Among the great men and accomplished orators who, during Pitt’s long and arduous tenure of office, strove energetically to curb his will, humble his pride, and exalt his celebrated rival, none was more conspicuous for ability and eloquence than the immortal Erskine, though it was not in a senatorial capacity that he displayed, to their full extent, those vast powers, or achieved the oratorical triumphs which added lustre to an ancestral name, and formed a reputation so splendid.

Thomas Erskine, unquestionably one of the most brilliant, courageous, and irresistible advocates who ever appeared at the English, or indeed at any, bar, was born on the 10th of January, 1750, in the ancient and historic city of Edinburgh. He was the third son of the Earl of Buchan, a Scottish nobleman of long and illustrious descent, but in circumstances so reduced and different from those enjoyed by the race for many centuries, that his yearly income was less than is now obtained, with ease, by not a few banker’s clerks. Some small portion of the family estate still remained, and on it an old castellated residence, probably in as ruinous a condition as the famous Wolf’s Crag, and, therefore, uninhabited by its proprietor. Had the Caledonian thane been a single man, and unblessed by connubial ties, he might have run a career similar to that of the great novelist’s proud, haughty, and restless hero, “the last Lord of Ravenswood.” But he had prudently married the daughter of a Lothian baronet, who speedily brought him several children: so he passed his life in chill poverty, and died in the odor of sanctity while at Bath, seeking consolation in the eloquent preaching of Whitefield, which was said to make sinners tremble as if a lion were roaring among them.

Although it is likely that this exemplary earl was a justice of the peace, and rather more than probable that there were lawsuits in the family, it does not appear that, previous to the chancellor’s birth, the repose of the noble countess was disturbed or agitated by such dreams as heralded the Spectator’s introduction into existence. However, that patrician matron was held in esteem as a woman of pious character and aspirations. She took pains to bring up her sons in the way they should go, and instruct them in the rudiments of education. She grounded them thoroughly in the Presbyterian catechism, and so imbued their young minds with the spirit of religion that Erskine, in after life, was in the habit of devoutly ascribing each piece of good fortune to a special interposition of an over-ruling Providence.

At an early age he was placed at the High School of the Scottish metropolis, then the most approved seminary north of the Tweed; and there he remained for several years. His natural talents shone forth; he distinguished himself sufficiently to be generally at the top of his class; and no doubt, also, he proved his courage and prowess in the boyish exploits undertaken in the neighborhood, and the juvenile warfare daily earned on in the play-ground. It was well for him to be exposed to such an ordeal, for the path that lay before him was not gaily strewed with roses, but thickly “beset with thorns and briers:” so also, though in a less degree, was that of his witty, cheerful, and able brother, Harry, afterward Lord Advocate for Scotland and Dean of Faculty.

When Erskine had reached the age of twelve, his high-born parents removed to St. Andrew’s, with the view of adopting a style of living more in accordance with their narrow finances than could be pursued by people of “note and quality” even in the Scottish capital. At St. Andrew’s he attended the grammar-school for a while, and subsequently took advantage of some classes in the college of the old town; though it appears that his opportunities of profiting by that ancient institution were extremely limited. Nevertheless, his talent appeared; he manifested a strong love of books, and he derived from those within his reach a considerable amount of miscellaneous information, which opened up his mind and fired his ambition. Bright dreams of future eminence began to illumine his young heart, and, feeling the urgent and paramount necessity of doing something for his support and advancement in life, he expressed a decided preference for the learned professions, and a desire to have his time and energies employed in the pursuit of one of them.

The requisite means, however, were wanting to gratify his inclination in this respect; and his parents were compelled to state, that the best thing they could do to promote his interest was to have him placed in some man-of-war as a midshipman. The prospect of donning a blue jacket and cocked hat, and of the consequent adventures—generally so pleasing to the juvenile imagination—was by no means so fascinating to the clever, studious, and intellectual young “honorable” as might have been expected; but, after some ineffectual efforts to make matters more to his liking, he felt himself bound to endure what he regarded as a hard fate, and was accordingly embarked about the completion of his fourteenth year. Doubtless the usual parting-scene was enacted with all due formality. Gil Blas is made to state that, when he left home, his parents made him a present of their blessing, which was all that he had ventured to expect, for the very competent reason that they had nothing else to bestow; and, no doubt, Erskine was similarly favored. Perhaps, also, the noble earl would gravely admonish the young sailor not to trifle or hurt himself with his sword; his mother would give him a last embrace; and his sisters would, with tears, give evidence of their grief.

The next few years of Erskine’s life were passed on board ship, where, however uncongenial the service, he gave all due attention to discipline, and besides found time for improving his mind and increasing his stores of knowledge. When ashore, he made a point of seeing something of life in the various places where he happened to be; and those who recollect his fine and beautiful passage about the Indian chief, in his speech for Stockdale, will hardly question the use he at this period made of his rare faculties. Having probably drawn his ideas of naval life from the interesting descriptions in the pages of “Roderick Random,” it is not wonderful that he found his situation more tolerable than he had been led to anticipate. He particularly enjoyed himself while stationed at Jamaica, relished its picturesque scenery, and experienced the delightful novelty of dancing at dignity balls with quadroon damsels, who chattered in broken English, exhibited grinning rows of ivory teeth, and whose white dresses contrasted strangely with their colored skins and their dark rolling eyes, which gave evidence rather of their African than their European descent.

Though unfortunately, as it then seemed, engaged in pursuits for which he had no real vocation, the aspiring Scot struggled manfully onward in his profession. Nor did he fail in after life to make judges and juries aware that he had profited largely by his naval experience, when engaged in cases connected with marine affairs, as he frequently was from his knowledge of technical phrases and other matters. Meantime he, at length, had the comfort of being appointed acting-lieutenant in the “Tartar,” and of making a voyage homeward in that capacity; but on arrival in England, finding that the ship was to be paid off, and that he would, from this circumstance, be reduced to his original rank, he desperately resolved to tempt the seas no more.

About this period his father’s earthly existence terminated; and Erskine, who appeared as one of the mourners, was much impressed with the solemnity of the funeral obsequies. Having abandoned all thoughts of a naval career, he turned his thoughts to a military life, and had sufficient influence to obtain an ensign’s commission in the 1st Regiment of Foot, with which he straightway went to Minorca. His commission had cost all the money he possessed, and an application for a small allowance had been refused by his eldest brother, the eccentric Earl of Buchan, who afterward, on this ground, boasted that the future chancellor owed every thing to him. Yet, under these inauspicious circumstances, he contracted a romantic marriage with a young lady of respectable parentage, which luckily proved more propitious than is usual with unions formed under circumstances so forbidding.

While stationed in Minorca, though there appeared little prospect indeed of his acquirements ever being turned to account, he devoted himself with remarkable assiduity to the cultivation of his mind, by a profound and earnest attention to the English classics. In this way, by long and deep study, he became most familiar with the works of Shakspeare and Milton; so that, with a very slight knowledge of Latin authors, and almost none of Greek, he—a native of the north—rendered himself a consummate master of the English tongue. His tastes were thoroughly intellectual, and he even indulged them by officiating as temporary chaplain to the regiment; to which he not only read prayers, but preached two sermons from the drumhead, with no small measure of success.

On returning to England, Erskine obtained six months’ leave of absence, part of which he spent in London. While there he had the advantage of meeting, conversing with, and encountering in discussion, no less eminent a person than Dr. Johnson, attended by his faithful dog and biographer. This was at the house of Sir Alexander Macdonald; and the “young officer in the regimentals of the Scots Royals,” attracted much attention by the fluency, precision, and vivacity of his discourse. At the same date Erskine appeared to advantage as the author of a pamphlet on the abuses of the British army, which had an extensive circulation, and procured him some fame. Soon after this he was promoted to a lieutenancy, and for some time longer endured the disagreeable process of marching with the regiment from one place to another. His family and his dissatisfaction gradually increasing, a gloomy cloud seemed to hang over his existence; and there was ever before him the dismal prospect of his life proving a long series of imaginings never to be realized, and of aspirations never to be gratified.

Under such circumstances, while he was quartered in a provincial town, a great thought was born within him. One day, to drive away care, dispel annoyance, and perhaps to gratify a rational curiosity, he strolled into the assize court, where the great Lord Mansfield was presiding, with his wonted serene and impenetrable dignity. Perhaps birds of Erskine’s feather were rarely seen in such haunts. At all events, his regimentals quickly attracted the eye of the veteran judge, who, struck, no doubt, by the peculiarly elegant and aristocratic appearance of the singularly intelligent-looking officer, even condescended to inquire who he was. On being informed that he was a younger son of the late Earl of Buchan, and very much in the same position in which the noble, learned, and influential Chief Justice might have found himself, but for the good fortune which had early led him to fatten and flourish in the pastures of the South, the latter kindly accommodated the lieutenant of foot with a place beside him on the bench, and courteously explained the case that was being tried. Thus seated by a man who had raised himself, by his genius, from the oatmeal porridge and aristocratic poverty of Scone Palace to wealth and an illustrious position, it struck the aspiring and discontented subaltern that here was a sphere in which his intellect might be exercised with advantage and renown. He therefore availed himself of his distinguished countryman’s politeness, which took the shape of an invitation to dinner, to state the hardship of his lot, and explain his views. So truly great a man as Lord Mansfield would hardly, at such a moment, forget his own early trials and struggles. In any case, his young acquaintance was rewarded with some slight encouragement, and the sage advice to consult his friends. Erskine’s surviving parent readily approved of the plan; and, between jest and earnest, she said he must be Lord Chancellor. Accordingly, having formed his plans, he was admitted as a student of law at Lincoln’s Inn, and, at the same time, entered himself as a fellow-commoner of Trinity College, Cambridge, where in spite of narrow means, his wit and talent soon brought him into notice. The sale of his military commission produced him a serviceable sum of money; and, divesting himself of scarlet uniform, he proceeded to accomplish himself in the composition of English. An amusing specimen of his skill in versifying is a parody of Gray’s “Bard,” which gained him some applause. It was produced on the occasion of his being detained from dinner at the College hall by the tardiness of his hair-dresser, and begins with this not very complimentary stanza:

Having taken the honorary degree of A.M. in 1778, the future defender of Lord George Gordon was called to the bar in the same year. When settled in London, he practiced his oratorical powers at debating-clubs, and pursued his legal studies in the chambers of a special pleader; yet it does not appear that his knowledge of the law was ever very profound, notwithstanding his possessing, in some measure, a legal intellect. His domestic arrangements were on the most economical principle; there is even a tradition to the effect that his honorable spouse was under the necessity of acting as washerwoman for their family. His fare was of the humblest description; his dress was remarkable only for its shabbiness; he frequently found it no easy matter to provide the necessaries of life for the passing day; and he was heard thanking God that, out of his own family, he did not know a lord. It appears that his acquaintance with attorneys was still more limited in extent. Being complimented on his health and spirits, he answered sportively that he ought to look well, having nothing else to do, as had been remarked of somebody’s trees.

But a man with the blood of a long line of earls in his veins, and with the consciousness of already having given proof of superior endowments, was not likely, while enduring galling poverty, to be wanting in aspirations after fame, or to lose an opportunity of winning a name and bettering his circumstances. Erskine felt within him both the stirrings of ambition and the capacity to do and dare with success, if an occasion were presented. His affairs were probably at the worst, when accident threw Captain Baillie in his way.

That brave and gallant officer had, as Lieutenant-governor of Greenwich Hospital, written and published a statement of abuses existing in the establishment, reflecting with particular acerbity on Lord Sandwich, first lord of the Admiralty. For this pamphlet Baillie was forthwith suspended by the Board, and a prosecution commenced against him by some of the less important individuals, whom he had assailed in pursuance of what he regarded as the performance of his duty. While the case was in prospect of being tried, Erskine happened to meet the redoubted captain at a dinner-party, and, without being aware of his presence, expatiated on the subject of the prosecution with so much warmth and animation, that though they were not introduced on that occasion, the ex-lieutenant-governor declared that the briefless barrister should be one of his counsel; but as there were to be four seniors, the latter naturally despaired of receiving any attention. However, at a consultation, when the others were inclined to consent to a favorable compromise, Erskine respectfully dissented, and advised them to stand the hazard of a trial; whereupon the captain swore a round oath, and cried, as he caught the future occupier of “the marble chair” in his strong arms, “You are the man for me!” When the case came on, the seniors were heard at great length on behalf of Captain Baillie; and the last of them, Mr. Hargrave, being in some way indisposed, was obliged to retire several times during his lengthened argument, and thus so protracted the proceedings, that on his concluding Lord Mansfield said that the remaining counsel should be heard next morning. This was precisely what Erskine desired, and indeed appeared almost providential, as it afforded him time to arrange during the night the heads of what he was to say. Besides, he had the advantage of addressing the court with refreshed energies and revived faculties. When the judges took their places next morning, he rose from the back row, and delivered a speech of such marvelous ability, that it has since been regarded by sagacious critics as the most brilliant forensic display ever witnessed under similar circumstances. As he left the hall attorneys flocked around to congratulate him on his extraordinary triumph, and from that memorable day business flowed in upon him. Being asked how he could so boldly face a venerable judge like Lord Mansfield—the very type and figure of justice—his feeling reply was, that he fancied his children were tugging at his gown, and saying, “Now is the time to get us bread!”

Erskine was next selected, on account of his naval intelligence, to draw up the defense to be spoken by Admiral Keppel, on his trial. This he did with much success; and the admiral, on being acquitted, presented him with bank-notes to the amount of a thousand pounds, which he flourished in triumph before his friends, exclaiming, with the almost boyish and mirthful fancy, ever freely indulged in private, “VoilÀ the nonsuit of cow-beef!”

The skill, dexterity, and eloquence, together with the complete devotion to the interests of his client, which he displayed in the conduct of cases, led to an extensive and lucrative practice; and in 1781 he was retained as counsel for the silly but then enthusiastically Protestant Lord George Gordon, whom he defended with brilliant power and signal success. In 1783, though having then been only five years at the bar, and delivered for a still briefer space from the horrors of “cow-beef” and threadbare garments, it was thought advisable to confer on him a patent of precedency. This gave him the privilege of donning a silk gown and sitting within the bar. It was likewise deemed prudent to have him brought into Parliament, and he was returned to the House of Commons as member for Portsmouth, to try his skill as a debater among the giants who then ruled the Legislature. The result was by no means gratifying to his numerous friends and admirers, who really seem to have entertained the unreasonable expectation that he was to trample Pitt in the dust as easily and proudly as he had done the nameless creatures of Lord Sandwich. In fact, his acquaintance with political matters was limited, from the keen and earnest attention which he had given to his professional pursuits; and his new position was so utterly different from that to which he had been accustomed, as to render him somewhat like a fish out of the water. In Westminster Hall, his ardor, his enthusiasm, the sparkle of his piercing glance, the grace and nobleness of his figure, the freedom and celerity of his movements, the clearness and flexibility of his voice, the surpassing beauty of his diction, the correct taste with which he conceived and the singular felicity with which he executed most difficult flights, and his figures of speech characterized by a boldness which unexceptional success alone could redeem from the charge of temerity, had fascinated juries, startled dignified sages of the law out of their propriety, and commanded the admiration of experienced advocates. But in the House of Commons his ardent spirit was chilled, his enthusiastic temperament damped, and his eloquent tongue made to falter by the scornful stare, the contemptuous indifference, and the cold sarcasm of the dread son of Chatham.

Meantime his fame at the bar ascended rapidly. His powerful memory, wakeful vigilance, and knowledge of those with whom he had to deal, enabled him to conduct cases with wonderful skill. He defended the Dean of Asaph in a speech of much merit and high courage; and in 1786 was appointed Attorney-general to the Prince of Wales, an office of which he was deprived for appearing, with dauntless determination, on behalf of the notorious Thomas Paine, author of “the Rights of Man,” in spite of the threatening frowns of royal power and the suggestive warnings of northern craft.

Though bold and conscientious above all others in the performance of his duty, Erskine had good reason to say to his admirers, “Gentlemen, I am but a man.” He had, indeed, a considerable amount of vanity in his nature, and even in his best days liked well, after the case had been called, to keep a crowded and impatient audience waiting in court for a few minutes till he should make his appearance with something like stage effect. When he entered, to conduct some most important case on which, perhaps, he believed “the last and best gift of God to his creatures” depended, it was a little too apparent to intelligent spectators that his new yellow gloves and carefully-dressed wig were recognized by him as essential parts of the solemn proceedings. But if he did too assiduously cultivate popular favor he can not be justly accused of having shrunk from fear of court proscription, even when his fortunes hung trembling in the balance.

The period of the state trials was that of Erskine’s greatest triumph and highest popularity. His grave, sturdy, and sensible-looking antagonist, on that occasion, was Sir John Scott, afterward Lord Eldon, who had worthily risen to distinction by “living like a hermit and working like a horse.” He was then attorney-general, and his duty, as public prosecutor, could hardly have been very agreeable. Indeed, he seemed at times to have been in no small danger from the excitement of the mob, who daily bestowed upon Erskine frenzied applause. After the acquittal of Hardy, the ringleaders insisted upon taking the horses out of the brilliant counsel’s carriage, that they might draw him to his house in triumph. Years after, when he was relating this circumstance in presence of Lord Eldon, that distinguished personage managed to turn the laugh against his old opponent by adding, with quiet humor, “Yes, and I believe you never saw more of them.”

In 1802 Erskine visited Paris, and was presented to the Emperor Napoleon, then First Consul, who, however, only honored him with the single question, “Êtes vous lÉgiste?” On returning home, he was restored to his office of Attorney-general to the Prince of Wales, who revived in his favor the dormant functions of Chancellor to the Duchy of Cornwall.

On the death of Pitt, Lord Grenville, who had previously left the party of his illustrious relative and former colleague, formed, in conjunction with Fox and Addington, the ministry of “All the Talents.” Erskine was nominated to the woolsack, and being advanced to the peerage became Lord Chancellor; thus fulfilling his mother’s jocular prediction. He resigned, with his political friends, in 1807, and shortly after made his celebrated speech in the House of Lords against the Jesuit’s Bark Bill; but henceforth he ceased to play a prominent or influential part in public affairs. In 1815 the Prince Regent bestowed on him the Order of the Thistle. He is reported to have regretted that, from having been Lord Chancellor, he was prevented from pleading at the bar, where had been won his crown of fame; and to have remarked frequently to his friends, that the only reason he had for accepting the great seal and a peerage at the time, was to place the maternal prophecy beyond all hazard of breaking down. However, he consoled himself for the loss of his position in the forum by reciprocating compliments with his friend Dr. Parr. When the great scholar once promised to write the ex-chancellor’s epitaph, Erskine replied, “Such an intention on your part is almost enough to make one commit suicide.”

Dr. Johnson said that every man has a lurking wish to appear considerable in his native place, and no doubt Erskine was actuated by this natural feeling; yet it was somewhat late in life before he turned his steps toward the land of his fathers. There, however, his reception was so flattering that he conceived a strong desire to revisit it in 1823. He insisted upon going by sea, as being an old and experienced sailor, and was so unfavorably affected by the voyage that he never recovered the shock.

He expired at Almondale, near Edinburgh, on the 17th of November, 1823, and was buried, in accordance with the fashions and customs of the country, in the family vault at Uphall, in West Lothian.