald Friesen, The Canadian prairies: a history (University of Toronto Press,
Toronto, 1984) 342–43.
374 W Wesley Pue
hostile to privilege, infused with an egalitarian and reform ethos. Even

the structures of Government itself could not be taken for granted. The
mood was riotously democratic, consistent both in its rejection of hier-
archy, and in its questioning of the authoritative voice. At the same time,
extraordinarily rapid social change was under way. Outside forces
perpetually destabilised the region economically, socially and politically.
The effects of a newly industrialising continent’s ‘distended society’16
were powerfully felt. Successive waves of populist politics threatened sta-
tus, wealth, privilege, hierarchy, order.
The region participated in a reforming culture shared with other parts
of Anglo-Canada,17 but it was less inhibited by the constraint of conven-
tion or the gravitational pull of congealed hierarchies. In Canada’s ‘new’
lands relatively greater emphasis was placed on freedom and its prereq-
uisite, the governance of the good and the deserving (rather than to mere
submission to hierarchy). Amongst the Anglo-elite, frontier egalitarian-
ism combined creatively with pride in ‘Britishness’, and a belief in
pioneer virtue. They held out the hope that this new land ‘could re-
create the individual just as it improved upon the social order’.18 A ‘mil-
itant view of British civilization’ emerged and ‘the goal of prairie social
leaders—a Protestant, law-respecting, English-speaking community in
which democracy and social equality were fundamental assumptions—
seemed within reach’.19 Proud of their Britishness, western leaders were
nonetheless ‘not complacent about British social achievements’ and they
insisted on their ‘freedom to improve upon the parent culture’.20
Yet, the first three decades of the twentieth century brought unusual
challenges. The newness and social fluidity which promised so much also
appeared in threatening guise. The Dominion seemed to totter on a
knife-edge between heaven on earth and a hell of human making.
Massive urbanisation, industrialisation, recession, war and growing
xenophobia all took their toll. Economic dislocations corroded confi-
dence in the future of governance. Class, ethnic, and rural-urban divi-
sions were accentuated, culminating in a post-War burst of radicalism
more pervasive than any other in North America. Winnipeg’s crippling
16
Robert H Wiebe, The Search for Order, 1877–1920 (Hill and Wang, New York,
1967), 39.
17 Marianna Valverde, The Age of Light, Soap, and Water: Moral Reform in English
Canada, 1885–1925 (McClelland & Stewart, Toronto, 1991); Carl Berger, The Sense of
Power: Studies in the Ideas of Canadian Imperialism, 1867–1914 (University of Toronto
Press, 1970); Ramsay Cook, The Regenerators: Social Criticism in Late Victorian English
Canada (University of Toronto Press, 1985).
18 Gerald Friesen, The Canadian Prairies: A History, n 15 above, 303–304, discussing
the novels of Ralph Connor.

19 Ibid, 343.
20 Ibid, 343.
General Strike of 1919 was stunningly effective.21 Anglo-élites experi-

enced a rapid, discomforting, erosion of confidence in their ability to
assimilate newly ‘dangerous’ others into proper British ways. Buffeted by
temperance, women’s suffrage, social gospel, labour radicalism, progres-
sivism, the farmer’s and co-operative movements, socialism and maternal
feminism, regional consciousness threatened to disintegrate under the
pull of centrifugal forces.
Knowing that lasting social peace could not grow from the barrel of a
gun, élites faced the conundrum of how best to contain radical urges in a
society where deeply-held commitment to an open, democratic, egalitar-
ian social order co-existed with quite contrary cultural currents and with
immense class and ethnic inequities. Lawyers kept all options under
review as they contemplated their professional and civic futures. A
degree of professional cohesion was attained through multiple profes-
sional and social connections, including those formed through the work
of the Canadian Bar Association. Regional, Dominion-wide and inter-
national webs of professional interconnection provided ideas, promoted
consensus, and provided legitimation for novel professional projects.
Looking southward they discovered a social vision which held forth
the promise of founding a better world on terrain mid-way between the
Bolshevik abyss and a sort of ancien régime repression. The middle
ground was professionalism.
REMAKING CANADIAN LEGAL PROFESSIONALISM
During the first half of the twentieth century Canada was divided into
nine provinces (Newfoundland not yet having joined the Dominion) and
21
Frieson, ibid, 355–64. The strike, which seemed to substitute government by ‘strike
committee’ for the ordinary organs of municipal government from 15 May to 21 June
1919, registered powerfully on elite consciousness. The establishment of a ‘proletarian
dictatorship’ was explicitly threatened.
For a useful review of existing historiography and of previously unexplored archival
records relating to the Winnipeg General Strike see: Ken Kehler and Alvin Esau, Famous
Manitoba Trials: The Winnipeg General Strike Trials—Research Resource (University
of Manitoba, Legal Research Institute, 1990); Craig Heron (ed), The Workers’ Revolt in
Canada, 1917–1925 (University of Toronto Press, Toronto 1998); Tom Mitchell, ‘To
Reach the Leadership of This Revolutionary Movment’: AJ Andrews, the Canadian State
and the Suppression of the Winnipeg General Strike’ (Fall 1993) 18(2) Prairie Forum,
239–255; Tom Mitchell, ‘Repressive Measures’: AJ Andrews, the Committee of 1000 and
the Campaign Against Revolution After the Winnipeg General Strike’ Fall 1995–Spring
1996, left history 3.2 & 4.1, 132–167.
The USA experienced similar concerns which also motivated its ‘Bar Association
Movement’. See: James C Foster, The Ideology of Apolitical Politics: Elite Lawyers’
Response to the Legitimation Crisis of American Capitalism, 1870–1920 (Garland, NY,
1990), 97 ff.
376 W Wesley Pue
extensive, sparsely populated, northern territories which were adminis-

tered as colonies of the Dominion government. Quebec was—and
remains—distinct from all the others, a civil law jurisdiction living
in complex relationships to common law Canada. Its legal professions,
cultures and history are distinctive. Respecting that difference I make no
attempt to fold Quebec into the larger Canadian whole. This essay
focuses on legal professions in the ‘rest of Canada’.
Each of the eight common law provinces had its own structures of pro-
fessional regulation, typically featuring a provincial ‘law society’ or
equivalent body established under provincial legislation.22 All solicitors
and barristers were required to be members of the law society of their
province. Although Canadian federalism precludes any possibility of a
pan-provincial regulatory body, reform-minded lawyers of the early
twentieth century developed a national voluntary association through
which to promote their professional visions. The ‘Canadian Bar
Association’ (CBA), which emerged as an important force in 1914, was
the creature of lawyers who had become frustrated in varying degree by
the inaction of provincial law societies (the formal regulatory bodies).
Formed quite deliberately within the realm of culture, part of its purpose
was to spur those bodies into action. It was backed up or egged on by an
array of local ‘bar associations’, law student organisations, and similar
voluntary bodies, organised with varying degrees of formality, ambition,
and effectiveness.23 Although Canada was a self-governing colony or
‘British Dominion’, it did not follow the English model of a ‘divided pro-
fession’. In each of the common law provinces barristers and solicitors,
though formally distinct, were members of a single professional body.
Most lawyers were both ‘barrister and solicitor’ (a usage which continues
22 A consequence of the division of powers under the Canadian constitution.
23
The Vancouver Law Students Association was a particularly important locus of
professionalising activity. It and the Vancouver Bar Association played key roles in the
development of British Columbia legal education. See Pue, Law School: the Story of
Legal Education in British Columbia (Faculty of Law, University of British Columbia,
Vancouver, 1995). For writings on other similar bodies see: William CV Johnson (ed),
The First Century: Essays on the History of the County of Carleton Law Association by
Various Hands on the Occasion of the Association’s Centenary, 1888–1988 (Bonanza
Press, Ottawa, Ontario, 1988); Robert Crawford, ‘The New Westminster Bar
Association, 1894–1994’ (1994) The Advocate 221–226. The story of the Calgary Bar
Association is to be found in its own minutes, housed with the Glenbow Archive in
Calgary and in 23 Volumes of transcripts of oral history inverviews pertaining to the
legal history of southern Alberta ca. 1900–1982. Professionalsing movements in
Manitoba, Ontario, and British Columbia are discussed respectively in D Gibson and
L Gibson, Substantial Justice: Law and Lawyers in Manitoba, 1670–1970 (Peguis,
Winnipeg, 1972), Christopher Moore, The Law Society of Upper Canada and Ontario’s
Lawyers, 1797–1997 (University of Toronto Press, Toronto, 1997), and Alfred Watts,
History of the Legal Profession in British Columbia, 1869–1984 (Law Society of British
Columbia, Vancouver, 1984)
to the present) and, although some élite lawyers earnestly wished to

create a distinctive and élite barristers’ profession,24 this never came
about.
The Canadian Bar Association (confusingly, never restricted to
barristers) provided a focal point for new initiatives. Its influence was felt
across Canada and the patterns of professionalism which emerged were
strongly shaped by it. Canadian professional reformers spearheaded a
fundamental re-shaping of their common law structures of legal profes-
sionalism. Significant reforms were implemented with regard to qualifi-
cation, education and admission, professional ethics, the regulatory
powers of professional organisations and the assertion of a lawyers’
monopoly over ‘legal’ services.
Taken together they radically reworked existing structures of profes-
sionalism to the point where something new and distinctive had emerged.
QUALIFICATION, EDUCATION AND ADMISSION
The training, education and socialisation of aspiring lawyers was central

to the reform agenda. During the early twentieth century Canadian
lawyers moved decisively away from their English inheritance. In the
place of almost exclusive reliance upon apprenticeship they created ambi-
tious blueprints for a new sort of legal education. The new model was
explicitly cultural in content, university focussed, rigorous and taught in
novel ways. New law schools emerged in Winnipeg, Regina, Saskatoon,
Calgary, Edmonton, Victoria and Vancouver (later consolidated in
Winnipeg, Saskatoon, Edmonton and Vancouver). Most were affiliated
with the Provincial university. Moreover, there were significant develop-
ments in curriculum, staffing and programme delivery at the older law
schools in Fredericton, Halifax, Montreal (where McGill uncomfortably
straddled the common law and civil law worlds) and Toronto. Early
twentieth century reformers sought to raise the pre-law educational
requirements so that only University graduates would be admitted to
legal education (a goal attained only in late century).
The founders of twentieth century Canadian legal education sought
nothing less than to impose a uniform ‘cultural curriculum’. Their objec-
tive involved more than merely producing better legal technicians. By
restricting entry to the right persons and subjecting them to the right sort
of legal education, they sought to achieve an enduring transformation of
the law students’ inner essence. They expected a new class of graduate
24 This was, for example, briefly considered within the Law Society of Manitoba dur-
ing the 1920’s. A short period of formal division was ended in Ontario in 1854:
Christopher Moore, ‘Law Society of Upper Canada’, n 23 above, 109.
378 W Wesley Pue
lawyer to emerge: lawyers who were technically competent but also bet-
ter people, permanently converted to a deep inner understanding of the
virtues of British law. Inculcating the wisdom, judgement and the ethics
of gentlemen was the central goal. It was hoped that an army of gentle-
men lawyers would emerge, to be dispersed over Canada’s enormous and
varied territory, carrying the life-blood of British civilisation within
them. Lawyers were to become missionaries in service of a secularised
triune: law, Britishness, civilisation.25
LAW SOCIETIES
Reformers also sought to mutate existing provincial law societies into

active agents of a new professionalism. They wished to do so in part to
achieve particular instrumental goals. Symbolism was equally impor-
tant, however. Law societies which played an active role in the project of
professionalism would enjoy enhanced prestige and enlarge the dignity
of the profession as a whole. Lying below the field of vision of most late
twentieth century observers, such symbolic objectives were viewed as
considerable and distinct ‘goods’ in and of themselves. The dignity of the
profession and the prestige of its collective leadership were no small mat-
ters in an era when notions of honour, dignity and gentlemanliness still
carried considerable social freight.
In this respect the reform of law societies was nestled within a larger
vision of social ordering. Reformers wished to implant in Canadian soil
forms of social governance which were neither narrowly economic nor
exclusively ‘political’. Law societies, like Bar Associations, gentlemen’s
clubs and volunteer associations of all sorts were thought to occupy an
important space in civil society. They were to secure their niche in a realm
which was neither fully ‘public’ nor fully ‘private’, acting for the good of
public and state alike—but distinctly not as ‘State’ agents. A particular
understanding of constitutional governance informed professional
reform.26
This repositioning was most apparent with regard to revamped law
society roles respecting ethics policing, admissions and qualification, dis-
cipline and monopoly protection.
25 See: W Pue, ‘British Masculinities, Canadian Lawyers: Canadian legal education,

1900–1930’, in Misplaced Traditions: The Legal Profession and the British Empire,
Symposium Issue, (1999) 16(1) Law in Context, guest edited by Robert McQueen and
W Wesley Pue, 80–122, and sources cited therein.
26 The connections between professional organisation and constitutional structures of
governance in society at large are sketched out in Lucien Karpik and Terence Halliday,
‘Politics Matter’ in Halliday and Karpik (eds), Lawyers and the Rise of Western Political
Liberalism, n 14 above, 15–64.
Law Society Roles I: Ethics Policing

A radical re-making of approaches to policing the ‘ethics’ of practicing
lawyers took place, the most tangible marker being the development of
an ethics code. Undertaken at the initiative of the Canadian Bar
Association this appears in retrospect to have been a logical, perhaps a
necessary, development of modest proportions. In fact however the move
was highly controversial at the time. It marked a striking deviation from
British models of lawyers’ professionalism.27
The Canadian Bar Association’s cultural authority was powerfully felt
and most provincial law societies soon embraced the notion that a formal
promulgation of professional ethical standards was desirable. They in
their turn sought changes in their statutory powers so as to expand their
disciplinary reach into new territory. The content of Canada’s first code
of lawyerly ethics has provoked insightful scholarly commentary
focussed on its coverage, gaps and omissions28 but for present purposes
it is the novelty of this form of ‘ethical’ regulation rather than its partic-
ulars which most bears noting.
Law Society Roles II: Admission & Education

In and of themselves, the development of more formalised legal educa-
tion for some aspiring lawyers (mandatory formal education for all aspir-
ing lawyers came much later) and the promulgation of hortatory ethical
codes operate ‘only’ in the realm of culture. The matter was not left there
however. Further innovations gave force to the cultural aspirations of
élite lawyers.
One area related to the ‘gatekeeping’ function of law societies. Issues
surrounding the eligibility of women for admission to the legal profes-
sions of Canada came to a head in some jurisdictions. There were also
statutory changes relating to the enrollment of ‘foreign’, aboriginal, or
foreign qualified lawyers. Both types of initiative clearly involved
responses to centrally important questions regarding just what sort of
person from what sort of background could properly embody law in a
27
An earlier attempt to create a code had been turned back in Ontario and the CBA
initiative was strongly resisted by prominent Ontario judge William Renwick Riddell on
a number of grounds involving professional tradition and principle. See Pue, ‘Becoming
‘Ethical’: Lawyers’ Professional Ethics in Early Twentieth Century Canada’ (1991) 20
Manitoba Law Journal, 227–261 [also published in Dale Gibson & W Wesley Pue (eds),
Glimpses of Canadian Legal History (Legal Research Institute, University of Manitoba,
Fall 1991), 237–277.]
28
JW Hamilton, ‘Metaphors of Lawyers’ Professionalism’ (1995), 33 Alta L Rev
833–58.
380 W Wesley Pue
new British Dominion, a question not yet adequately explored in

Canadian historical writing.29
Other changes expanded the ambit of discretion exercisable by the
governing boards of law societies (‘Benchers’) in making decisions about
admissions and qualifications. In some cases statutory redefinitions of
law society powers were passed (sometimes retroactively) in order to
facilitate the creation of full-time professional law faculties.30
29 See however Mary Kinnear, In Subordination: Professional Women, 1870–1970
(McGill-Queen’s UP, Montreal, 1995); Joan Brockman, ‘ “Not By Favour But By Right”:
The History of Women and Visible Minorities in the Legal Profession of British
Columbia’, in John McLaren and Hamar Foster (eds), Essays in the History of Canadian
Law, Volume 6: The Legal History of British Columbia and the Yukon (University of
Toronto Press and The Osgoode Society, Toronto, 1995), 508–561; Carol A Aylward,
Canadian Critical Race Theory: Racism and the Law (Fernwood Publishing, Halifax,
1999), 44–45; Lois K Yorke, ‘Mabel Penery French (1881–1955): A Life Re-Created’
(1993) 42 University of New Brunswick Law Journal 3; Constance Backhouse, Petticoats
& Prejudice: Women and Law in Nineteenth Century Canada (Women’s Press, Toronto,
1991); Constance Backhouse, ‘To Open the Way for Others of My Sex: Clara Brett
Martin’s Career as Canada’s First Woman Lawyer’, (1985) 1 Canadian Journal of
Women and the Law, 1–41; Pue, Law School, n 23 above; Peter M Sibenik, ‘Doorkeepers:
Legal Education in the Territories and Alberta, 1885–1928’ (1990) Dal LJ, 419–464;
Alfred Watts, History of the Legal Profession in British Columbia, n 23 above; Dawna
Tong ‘A History of Exclusion: The Treatment of Racial and Ethnic Minorities by the
Law Society of British Columbia in Admissions to the Legal Profession’ The Advocate
(March 1998) 56(2), 197–208; Pue, ‘British Masculinities’, n 25 above, Margaret
Thornton’s, Dissonance and Distrust: Women in the Legal Profession (Oxford
University Press, Melbourne, 1996) is, in part, an outstanding study of the embodiment
of law in lawyers. The book is discussed by Ramshaw and Pue in ‘Feminism Unqualified:
(review essay) (1997) 15:1 Law in Context, 166–178.
Statutory changes included: Sask 1912–13 (Amendment to s 37 by adding new section
37a, allowing benchers in their discretion to make rules providing for the admission of
women to practise as barristers and solicitors); Man 1912, An Act to amend ‘The Law
Society Act’ (interpretation section, s 2 amended adding that ‘persons’ includes females
within the Act); eg, 1907 The Legal Profession Act; Alta. 1911–12, c4, s 29(2) (modest
changes to provisions for enrolment of British, colonial or foreign legal practitioners;
s 29(3) (change to the oath sworn and provisions for custody of roll of society); The Legal
Profession Act; Alta. 1911–12, c4, 29(2) (change in provisions for enrolment of British,
colonial or foreign legal practitioners); s 29(3) (change to the oath sworn and provisions
for custody of roll of society).
30 Eg, Man 1909 An Act to amend ‘The Law Society Act’, s 54(d) (the admittance of
attorneys not practicing in the province rendered subject to rules framed by the
Benchers); Man 1911, An Act to amend ‘The Law Society Act’ (increasing discretion of
Benchers regarding the admission of members and students-at-law in special cases); Man
1915, An Act to amend ‘The Law Society Act’, s 40 (powers of Benchers to make rules for
improvement of legal education amended by specifically including the establishment and
maintenance of a Law School, permitting regulations respecting attendance at classes or
instructions at law, and so on); Alta 1921, An Act to amend the Legal Profession Act,
(new provision—s 32 in 1922 amendments—35 providing for the admission of university
of Alberta Graduates having completed degree in law and served articles); Alta 1947, An
Act to Amend the Legal Profession Act, (adding s 62a permitting Benchers to make
Such changes were important both in themselves and for their sym-
bolic impact. The honour of the legal profession and hence its cultural
authority was thought to be much bound up with its discretionary
authority: the wider the discretion, the greater the honour and, hence,
the greater the cultural capital of the profession. A high point in this
movement (in one way of seeing things) was the judgment of Hunter CJ
in Re Hagel holding that there ‘is no right of admission’ to the Law
Society. Mr Justice Hunter explained that:
the discretion to call or to admit ought to be left exclusively to the Benchers . . .
it would not be in the public interest to permit any right of review. It must be evi-
dent that a judge is not in as good a position to pass on a matter of this kind as
the Benchers. . . . There is a latitude and discretion in such a matter inherent in
such a tribunal as the Benchers which is not available to a Court.
The ratio decidendi (reasons for decision) of the Hagel case could have
been narrowly expressed as limited to circumstances in which a fully qual-
ified lawyer who just happens to be a convicted bank robber seeks admis-
sion to the legal profession in another province after his release from
prison. Chief Justice Hunter however sought to establish the broadest pos-
sible scope of cultural authority for the benchers. In so doing he imagined
himself to be according the colonial law society a gentlemanly status and
a role equivalent to that of England’s ancient Inns of Court.31 Similar cul-
tural presuppositions also underlay the British Columbia courts’ decisions
in the late 1940s upholding the Law Society’s rejection of a communist
who, political conviction apart, was fully qualified. The patterns of deci-
sion-making in Martin v Law Society of B.C. have conventionally been
understood as manifesting a sort of hysteria-driven conspiracy of the legal
élite. That interpretive frame, rendered plausible by the subsequent
McCarthyite purges in the USA and by the fact that the judges
undoubtably shared the Benchers’ opinion that communism was a ‘perni-
cious creed’, obscures other aspects of the case. The Benchers’ genuine
commitment to an ideal of lawyering as a gentlemanly service and to
visions of professional governance which were thought to advance this
were shared with the judiciary. The assertion that ‘it is not for the Court
to substitute its view for that of the Benchers’ (expressed by Coady J at
the Supreme Court of British Columbia, and endorsed by the Court of
Appeal) simultaneously reflects a constitutional commitment of sorts
provision for enrolment of students from other universities than the University of Alberta
under certain conditions).
Some related developments are discussed in works such as Peter M Sibenik,
‘Doorkeepers’, n 29 above; Dale Gibson, and Lee Gibson, ‘Substantial Justice’, n 23
above, Alfred Watts, ‘Legal Profession in British Columbia’, n 23 above; Christopher
Moore, ‘Law Society of Upper Canada’, n 23 above.
31 Re Hagel, per Hunter CJ, 31 BCR, 75–77, at 77.
382 W Wesley Pue
within ‘administrative law’ and an understanding of the roles of Canadian

legal professions which would have been unintelligible before the reforms
spearheaded by the early Canadian Bar Association.32
Law Society Roles III: Discipline

The historical antecedents of the contemporary legal professions’ disci-
plinary powers over its members is easily misunderstood. Most post-
World War II observers tend to assume that such powers are somehow
inherent in the idea of legal professionalism (they are not). Hence it is
commonly assumed that such bodies have always (or practically always)
had full, unfettered, discretion to discipline lawyers by means of censure,
suspension or expulsion. It also seems logical, from our vantage point, to
assume that the power to expel a member necessarily has the conse-
quence that that person is thereafter prohibited from earning a living
from the practice of law. We take for granted the effective policing of a
monopoly on legal services.33 Such assumptions, each of them false, are
frequently reflected in hurriedly-produced professional apologetics
but also underlie some of the more reflective writing on professional
history.34
At least three further factors contribute to confusion. First, the waters
are muddied by a rather unreflective North American elision of the his-
tories of the barristers’ and solicitors’ professions.35 Secondly, confusion
arises when the historic roles of courts and of lawyers’ organisations are
misunderstood. The inherent right of superior courts to limit who can
appear before them and how those people (whether solicitors/attorneys
or advocates) may conduct themselves has long been recognised. It
should never be mistaken for the exercise of disciplinary powers by an
32
Re Legal Professions Act, Re Martin, Reasons of the Benchers for the Refusal of the
Application, 30 October, 1948 [1949] 1 DLR 105–114; Re Legal Professions Act, Re
Martin, [1949] 2 DLR, 559–567 (BCSC, Coady J); Martin v Law Society of British
Columbia [1950] 3 DLR 173–199.
33
Note however the recent case of Maurice Sychuk, disbarred by the Law Society of
Alberta for murdering his wife, and denied reinstatement at the conclusion of his sen-
tence. (The Law Society of Alberta, ‘Reasons for the Benchers’ decision re. Maurice
Sychuk’s Application for Reinstatement as a member of the Law Society of Alberta’
October 1999). The press reported that Mr Sychuk nonetheless earned a living from
working in Calgary in the field of ‘oil and gas’, an area within his established legal exper-
tise. cf F Edge, The Iron Rose—The Extraordinary Life of Charlotte Ross, MD
(University of Manitoba Press, Winnipeg, 1992), providing an account of a woman physi-
cian who was able to practise medicine despite being refused recognition by formal
regulatory bodies.
34 One among many misperceptions of the histories of legal professions found in pro-
fessional apologetics. See Pue, ‘Better Myth’, op. cit. n 4 above.

35
See Pue, ‘Better Myth’, n 4 above.
organised professional body. These are quite distinct matters.36 Finally,

and most confusingly, the organised legal professions’ long-standing
exercise of power to expel convicted criminals is all too easily mistaken
for a plenary disciplinary power. Though the former is of relatively
ancient vintage within the Anglo-Canadian tradition, the latter has only
been asserted in relatively recent times.37
Curiously, the writings of Mr Justice William Renwick Riddell have
added to the confusion. A prominent figure in the early twentieth century
legal profession, Riddell was both a Canadian legal historian and a stu-
dent of legal professionalism.38 His conclusion that Ontario’s Law
Society (the ‘Law Society of Upper Canada’) had enjoyed full disciplinary
powers over members of the Bar, attorneys, solicitors and articled clerks
since 1876 (or 1881)39 is easily misconstrued as having a more expansive
meaning than intended. It stands in apparent self-contradiction to his
forceful argument against the adoption of codes of professional ‘ethics’
by Canadian law societies. On that matter he argued vigorously that
[i]f it were proposed to make the Code a Penal Code violation of which would
render the offender liable to disbarment, legislation would be necessary, and
36 This aspect, which raises a question of professional discipline in the context of a

constitutional separation-of-powers is ably dealt with in James Willard Hurst, The
Growth of American Law: The Law Makers (Little Brown & Co, Boston, 1950) at
278–79. The relationship between courts and professional bodies in the USA is complex
and leads to some confusion between these quite different exercises of power. These mat-
ters are ably dealt with in William H Hurlburt, The Self-Regulation of the Legal
Profession in Canada and in England and Wales (Law Society of Alberta and Alberta
Law Reform Institute, Calgary and Edmonton, 2000).
37 Robert Baldwin’s fascinating report on the Law Society of Upper Canada’s disci-
plinary powers, prepared in relation to the case of James Doyle, who had been removed
from the Court of King’s Bench list of attorneys for misconduct, merits further scrutiny.
See Christopher Moore, n 23 above, 70. Note however that in this case the primacy of the
courts as the locus of discipline is taken entirely for granted.
38
See Law Society of Upper Canada Archives, The Riddell Collection in the Great
Library at Osgoode Hall, Text from an Exhibition prepared by the Law Society of Upper
Canada with financial support from the Law Foundation of Ontario (LSUC, 1992)
39
William Renwick Riddell, The Bar and Courts of the Province of Upper Canada or
Ontario (MacMillan, Toronto, 1928), 111–112. The legislative changes which Riddell
addresses are ably explained in Curtis Cole, ‘A Learned and Honorable Body’: The
Professionalization of the Ontario Bar, 1867–1929 (Faculty of Graduate Studies,
University of Western Ontario, London, Ontario, 1987), ch 5, ‘ “To Purge the profession
of those who bring disgrace upon their Brethern”: The Bar’s Assumption of Autonomous
Professional Self-Discipline.’
See also Christopher Moore, ‘Law Society of Upper Canada’, n 23 above, 149:
‘Discipline in the legal profession was also transformed. Though barristers had been dis-
barred for ungentlemanly behaviour as early as 1820, only in 1876 had the society’s dis-
ciplinary power been made explicit in the Law Society Act, and judges had continued to
assert a right to discipline the solicitors enrolled by their courts.’
384 W Wesley Pue
many considerations would arise . . . which to my mind would be fatal to the

proposition.40
The apparently glaring inconsistency is easily resolved when it is
recalled that when one wrote in 1926 of a law society having ‘full disci-
plinary powers’, this in no way implied a plenary and exclusive jurisdic-
tion over lawyers’ conduct of the sort we now take for granted. Though
the idea that law societies should be entirely sufficient and efficient in the
control of their members’ conduct was ‘in the air’ in the early twentieth
century, no such plans had yet come to fruition. Existing powers were
constrained by quasi-constitutional understandings regarding the auton-
omy of individual lawyers, by the jealousy of the courts in preserving
their traditional authority over the legal profession and by the terms of
legislation in various provinces.
The idea that the organised legal professions should be the sole locus
of disciplinary power over lawyers was in fact boldly innovative. So too
the related notion that powers of discipline and punishment should be
enforced in a field as nebulous as professional ‘ethics’.41 The hidden
hand of the Canadian Bar Association was felt as a series of statutory
changes which transformed Canadian legal professions. The direction
of movement was from rather loose gentlemanly guilds into something
closer to the modern disciplinary apparatus we now take for granted.
These changes gave clearer definition to Law Society powers over disci-
pline, regularised or streamlined procedures, increased the ambit of that
authority, and—over time—moved the supervisory jurisdiction of the
courts further and further into the background. But none of this was
part of any ancient English heritage. It was only in the first half of the
century that law societies were actively transformed into organisations
with public regulatory roles which far surpassed those of earlier guild
structures.42
40
William Renwick Riddell, ‘A Code of Legal Ethics,’ (1919) 4 Reports of the Can Bar
Assn, 136–149, at 139.
41 Riddell’s objections were cogent. See Pue, ‘Becoming “Ethical” ’, n 27 above, Peter
M Sibenik’s research has traced out developments in relation to professional discipline in

Alberta. See Sibenik, ‘ “The Black Sheep”: The Disciplining of Territorial and Alberta
Lawyers, 1885–1928’ (1988) 3 Canadian Journal of Law & Society/ Revue Canadienne
Droit et Société, 109–139.
42 This shift was reflected in a series of legislative changes to the framework of regu-
lation by law societies including: Man 1915, An Act to amend ‘The Law Society Act’;
Sask 1919–1920, An Act to Amend the Legal Profession Act; Alta 1921, An Act to amend
the Legal Profession Act; Sask 1923, An Act to Amend the Legal Profession Act; Alta
1924, An Act to amend the Legal Profession Act; Alta 1925, An Act to amend the Legal
Profession Act; Alta 1926, An Act to amend the Legal Profession Act; Man 1926 An Act
to amend ‘The Law Society Act’; Alta 1928, An Act to amend the Legal Profession Act;
Sask 1933, An Act to amend The Legal Profession Act; Sask 1936, An Act to Amend the
Legal Profession Act; Man 1943, An Act to amend The Law Society Act. Generally these
Importantly, as their powers increased, so too did their ‘dignity’. This

mattered immensely to a generation less obsessed than our own with the
efficacy of power and less exclusively focussed on narrowly, pragmatically
conceived instrumentalism.
Law Society Roles IV: Asserting Monopoly

The final element of early twentieth century transformations in
Canadian legal professions was the extension of a lawyers’ monopoly
beyond its traditional domain (rights of audience or agency before supe-
rior courts) and increased protection within the widening ‘competition-
free’ zone. The protected zone expanded consistently during the second
and third decade of the twentieth century. Saskatchewan, for example,
made it unlawful to act under false pretenses by holding oneself ‘out to
be a barrister and solicitor’ whether or not the individual did so in
appearing before the Court of Kings’ Bench (1923). Manitoba extended
lawyers’ monopoly, first prohibiting unqualified individuals from threat-
ening legal procedures or using documents simulating court forms (1932)
and then protecting lawyers’ monopolies over conveyancing (1933).
Similar provisions were enacted in Alberta in 1936. In neighbouring
Saskatchewan non-lawyers were prohibited from threatening legal pro-
ceedings on behalf of a creditor (1933). In that province the policing of
monopoly by means of annual certification was strengthened in 1936.
Manitoba again reinforced its unauthorised practice prohibitions in
1943.43
provisions extended the powers of the benchers to regulate the conduct of lawyers, lim-
iting the authority of the courts in these matters.
For accounts of law society disciplinary powers see Alfred Watts, n 23 above, ch 10,
‘Discipline’, 117–132; Lee Gibson, ‘A Brief History of the Law Society of Manitoba’, in
Cameron Harvey (ed), The Law Society of Manitoba, 1877–1977 (Peguis Publishers
Limited, Winnipeg, 1977), 28–51, at 50; Dale Gibson and Lee Gibson, Substantial Justice:
Law and Lawyers in Manitoba 1670–1970 (Peguis Publishers, Winnipeg, 1972), 128,
171–2, 240, 252, 257, 267, 305; Christopher Moore, The Law Society of Upper Canada
and Ontario’s Lawyers, 1797–1997 (University of Toronto Press, Toronto, 1997), 61, 70,
125–6, 149–51, 300–2, 323–4, 326–9; Peter Sibenik, ‘ “The Black Sheep”: The
Disciplining of Territorial and Alberta Lawyers, 1885–1928’, (1988) 3 Canadian Journal
of Law and Society/Revue Canadienne de droit et société, 109–139, especially, ‘The
Locus of Disciplinary Power’, 113–120; Curtis Cole, ‘A Learned and Honorable Body’:
The Professionalization of the Ontario Bar, 1867–1929 (Unpublished PhD thesis,
University of Western Ontario, 1987), ch 5, ‘ “To Purge the profession of those who bring
disgrace upon their Brethern”: The Bar’s Assumption of Autonomous Professional Self-
Discipline’ (pointing out that the courts’ exercise of disciplinary jurisdiction concurrent
with that of the Law Society in Ontario continued well into the twentieth century).
43 Sask 1923, An Act to Amend the Legal Profession Act, s 37 (1); 1932 An Act to
amend The Law Society Act, s 53; Man 1933 An Act to amend The Law Society Act, s 53
(The Manitoba Act to amend The Law Society Act, 1937, added s 53A, specified that the
prohibition extended to corporations as well as to natural persons. Fines were imposed
386 W Wesley Pue
Beneath the surface of legislative change, law societies invested con-

siderable effort in enforcing prohibitions on ‘unauthorized practice’.44
Future research will, in all likelihood, reveal that this hidden terrain was
where ‘the action’ was.
RE-MAKING THE LEGAL PROFESSION: SUMMARY
All told then, the contours of professionalism shifted significantly, even if

we restrict our gaze to the most formal level. Less visible transformations
were advanced by means of the delegated rule-making authority and less
formal policies of law societies and, in part, through the creative interac-
tion of all aspects of lawyering with wider social, cultural and intellectual
contexts.45
The more important questions, perhaps, are why these changes? Why
in this place? Why at this time? We are taken part way to an answer by
on unauthorised individuals preparing instruments for conveyancing of real and personal

property); Alta 1936, An Act to Amend the Legal Profession Act, s 59 amended by adding
59a, imposing penalties for preparation of instruments (for reward) in relation to any real
or personal estate or incorporation of joint stock proceedings; Sask 1933, An Act to
amend The Legal Profession Act. (amending s 64 of the Legal Profession Act. Sask 1936,
An Act to Amend the Legal Profession Act, enacting ‘No person except those enrolled as
barristers and solicitors of Saskatchewan and holding subsisting annual certificates
issued to them pursuant to the rules and bylaws of the society shall practise at the bar of
any court of civil or criminal jurisdiction in Saskatchewan. . .’ and making it an offence
for anyone without a subsisting annual certificate to willfully pretend to be qualified to
act as a barrister or solicitor; Man 1943, An Act to amend The Law Society Act, ss 53 and
54 repealed and replaced by a new, wider, s 53, expressly including the drawing of wills
within the lawyers’ monopoly, prohibiting simulating court procedures, prohibiting
employment of disbarred persons. The new legislation allowed for injunctions to be
obtained against unauthorised persons. Statutory exceptions to the ambit of unautho-
rised practice prohibitions protected public officers, notaries and persons acting for
themselves.
On similar developments in British Columbia during this time period see Alfred Watts,
History of the Legal Profession in British Columbia, 1869–1984 (Law Society of British
Columbia, Vancouver, 1984), 119–120.
44
This is revealed in the records of the Manitoba Law Society. See also Watts, n 23
above, 120; Peter Sibenik, The Doorkeepers: The Governance of Territorial and Alberta
Lawyers, 1885–1928 (MA Thesis, U of Calgary, 1984), ‘The Protective Impulse’,
170–180.
45
The full cultural import of legal education, for example, cannot be discerned from
statutory histories alone but needs to be understood in relation to universities, curricu-
lum and wider cultural contexts. See Pue, ‘British masculinities’, n 25 above, and sources
cited therein.
Further evidence of the sorts of changes which might be involved at this ‘hidden’ level
are documented in PJ Giffen, (1961) ‘Social control and professional self-government: a
study of the legal profession in Canada,’ in SD Clark, Urbanism and the Changing
Canadian Society (University of Toronto Press, Toronto) 117–134.
noting that this professional renewal was carefully planned in advance.

Structural innovation, even in relatively narrow fields takes time, labour,
energy. These are not tasks to be under-taken lightly, even where strong
leaders find developed blue-prints of change readily available for appro-
priation. Nor is it ‘rational’ for individuals to undertake such projects—
at least if rational behaviour is understood in terms of narrow
self-interest. The time and energy demands are far in excess of any con-
ceivable benefit individuals might derive from successful completion of
such tasks. If we are to appreciate why leading lawyers invested so heav-
ily in reforming their profession it is necessary to look outward to their
beliefs and to their larger social contexts. The founders of Canada’s mod-
ern legal professions did not undertake these tasks for personal profit nor
in order to advance guild interest as an end in itself. They believed that
developing a certain kind of lawyers’ hegemony was essential to the
preservation of constitutional monarchy, liberal governance and
Britishness. It is their deep and public-spirited commitment to these
ideals which explains their actions. Professionalisation was part of larger
projects aimed at securing a safe future for all they held dear. Their
parochial work in transforming their own profession was part of their
contributions to a much larger cultural revolution.
The context from which these changes emerged is well behind us, the
culture of moral reform which spawned them invites ridicule.
Nonetheless, their professional structures endure. This is so even though
subsequent social changes have very nearly inverted the cultural ethos
which originally gave them meaning. Subsequent processes have indeed
transformed professionalism but have done so within inherited frames
which sit oddly out of time at the turn of a new century.
CANADA, AN ‘AMERICAN’ NATION
Canada is an ‘American’ nation46 and despite the then widespread

affection for the British Empire it is arguable that the dominant cultural
influence on Canadian lawyers in this period came from the United States
of America. By the early twentieth century a ready-made template of
professionalisation had been developed there, drawing upon conceptions
of social ordering which resonated with contemporary concerns. North
American social thought conceived of professionalism as the only accept-
able bulwark capable of protecting ordered society from descent into
‘lawlessness and anarchy’.47 Never fully implemented in the United
46 Allan Smith, Canada—An American Nation? Essays on Continentalism, Identity,
and the Canadian Frame of Mind (McGill-Queen’s UP, Montreal, 1994)
47 Julius Henry Cohen, The Law:—Business or Profession?, ch VII ‘The American
Lawyer (Continued)’ (Banks Law Publishing Co, New York, 1916) 109.
388 W Wesley Pue
States, a neatly packaged ideology of legal professionalism was available

there. It came in a form which simultaneously advanced the cause of
professional reform and deflected criticism, hostility, and ‘anti-lawyer
sentiment.’
On both sides of the border an intensely moral professionalism devel-
oped, designed to advance the rule of the ‘righteous’ and the rule of law
rather than the government of either the masses or of those who were
merely knowledgeable. Lawyers commonly thought of their profession in
such terms. British Columbia’s Justice O’Halloran, for example, gave
voice to such a view:
Moreover, the law student’s training is not manual training, but is training of
the mind, not only in law, but if he wishes to be something more than a mere legal
mechanic, he must study logic, history, in particular constitutional history, polit-
ical science and economics, a certain amount of philosophy and acquire a rea-
sonable familiarity with English literature, and know something at least of the
literature of other countries. The job of a lawyer is basically to advise people
upon all manner of things arising out of the complexities of life and the frailties
of human nature. As such he cannot fail in time to acquire an influence upon
others, impossible to reduce to purely material terms. It is not too much to say
that the training and experience a lawyer undergoes fits him for leadership to a
greater or less degree. Obviously such men should not be partial to political
philosophies and movements that conflict with the interests of their own country.
By reason of these things, all countries throughout the ages have given the
lawyer a correspondingly high place in society—particularly so in the case of the
lawyer who pleads in the higher Courts. The object of law training is to attract
young men of high character, and to train them in a manner that they will be
trustworthy, honourable and competent in the performance of their legal duties,
and will use such influence as they have to maintain and improve but not destroy
our Canadian constitutional democracy. They are to be the defenders and not the
destroyers of liberty. They are expected to be sufficiently well-informed and
experienced to distinguish between liberty and licence.48
It mattered deeply in other words that lawyers be gentlemen, right-
thinking, and politically safe. Such understandings provided a pervasive
common language which gave direction to developing legal professional-
ism and rendered the projects of professional elites palatable—even
attractive—to a wider public.
In developing a ‘moral’ vision of professionalism Canadians looked
south for inspiration rather than ‘home’ to Britain. They did so for sev-
eral reasons. Proximity as well as ease and density of social contact
account for much. So too does social fit. The United States, like Canada,
had suffered the disruptions associated with immigration, internal
colonisation, and the industrialisation of an immense federation. It also
48
Martin v Law Society of British Columbia [1950] 3 DLR 173–199, at 189, per
O’Halloran, JA.
was avowedly democratic, heterogeneous in ethnicity, language, and reli-

gion, regionally diverse, and heavily marked by a migrating frontier of
European settlement. The USA experienced continuous change and was
racked with uncertainty, at times overwhelmed by the sense of ‘the irra-
tionality of life’.49 By the turn of the century it had become a ‘distended’
society marked by business and political disorganisation, a widening
‘cultural gap between city and countryside’, ‘[i]rresponsibility’ and ‘eth-
ical evasions.’ ‘Respectable’ citizens feared that ‘the true and simple
America [was] in jeopardy from foes of extraordinary, raw strength—
huge, devouring monopolies, swarms of sexually potent immigrants, and
the like’.50
Seeking ordered freedom, ‘science’ stepped in to fill the governmental
void left by the overthrow of traditional sources of authority.51 A novel
political and cultural project emerged, a ‘culture of professionalism’ in
which lay persons were required to trust the integrity and omnicompe-
tence of an emergent educated class: ‘Science as a source for professional
authority transcended the favoritism of politics, the corruption of per-
sonality, and the exclusiveness of partisanship’.52
The political corollary of all this was the rise of progressivism in its
various mutations, the development of the bureaucratic state, ‘reform’,
an abandonment of party loyalties, and a search for mechanisms whereby
authority in discrete areas of social life might be entrusted to ‘experts’ for
the good of all.53 Reformers of many stripes looked forward hopefully to
a world made better by rational planning, education, proper procedures,
regularity, and the creation of means by which to infuse ‘ethics’ into the
interstices of everyday life.54 Religion transmuted into ‘social gospel’ and
the notion that ethical life could be segmented was eroded. Regulation
seemed desirable to generations who perceived change as fundamental,
inevitable and rapid but who had not yet forgotten the moral claims of a
‘public sphere’.55
49 Burton Bledstein, Culture of Professionalism: the middle class and the development
of higher education in America, 322 (discussing the 1860s and 1870s).
50 Robert H Wiebe, The Search for Order, 1877–1920 (Hill and Wang, New York,
1967) 19, 28, 14, 39, 52.

51 Bledstein, n 49 above, 326.
52 Bledstein, n 49 above, 90. Cf Robert Wiebe, n 50 above, 161. ‘Science’ did not nec-
essarily stand in opposition to religion in this period. For many God, science and cultural
tradition for a time lived in mutually constitutive relations. See, for example, Ramsay
Cook, ‘Regenerators,’ n 7 above.
53 The development of standardised testing was part of this process. A splendid
account is found in Nicholas Lemann, The Big Test: The Secret History of the American
Meritocracy (Straus & Giroux, LLC, Farrar, 1999).
54 Robert Wiebe, n 49 above, 153–157, 164–169, 222.
55 Julius Cohen, n 47 above, ch VII ‘The American Lawyer (Continued)’ p 107:
‘Within two decades we have been whisked about and hurdled over Interstate Commerce
Commissions, Public Service Commissions, Minimum Wage Laws, Industrial Boards,
390 W Wesley Pue
In this era lawyers presented themselves as specialists in law but also as

guardians of cultural knowledges, in effect, ‘universal experts’.56
‘Professional’ principles held forth the promise of containing social dis-
content and maintaining order.57 One formulation had it that
if the down-pull of government by plebiscite is to be arrested, if the vortex move-
ment of democracy is to be counter-balanced, it will be accomplished mainly by
the grace of the professional spirit.58
Curious admixtures of conservatism, reverence for property, social elit-
ism, community spiritedness, laissez-faire, ‘service’ and ‘duty’ resulted.
OBVIOUS UNSUITABILITY OF OTHER MODELS
Whatever the emotional tugs on colonial heartstrings, it was clear to all

that English models of legal professionalism could not practicably be
sustained in North America.
The ‘fit’ was difficult enough in Ontario and Atlantic Canada, impos-
sible in Quebec and the west. Key elements of English legal professional-
ism could not be transplanted. A strong egalitarian ethos combined with
the small numbers of lawyers in the west to make a rigid demarcation of
solicitors from barristers impracticable—in sharp contradistinction to
the experience of some other British ‘Dominions’ and colonies.59 The
legal professions in the western provinces were of recent origin, created
by statute, and far removed in origin, structure and governance from the
English Inns of Court. Features central to the English barristers’ profes-
sion were palpably absurd in the newest part of the New World at the
dawn of ‘Canada’s Century’. Governance by a self perpetuating oli-
garchy, qualification on the basis of meals eaten, expected (but largely
unenforced) conformity to imprecise principles of ‘etiquette’ and regula-
Workmen’s Compensation Acts, Income Taxes, Inheritance Taxes. . . . Truth is, the con-
servatives have turned progressives, the progressives have turned socialists, and the
socialists are looking about for new wearing apparel.’
56
For development of this notion see Peter L Berger and Thomas Luckmann, The
Social Construction of Reality (Doubleday, Garden City, NY, 1967), 117. Berger &
Luckmann’s insight is deployed to good effect in relation to the USA legal profession in
James C. Foster, n 21 above, at 12.
57
For example, ‘Ontario Bar Association. Address of Mr Henry R Rathbone, of
Chicago, Delivered at the Last Annual Meeting’, 55 Can LJ, 1919, 168–175.
58
Robert N Wilkin, The Spirit of the Legal Profession (Oxford University Press, Yale
University Press, 1938), 160.
59
Contrast, for example, the state of Victoria in Australia: Rob McQueen, ‘Together
We Fall, Divided We Stand: the Victorian Legal Profession in Crisis 1890–1940’, in this
volume; JRS Forbes, The Divided Legal Profession in Australia: History, Rationalisation
and Rationale (The Law Book Co, Sydney, 1979)
tion by itinerant dining clubs, to pick only the most obvious examples,
could not be transplanted into a new place.
Ontario’s Law Society or its’ younger cousin, the Law Society of
England and Wales, provided models more suited to transplantation.
USA models proved more compelling however. A significant trans-
boundary intercourse took place amongst professional leaders.60
The evolving culture wove six strands of a new professionalism
together. Not surprisingly, these bear striking resemblance to innovations
actually implemented in common law Canada during the early twentieth
century. The new model was founded on a confidence in professional
meritocracy which in turn was to be constructed from stringent admis-
sion standards, formal education, examined expertise and practical
experience. It relied on an ongoing cleansing of the bar by means of the
enforcement of ethical standards by professional governing bodies oper-
ating independently of state control. Minimum fee schedules and the
creation of a secure monopoly over the right to provide legal services
were seen as providing a necessary quid pro quo for such constraints on
ordinary market principles and, of course, the suppression of all and any
‘unlicensed competitors’ was necessary if the new structures were to be
effective.
First taking shape as a coherent, deliberate and workable ‘project’ in
the early twentieth century USA, this web of professionalism had come
to constitute a professional ‘common sense’ by the time the Canadian
Bar Association began to assert itself.61 The individual components,
moreover, were understood as constituting a unitary structure, a ‘whole
cloth’ of inseparable strands. A compelling logic bound the whole
together. It was thought, for example, that individuals would not be will-
ing to pursue an extensive professional education unless certain privi-
leges (eg the dignity attached to self governance) and financial benefits
(mandatory fee schedules and protected monopoly) could be guaranteed.
This in turn required statutory prohibition on unlicensed practice and
the enforcement of codes of ‘ethics’. Otherwise, the privileges could not
be justified, the benefits could not flow.62 Because only practising lawyers
60
Reports of proceedings for both the ‘American Bar Association’ and the ‘Canadian
Bar Association’ during the early decades of the Century reveal patterns of elite interac-
tion which have yet to be properly assessed. For one example see Sir James Aikins,
‘Inaugural Address of the President. Sir James Aikins, KC, Knt, Lieutenant-Governor of
Manitoba’, 54 Can LJ, 1918, 344–357, 348 (discussing the immense US influence on
Canada). Cf ‘ “Our Arctic Brethren: Canadian Law and Lawyers as Portrayed in
American Legal Periodicals, 1829–1911’ in Jim Phillips and G Blaine Baker (eds), Essays
in Canadian Law, Vol. VIII: In Honour of Richard Risk (Osgoode Society, Toronto,
1999) 241–280.
61 This is broadly the agenda set forth by Julius Henry Cohen, n 47 above.
62 See, for example, Julius Henry Cohen, n 47 above, ch XIV, ‘ “It Pays to Advertise.”
Does It?’ 173–200.

392 W Wesley Pue
could appreciate both the constitutional principles on which legality was

based and the concrete problems which arose in day to day legal work,
their own professional bodies, independent of state and lay interference
alike, needed to be given charge of ethical and professional matters.63
Idealised ‘traditions’ of the professional guild (emphasising service
orientation and anti-commercialism) were melded with the new ideology
of regulation, bureaucratic regularity, ‘scientific’ credentialling, and eth-
ical policing to produce a distinctly twentieth century, uniquely North
American, version of professionalism.64 Julius Cohen’s remarkable book,
The Law:—Business or Profession?, for example, is replete with self-
conscious references to the ways in which a new ‘evolution of a new pub-
lic opinion’,65 a ‘new philosophy which is to be American democracy’s
great gift to the world’,66 mandated professional reforms. It called for
nothing less than an entire new formulation of professionalism, empha-
sising ‘duty’, ‘service rather than profit,’ rigorous educational standards,
professional conscience, and enforcement of ethical codes so as to ‘purge’
the dishonourable from the profession.67 Of necessity, ‘unauthorized
practice’ would have to be prohibited and effectively punished.68
Canada’s reform-minded lawyers too articulated a vision of profes-
sionalism as an immutable whole. This involved careful attention to
defining the limits of acceptable society with an almost obsessive cultural
emphasis on structured knowledge, rational education and the virtues of
63
According to Julius Henry Cohen, n 47 above, xvi, Dr Felix Adler in 1908 ‘pre-
sented to the public his conviction that the further solution of problems of ethics, in
industry, in business, and in the professions, must come from the definite assistance of
men who live with these problems; that it is not enough for our day and generation to
have a general philosophy of ethics, but that there must be daily application of the
philosopy to the fact, and that this can be best done by the experts in the line.’
64
An English version of ‘professional society’ arose at a similar time period. See:
Harold Perkin, The Rise of Professional Society: England since 1880 (Routledge,
London, 1989). In its English manifestation however ‘professionalism’ never attained the
fully ‘modern’ character of its North American mutation. See, for example, Richard
Abel, The Legal Profession in England and Wales, n 12 above.
65 Julius Henry Cohen, n 47 above, 144. Cohen observes that ‘Unless we grasp the
meaning of these changes in American thought, we shall pass by an understanding of the

momentous changes taking place in the practice of the law.’ (143)
66
Julius Henry Cohen, n 47 above, 146.
67 Cohen, op cit, 158, 159, 127, 143–144, 155, 151.
68
See Cohen, ch XIV, ‘ “It Pays to Advertise.” Does It?’, 173–200; Chapter XX, ‘The
Missouri Idea of Suppressing the Unlawful Practice of Law’ (277–285). Ideas of this sort
were commonplace.
See also ‘Unauthorised Practice of Law’ 55 Can LJ, 1919, 375–376, reproducing an arti-
cle from Law Notes (Northfield, USA). The article establishes linkages between ques-
tions relating to lawyers qualifications, ethical regulation, competition, bar organisation,
and the need to suppress competitors. Typical of the period, it amounts to a complete
project of professionalisation similar to that advanced in Cohen’s work and implemented
in Canada through the influence of the Canadian Bar Association.
science.69 Finally, they shared the widespread notion that professional-

ism provided a magic key capable of maintaining authority in a society
rent by centrifugal forces.
The most articulate advocate of American-style professionalism in the
period was the intensely proud British Canadian Lawyer, Sir James
Aikins. Variously a leading lawyer, Royal Commissioner, Manitoba
Governor-General, and founding President of the Canadian Bar
Association, Aikins worked hard in the cause of professional reform. His
address on the topic of ‘The Legal Profession in Relation to Ethics,
Education and Emolument,’ delivered at the Canadian Bar Association
meeting in Winnipeg in August 1919 makes clear the extent to which
reforms of legal professionalism were implemented as part of an inte-
grated plan. Like Cohen, his remarks point to the absolute imbrication
of the political, economic, cultural and ‘professional’ spheres.70
Asserting that the lawyer’s first duty is to the State, Aikins developed
arguments against open admissions and in favour of both more rigorous
educational requirements and more active ‘moral’ policing:
It is a false notion of democracy that the right to practice law should be free for
all, that anyone can practice it, and without serious loss to the public, operate or
help to operate the expensive and intricate machinery of justice which the State
creates for its safety and well-being. The administration of justice has always
touched the nadir of its decline when the profession has been lowest in morals and
least educated. In such times there is seen a tendency on the part of practitioners
to regard the work of the Bar as a trade and not a profession, a thing to be
bartered and not a national service to be sought after; then also is found the pet-
tifogger, the ambulance chaser, the fabricator of evidence and the trickster, and
the man who is alien to the professional spirit and its traditions, destitute of gen-
tlemanly instincts, disrespectful to his seniors, and a slanderer of Judges.71
In tone and in content this echoes contemporary professional apologet-
ics in the United States of America.72 The Queen’s Representative was
remarkably ‘American’ in his professionalising role.
69
See David Laycock, Populism and Democratic Thought in The Canadian Prairies,
1910 to 1945 (University of Toronto Press, Toronto, 1990). On Canadian legal education
see: Pue, ‘British Masculinities’, n 25 above; ‘ “The disquisitions of learned Judges”:
Making Manitoba Lawyers, 1885–1931’, in Jim Phillips and G Blaine Baker (eds), Essays
in the History of Canadian Law: In Honour of RCB Risk (Osgoode Society, Toronto,
1999), 825–914; ‘Common Law Legal Education in Canada’s Age of Light, Soap and
Water’ in Canada’s Legal Inheritances, Symposium Issue, edited by W Wesley Pue and
D Guth, (1995) 23 Manitoba Law Journal, 654–688.
70 Sir James Aikins, ‘The Legal Profession in Relation to Ethics, Education and
Emolument’ 55 Can LJ, 1919, 335–338.

71 Sir James Aikins, ‘The Legal Profession in Relation to Ethics, Education and
Emolument’ 55 Can LJ, 1919, 335–338, at 335, emphasis added.

72 Cf, for example, Julius Henry Cohen’s extended comparative ‘history’ of pro-
fessional admission standards and the cause of ‘justice’ in Cohen, op. cit.
394 W Wesley Pue
One central feature of this new vision was the articulation of a code of
professional conduct coupled with a new determination on the part of
professional governing bodies to actively seek out and expunge ‘undesir-
able’ practitioners. This was thought necessary for professional cohe-
sion, utility and security. As Aikins said on another occasion,
[i]f the legal profession refuses to ruthlessly rid itself of its barnacles and fungus,
how can the public be expected to extend to the profession, as a profession, the
high honor, the dignity and revenue which that profession rightly deserves.73
This project of defining the good practitioner turned toward explicit class
bias or nativism and wartime prohibitions on the admission of members
of non-charter ethnic groups reflected a deep-seated fear of ‘foreigners’.74
Proceeding to develop the case in favour of a more thorough education
of aspiring lawyers, Aikins acknowledged that this would require ‘ade-
quate rewards for meritorious services’ and, hence, ‘Standard Solicitor’s
Tariffs’.75 Even this was presented as being for the benefit of society in
that it would ‘create a higher type of barrister and advocate, well skilled
in the law, gentlemanly in conduct, kindly disposed to his fellow practi-
tioners and of a public spirit’.76 This was to be reinforced by ‘the frequent
meetings of the members of each of the Provincial Bars.’ These, ‘official
law and Bar societies’ were, he said, invaluable ‘bulwarks protecting the
people against incompetent and unscrupulous men posing as lawyers,
and thus guarding the honour of the profession’.77
Similarly, and for much the same reasons, it was necessary to clearly
demarcate lawyers from ‘unauthorised practitioners.’ These latter would
not have the same education as lawyers, would not be subject to the same
ethical codes, and therefore could not be trusted to provide competent
service to their clientele. Aikins warned that those ‘without suitable qual-
ifications would batter on a too credulous and unsuspecting public,’ and
called upon the Benchers of the various law societies to adopt ‘the best
methods and best ways possible’ to ‘fulfil the statutory and traditional
73
13 December 1927, Vancouver Sun, ‘Vancouver Benchers,’ (reporting on Sir JAM
Aikins’ view of the general reputation of the legal profession.)
74 See, for example, ‘Inaugural Address of the President. Sir James Aikins, KC, Knt,
Lieutenant-Governor of Manitoba’, 54 Can LJ, 1918, 344–357, arguing that the experi-
ence of 1914–1918 demonstrated the desirability of careful immigration controls—‘Even
before the war that error was made manifest in industrial dissensions, in the ignorant,
too often corrupt, use of the franchise and failure to understand the privileges and
responsibilities of our free institutions . . . Detached by distance from their own people
they generally are all for self and none for the adopted nation’ (354–5). Aikins indicates
however that US, UK, French immigrants are not the subject of concern.
75 Ibid, 336.
76 Ibid, 338.
77 Ibid, 338.
obligations cast upon them and protect the profession from encroach-
ment upon its sphere’.78
There was a symmetry and mesh of components here, a vision of
professionalism cut of whole cloth.
KEYSTONE OF SOCIAL COHESION
The rhetoric of service infused professional discourse during and after

the Great War.79 Lawyers were said to be qualified by training, experience
and commitment to service, as ‘natural leaders of the people in public
affairs’.80 As such they could provide an anti-dote to various undesirable
ideologies which were then in circulation:
A special duty rests upon our profession both on the Bench and at the Bar, for
we are the agents and ministers of the law. . . . Through a general neglect of that
service in our country of popular suffrage our people are in imminent danger of
the despotism not so much of individuals as of classes, organized on the principle
of every one for himself. . . .81
The whole package of legal professionalism was conceived as a bulwark
against social unrest, despotism and class warfare.82 It was hoped that
greater unity of the profession would lead to the much needed and greater unity
in the thought and action among the peoples of Canada and to like mindedness
and singleness of heart and soul in the interest of our country.83
Thus, it was cultural revolution first and foremost that Canadian
lawyers sought. The goal was to avert political disaster. More than any-
thing else, the craving for national integration on such terms spurred
lawyers toward modern ‘professionalisation’. Seeking to avert radical
social change, they discovered their profession.
78
28 August 1928, ‘Aikins is Again Head of Governing Body,’ Western Canadian
Legal History Archives (University of Manitoba), Clipping File 1928–1933, 2, (Summary
2nd Annual conference on Benchers). In the result, a Committee on Encroachments rec-
ommended investigating the areas in which the public should look to lawyers for service.
‘Archive of Manitoba Legal-Judicial History’ within the Provincial Archives of
Manitoba.
79 Eg ‘Inaugural Address of the President. Sir James Aikins, KC, Knt, Lieutenant-
Governor of Manitoba’, 54 Can LJ, 1918, 344–357.

80 ‘Canadian Bar Association. Proceedings at Fifth Annual Meeting, The President’s
Address’ 56 Can LJ, 1920, 308–325, at 308.

81 ‘Canadian Bar Association. Proceedings at Fifth Annual Meeting, The President’s
Address’ 56 Can LJ, 1920, 308–325, 309.

82
A somewhat similar point is made with reference to USA developments by James C
Foster, who argues that the ‘bar association’ movement was a deliberately ‘ideological’
response to the crises of USA capitalism. See: Foster, n 6 above.
83
‘Canadian Bar Association. Proceedings at Fifth Annual Meeting, The President’s
Address’ 56 Can LJ, 1920, 308–325, 308–309.
396 W Wesley Pue
CONCLUSIONS
This vision of professionalism resonated at many levels with popular

conceptions of appropriate social organisation. Ironically, it was imbri-
cated with the very modernity which, in other manifestations, its propo-
nents resisted. This period, this time and the peculiar circumstances
relating to the opening of Canada’s western empire provided the habitat
from which emerged the form of professionalism which Canadian
lawyers now take for granted. The vision of social life which it incorpo-
rates however has little currency in our time or among contemporary
lawyers.
The conclusions to be drawn from this can be traced along two axes.
The first is in relation to theories of professionalism, the second in
relation to wider issues in cultural history.
i) Theories of professionalisation
The theories of professionalisation which have enjoyed currency during
the past 50 years have fallen into functionalist or ‘rational choice’ camps
(the latter manifesting itself in both ‘market control’ and ‘work jurisdic-
tions’ variants). Two of the pre-eminent theorists of legal professional-
ism, Terence Halliday and Lucien Karpik, have described these
approaches as focussing on (i) the achievement of ‘a service relationship’,
(ii) ‘the monopolistic strategy of extracting market rent and thus social
privilege’, and ‘the deployment of knowledge for the creation and
defence of work jurisdictions as a way to define boundaries between work
domains’. Each approach is inadequate, they assert, on account of what
each of them overlooks: ‘politics’.84
Certainly, the history of lawyers’ professionalisation in Canada pro-
vides strong support for the critique of both functionalist approaches
premised on ‘client-service’ and narrowly economic interpretations of
professionalism.85 The ‘market control paradigm’ and its cousins, even
when qualified and re-worked to the highest level of sophistication, can-
not adequately account for the very obvious non-market motivations of
legal professionals who struggled to create their profession.86 Nor can it
84 Halliday and Karpik, n 14 above,15.
85 Cf Stuart A Scheingold, ‘Taking Weber Seriously: Lawyers, Politics, and the Liberal
State’ (1999) 24(4) Law and Social Inquiry, 1061–81; Michael Burrage, ‘Escaping the
Dead Hand of Rational Choice: Karpik’s Historical Sociology of French Advocates’
(1999) 24(4) Law and Social Inquiry, 1083–124.
86 Hurlburt, n 36 above, lends some support to what he calls the ‘honour’ model of
legal professionalism as developed by Michael Burrage, ‘From a gentleman’s to a public

profession: status and politics in the history of English solicitors’ (1996) 3 International
Journal of the Legal Profession, 45.
account for the very important non-market effects of legal professional-

ism. Much more is at stake than who gets what portion of the economic
pie. To the extent that Canada’s legal professionals re-created their
profession in an attempt to stave off political and social change, to warp
discourses of politics and civic life by confining them in ‘acceptable’
channels, their project can seem to carry an almost conspiratorial and
anti-democratic import of far greater significance than ‘market control’
ordinarily implies.87
Canadian lawyers clearly had political objectives of sorts in mind as
they went about the work outlined above. Because of this their story
might be taken as buttressing an emerging interpretive frame which pos-
tulates a necessary and causal relationship between lawyering and the
rise of western political liberalism.88 There can be little doubt that ‘the
politics of lawyers directly engage one of the great ideological and insti-
tutional movements of the past several centuries—the construction of
political liberalism’.89 Equally, there can be little doubt that the lawyers
who created the twentieth century Canadian common law legal profes-
sions were ‘liberals’ in the broad sense. They were committed to private
property (within limits), individual freedom (within limits), laissez-faire
(within limits), a moderate state, civil society and a rights-based form of
citizenship which encompassed both British constitutionalism and the
rule of law. By the same token however these lawyers do not appear in
quite so heroic and unambiguous a guise as those who struggled to cre-
ate political liberalism in more authoritarian places.90 Their story points
to an unseemly under-side to liberalism which is not always immediately
apparent. Not all lawyers have played key roles in the overthrow or con-
tainment of absolutist regimes and it is dangerous to build theory on a
few well documented case studies which may turn out to be abberational.
Political theorists have properly emphasised that the success of liberal
governance rests on the preadaptation of subjects to self-governance. It is
87 Cf James C Foster, n 21 above, 47: ‘But the political importance of lawyers’ trade
association involves considerably more than restricting competition. . . . The American
bar’s prerogatives are not simply occupational. . . . By insisting we see through all that
lawyers professed, to the ‘proprietary’ motives behind their words, Auerbach directs our
attention away from the very real imperative that both conservative and progressive
lawyers perceived to shore up the hegemony of the liberal-capitalist steering principles
underlying their power. What elite lawyers said is as significant as what they did.’
88 Lucien Karpik and Terence Halliday, ‘Politics Matter: a Comparative Theory of
Lawyer in the Making of Political Liberalism’ in Halliday and Karpik (eds) n 14 above.
Stuart A Scheingold, ‘Taking Weber Seriously’, n 85 above.
89 Terence C Halliday, ‘The Politics of Lawyers: An Emerging Agenda’ (1999) 24:4
Law and Social Inquiry, 1007–1011, at 1010.

90 See various of the contributions to Lucien Karpik and Terence Halliday (eds),
‘Lawyers and the Rise of Western Political Liberalism’, n 14 above.

398 W Wesley Pue
dependent, at least in the context of large ‘nation states’, on mechanisms

of social control which contain difference, Barron’s point in the quota-
tion which heads this essay.91 Where long-standing tradition or custom
does not ‘naturally’ contain difference substitutes must be found.
Cultural projects operating through temperance societies, welfare, state,
education, policing and professions are the result. Legal professionalism,
like moral regulation movements, can be a manifestation of ‘an anxiety
of freedom that haunts modern liberal forms of rule’ where there ‘is no
‘natural’ system of order’.92 It is important that the developing literatures
on lawyers and liberalism take into account this seemingly anti-
democratic zone of professional activity, as well as the more obviously
‘liberal’ contributions of individual lawyers and (less often) organised
legal professions alike.
ii) Lawyers’ histories and cultural history

The second general conclusion that might be suggested by the example
of legal professionalism in twentieth century Canada is with regard to
the relationships between professional forms and cultures. In this zone of
liberal lawyers’ ‘illiberal’ activity it is cultural projects which come to the
fore. They do so only in part to advance a political vision as such. We do
well in this area to heed Alan Hunt’s caution against taking conceptual
categories too seriously:
We conventionally make distinctions, such as those between social, economic
and moral realms; such categories are useful, even necessary, so long as we do not
fall into the trap of imagining that these terms create real separations as if there
is some field, realm or space that is exclusively social, moral or economic. . . . Our
conceptual distinctions are elaborated for analytical purposes only; in the real
world they are always found in complex connection with other elements.93
The founding fathers of modern legal professionalism in Canada knew
full well that their profession, their personal ethics, religion, economic
beliefs, and political convictions were bound together in some fashion. It
was not an absolutist binding together however. For some purposes
Baptists or Jews or Catholics could be tolerated just as in politics dis-
agreements between Liberals and Conservatives were both legitimate and
genuine. Nonetheless, a cultural web held the whole together and most
leading lawyers would have understood the urges which led Michel
91 Cf Alan Hunt, Governing Morals: A Social History of Moral Regulation

(Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1999) at 25 on the relationship between moral
politics, ‘nationalism, population and sexuality’. See also Richard V Ericson and Nico
Stehr (eds), Governing Modern Societies (University of Toronto Press, Toronto, 2000).
92 Alan Hunt, n 91 above, 215.
93 Alan Hunt, n 91 above, at 7–8.
Foucault to describe one project of western states as being to ‘constitute

the populace as a moral subject’.94 This was no idle philosophy in their
time and their place. In common cause with other prominent Canadians
acting in many realms, it was very much what Canadian lawyers were on
about.
What is interesting in the work of the legal professions is the extent to
which lawyers combined agendas which were explicitly moral and
reforming with a profound restructuring of their profession. Their efforts
to reform the curriculum of formal legal education, for example, is not
altogether dissimilar from near contemporaneous efforts to introduce
public schooling, to reform private boys schools, to educate imperial civil
servants or to fashion universities anew so as to meet the needs of a
changing world.95 Though it is less immediately obvious perhaps with
respect to their desire to attain self-regulation, monopoly, professional
independence and plenary disciplinary powers, these too were directed to
‘cultural’ ends. They built structures on cultural foundations, drawn to
blue-prints of moral origin.
This, of course, is a limited conclusion. To assert that Canadian legal
professionalism originated in cultural projects in the early twentieth cen-
tury is not to assert that all legal professions, everywhere, always have
originated in these ways (only imperial centres and obviously important
places—such as London, New York, Los Angeles or Paris—can plausibly
hope to turn their parochialisms into social theory).
Moreover the argument that structures emerge from deliberate, self-
conscious agency cannot be made at all places and all times. Some pro-
fessional structures may indeed have important origins which are lost in
the mists of time and others may accrete slowly in ad hoc response to
periodic crises (the English Bar comes to mind in both categories). It is
also undoubtably the case that much cultural, economic and political
change takes place within frameworks provided by more or less durable
structures. The late twentieth century legal profession, for example,
leaves little room for the rhetoric of moral reform. No contemporary
lawyer can adopt the role of a ‘high priest’ of law, just as no university law
teacher could now seriously adopt as his or her mission the inculcation
of the virtues of British gentlemanliness.
Even modestly understood, however, the findings reported here are not
de minimis. They direct our attention to questions of cultural agency and
structural revolution that are too easily overlooked. They suggest con-
nections between market control, political lawyering, culture, liberalism
and professionalism that have yet to be adequately explored.
94
Michel Foucault, ‘Prison Talk’ in Colin Gordon (ed), Power/Knowledge: Selected
Interview and Other Writings, 1972–1977 (Harverster Press, Brighton, 1980), 37–54 at
41.
95
See Pue, ‘British Masculinities’, n 25 above.

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LAWYERS AND VAMPIRES

Lawyers and Vampires

OXFORD – PORTLAND OREGON

Published in North America (US and Canada) by

© The contributors and editors severally, 2003

First published in hardback 2003, reprinted in paperback 2004

Hart Publishing is a specialist legal publisher based in Oxford, England.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Typeset by Hope Services (Abingdon) Ltd.

Gisela Mutter (who provided translation from German) and Marion

W Wesley Pue David Sugarman

1. Introduction: Towards a Cultural History of Lawyers 1

Part I: The Formation of Lawyers

2. Ritual, Majesty and Mystery: Collective Life and Culture

3. ‘A Dry and Revolting Study’: the Life and Labours of

Part II: Lawyers and the Liberal State

4. ‘Finland’s Route’ of Professionalisation and Lawyer-Officials 101

5. Juridicalisation, Professionalisation and the Occupational

6. From ‘Rechstaat’ to ‘Welfare State’: Swedish Judicial Culture

Part III: Work and Representations

8. Text and Subtext: French Lawyers’ Fees in the Nineteenth

9. He Would Have Made a Wonderful Solicitor: Law, Modernity

10. The Syndicat de la Magistrature, 1968–1978: Elements in the

Part IV: Lawyers and Colonialism

11. Together We Fall, Divided We Stand: the Victorian Legal

12. Cultural Chasm: ‘Mennonite’ Lawyers in Western Canada,

13. Cultural Projects and Structural Transformation in the

David Applebaum, Professor of History, Rowan University, Glassboro,

Harold Dick, Barrister and Solicitor, City of Winnipeg, Manitoba,

Ann Fidler, Assistant Professor and Dean, History Department, Honors

Jean-Louis Halperin, University de Bourgogne, CNRS, France

Esa Konttinen, Senior Lecturer of Sociology, University of Jyräskylä,

David Lemmings, Associate Professor of History, University of

Anne McGillivray, Professor of Law, University of Manitoba, Canada

Rob McQueen, Professor of Law, Victoria University, Melbourne,

Kjell Å Modéer, Lund University, Sweden

W Wesley Pue, Nemetz Chair in Legal History, Faculty of Law,

John Savage, Assistant Professor, History Department, Lehigh

Hannes Siegrist, Professor of Modern European History, University of

David Sugarman, Professor of Law, Law School, Lancaster University,

London, 1995) 48–49.

Journal of the Sociology of Law 331–54.

The past 25 to 30 years have witnessed a sizeable aggregation of work on

emphasised the transnational and multi-cultural elements of their legal,

and Anachronism: Parliamentary and Constitutional Development in Whig

Retrospect (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1987).

Though analytically mutually distinct, these four lenses—nationalist

Europe and America (Croom Helm, London, 1981) 11–15.

As we have learned more about the professions in the three centuries

movement within history and social theory that transcends two-class,

Renaissance Florence (Princeton University Press, Princeton, 1968).

Increasingly, this literature has sought to be less parochial and Anglo-

In addition to its cross-national concerns, the principal focus of this book

Inquiry 1061–82; Karpik, Lucien, French Lawyers. A Study of Collective Action,

Montesquieu. In this way the study of law became a principal way of

struction, interpretation and negotiation of systems of meaning. Under

Profession’ in Marc C Carnes and Clyde Griffen (eds), Meanings of Manhood:

in which divisions of class, race, and ethnicity are fundamentally constitutive, it

In ‘ “A Dry and Revolting Study”: the Life and Labors of Antebellum

Part II of the collection examines the relationship between lawyers and