one, and the ceremony and the hand-shake conveyed his cordial
respect and warmth of regard. He always reminded me of the
Englishman in Crabbe's "Tales" who, I think, may have been
his kinsman.

The wish that Roman necks in one were found
That he who formed the wish might deal the wound,
This man had never heard. But of the kind
Is the desire which rises in his mind.
He'd have all English hands, for further he
Cannot conceive extends our charity,
All but his own, in one right hand to grow;
And then what hearty shake would he bestow.

Mr. Willard was once counsel before a magistrate in a case
in which he took much interest. A rough, coarse country
lawyer was on the other side. When Willard stated some legal
proposition, his adversary said: "I will bet you five dollars
that ain't law." "Sir," said Mr. Willard, drawing himself
up to his full height, with the great solemnity of tone of
which he was master: "Sir, I do not permit myself to make
the laws of my country the subject of a bet."

Another of the old characters who came down to my time from
the older generation was Samuel M. Burnside. He was a man
of considerable wealth and lived in a generous fashion, dispensing
an ample hospitality at his handsome mansion, still standing
in Worcester. He was a good black-letter lawyer, though without
much gift of influencing juries or arguing questions of law
to the Court. He was a good Latin scholar, very fond of Horace
and Virgil, and used to be on the committees to examine the
students at Harvard, rather disturbing the boys with his somewhat
pedantic questioning. He was very nearsighted, and, it is
said, once seized the tail of a cow which passed near him
in the street and hurried forward, supposing some woman had
gone by and said, "Madam, you are dropping your tippet."

One of the most interesting characters among the elders of
the Worcester Bar was old Rejoice Newton. He was a man of
excellent judgment, wisdom, integrity and law learning enough
to make him a safe guide to his clients in their important
transactions. He was a most prosaic person, without sentiment,
without much knowledge of literature, and absolutely without
humor. He was born in Northfield near the banks of the Connecticut
River and preserved to the time of his death his love of rural
scenes and of farming. He had an excellent farm a mile or
two out of town, where he spent all the time he could get
from his professional