It was the first Lord Meadowbank, who wearying of the dry statement of a case made by Mr. Thomas W. Blair, broke in with the remark: "Declaim, sir! why don't you declaim? Speak to me as if I were a popular assembly."

In the reign of Queen Anne there was an old Scottish judge—Lord Dun—who was particularly distinguished for his piety. Thomas Coutts, the founder of the bank now so well known, used to relate of him that when a difficult case came before him, as Lord Ordinary, he used to say, "Eh, Lord, what am I to do? Eh, sirs, I wish you would make it up!" Of another judge of much the same period, also noted for his strict observance of religious ordinances; but who, at the same time, did not allow these to interfere with his social habits, it is related that every Saturday evening he had with him his niece, who afterwards married a more famous Scottish judge, Andrew Fletcher, Lord Milton, Charles Ross who made himself prominent in the "45" Rebellion, and David Reid, his clerk. The judge had what was, and in some parts of Scotland still is, known as "the exercise," which consisted of the reading of a chapter from the Bible, and his form of announcing the evening devotions was: "Betsy (his niece), ye hae a sweet voice, lift ye up a psalm; Charles, ye hae a gey strong voice, read the chapter; and David, fire ye the plate." Firing the plate consisted of a dish of brandy prepared for the company, of which David took charge, and while the first part of the proceedings were in progress David lighted the brandy, which when he thought it burnt to his master's taste he blew out, and this was the signal for the others to stop, while the whole company partook of the burnt brandy. This same judge—Lord Forglen—was walking one day with Lord Newhall, in the latter's grounds. Lord Newhall was a grave and austere man, while, as may be gathered, Lord Forglen was a medley of curious elements. As they passed a picturesque bend of a river Lord Forglen exclaimed: "Now, my lord, this is a fine walk. If ye want to pray to God, can there be a better place? If ye want to kiss a bonny lass, can there be a better place?"

Sir David Rae (Lord Eskgrove), Lord Justice-Clerk of Scotland, has been described as a ludicrous person about whom people seemed to have nothing else to do but tell stories. Sir Walter Scott imitated perfectly his slow manner of speech and peculiar pronunciation, which always put an accent on the last syllable of a word, and the letter "g" when at the end of a word got its full value. When a knot of young advocates was seen standing round the fireplace of the Parliament Hall listening to a low muttering voice, and the party suddenly broke up in roars of laughter, it was pretty certain to be a select company to whom Sir Walter had been retailing one of the latest stories of Lord Eskgrove.

He was a man of much self-importance, which comes out in his remarks to a young lady of great beauty who was called as a witness in the trial of Glengarry for murder. "Young woman, you will now consider yourself as in the presence of Almighty God, and of this Court; lift up your veil, throw off all modesty, and look me in the face."

Sir John Henderson of Fordell, a zealous Whig, had long nauseated the Scottish Civil Courts by his burgh politics. Their lordships of the Bench had once to fix the amount of some discretionary penalty that he had incurred. Lord Eskgrove began to give his opinion in a very low voice, but loud enough to be heard by those next him, to the effect that the fine ought to be £50, when Sir John, with his usual imprudence, interrupted him and begged him to raise his voice, adding that if judges did not speak so as to be heard they might as well not speak at all. Lord Eskgrove, who could never endure any imputation of bodily infirmity, asked his neighbour, "What does the fellow say?"—"He says, that if you don't speak out, you may as well hold your tongue."—"Oh, is that what he says? My lords, what I was saying was very simpell; I was only sayingg, that in my humbell opinyon this fine could not be less than £250 sterlingg"—this sum being roared out as loudly as his old angry voice could launch it.

A common saying of his to juries was: "And now, gentle-men, having shown you that the panell's argument is impossibill, I shall now proceed to show you that it is extremely improbabill."

In condemning some persons to death for breaking into Sir John Colquhoun's house and assaulting him and others, as well as robbing them, Eskgrove, after enumerating minutely the details of their crime, closed his address to the prisoners with this climax: "All this you did; and God preserve us! juist when they were sitten doon tae their denner."

When condemning a tailor convicted of stabbing a soldier, the offence was aggravated in Lord Eskgrove's eyes by the fact that "not only did you murder him, whereby he was berea-ved of his life, but you did thrust, or push, or pierce, or project, or propell, the le-thall weapon through the belly-band of his regimental breeches, which were his Majesty's."

One of the most biting of caustic jests made by a judge of the old Court of Session of Scotland, before its reconstruction at the beginning of the nineteenth century, was uttered during the hearing of a claim to a peerage. The claimant was obviously resting his case upon forged documents, and the judge suddenly remarked in the broad dialect of the time, "If ye persevere ye'll nae doot be a peer, but it will be a peer o' anither tree!" The claimant did not appreciate this idea of being grafted, and abandoned the case.

To return to the stories of the earlier period of the eighteenth century, there is one told of Lord Halkerston. He was waited on by a tenant, who with a woeful countenance informed his lordship that one of his cows had gored a cow belonging to the judge, and he feared the injured animal could not live. "Well, then, of course you must pay for it," said his lordship. "Indeed, my lord, it was not my fault, and you know I am but a very poor man."—"I can't help that. The law says you must pay for it. I am not to lose my cow, am I?"—"Well, my lord, if it must be so, I cannot say more. But I forgot what I was saying. It was my mistake entirely. I should have said that it was your lordship's cow that gored mine."—"Oh, is that it? That's quite a different affair. Go along, and don't trouble me just now. I am very busy. Be off, I say!"

And there is one of the testy old Lord Polkemmet when he interrupted Mr. James Ferguson, afterwards Lord Kilkerran, whose energy in enforcing a point in his address to the Bench took the form of beating violently on the table: "Maister Jemmy, dinna dunt; ye may think ye're dunting it intill me, but ye're juist dunting it oot o' me, man."

He was reputed to be dull, and rarely decided a case upon the first hearing. On one occasion, after having heard counsel, among whom was the Hon. Henry Erskine, John Clerk, and others, in a cause of no great difficulty, he addressed the Bar: "Well, Maister Erskine, I heard you, and I thocht ye were richt; syne I heard you, Dauvid, and I thocht ye were richt; and noo I hae heard Maister Clerk, and I think he's richtest amang ye a'. That bauthers me, ye see! Sae I man een tak' hame the process an' wimble-wamble it i' ma wame a wee ower ma toddy, and syne ye'se hae ma interlocutor."

"The Fifteen," as the full Bench of the old Court of Session of Scotland was popularly called, were deliberating on a bill of suspension and interdict relative to certain caravans with wild beasts on the then vacant ground which formed the beginning of the new communication with the new Town of Edinburgh spreading westwards and the Lawnmarket—now known as the Mound. In the course of the proceedings Lord Bannatyne fell fast asleep. The case was disposed of and the next called, which related to a right of lien over certain goods. The learned lord who continued dozing having heard the word "lien" pronounced with an emphatic accent by Lord Meadowbank, raised the following discussion:

Meadowbank: "I am very clear that there was a lien on this property."

Bannatyne: "Certain; but it ought to be chained, because——"

Balmuto: "My lord, it's no a livin' lion, it's the Latin word for lien" (leen).

Hermand: "No, sir; the word is French."

Balmuto: "I thought it was Latin, for it's in italics."

Henry Home (Lord Kames) was at once one of the most enlightened and learned of Scottish judges of the latter half of the eighteenth century, and one of the most eccentric. His History of Mankind brought him into correspondence with most of the famous men and women of his day, and yet it was his delight to walk up the Canongate and High Street with a half-witted creature who made it his business to collect all the gossip of the town and retail it to his lordship as he made his way to Court in the morning. His humour was very sarcastic, and nothing delighted him more than to observe that it cut home. Leaving the Court one day shortly before his death he met James Boswell, and accosted him with, "Well, Boswell, I shall be meeting your old father one of these days, what shall I say to him how you are getting on now?" Boswell disdained to reply. After a witness in a capital trial at Perth Circuit concluded his evidence, Lord Kames said to him, "Sir, I have one question more to ask you, and remember you are on your oath. You say you are from Brechin?"—"Yes, my lord."—"When do you return thither?"—"To-morrow, my lord."—"Do you know Colin Gillies?"—"Yes, my lord; I know him very well."—"Then tell him that I shall breakfast with him on Tuesday morning."

Lord Kames used to relate a story of a man who claimed the honour of his acquaintance on rather singular grounds. His lordship, when one of the justiciary judges, returning from the North Circuit to Perth, happened one night to sleep at Dunkeld. The next morning, walking towards the ferry, but apprehending he had missed his way, he asked a man whom he met to conduct him. The other answered, with much cordiality, "That I will do with all my heart, my lord. Does not your lordship remember me? My name's John ——. I have had the honour to be before your lordship for stealing sheep!"—"Oh, John, I remember you well; and how is your wife? She had the honour to be before me too, for receiving them, knowing them to be stolen."—"At your lordship's service. We were very lucky; we got off for want of evidence; and I am still going on in the butcher trade."—"Then," replied his lordship, "we may have the honour of meeting again."

Once when on Circuit his lordship had been dozing on the bench, a noise created by the entrance of a new panel woke him, and he inquired what the matter was. "Oh, it's a woman, my lord, accused of child murder."—"And a weel farred b—h too," muttered his lordship, loud enough to be heard by those present.

John Clerk (Lord Eldin) was one of the best-known advocates at the Scottish Bar in the first quarter of the nineteenth century, and probably the last of them to retain the old Scots style of pronunciation. His voice was loud and his manner brow-beating, from which the Bench suffered equally with his brother members of the Bar. He suffered from a lameness in one leg, which was made the subject of a passing remark by two young women in the High Street of Edinburgh one day as Clerk was making his way to Court. "There goes John Clerk the lame lawyer," said one to the other. Clerk overheard the remark, and turning back addressed the speaker: "The lame man, my good woman, not the lame lawyer."

The stories of his advocate days are numerous, and many of them probably well known. In his retention of old Scots pronunciation he got the better of Lord Eldon when pleading before the House of Lords one day. "That's the whole thing in plain English, ma lords," he said. "In plain Scotch, you mean, Mr. Clerk."—"Nae maitter, in plain common sense, ma lords, and that's the same in a' languages." On another occasion before the same tribunal he had frequently referred to water, pronouncing it "watter," when he was interrupted by the inquiry, "Do you spell water with two t's in the north, Mr. Clerk?"—"No, my lord, but we spell mainners wi' twa n's." And there is the well-known one of his use of the word "enough," which in old Scots was pronounced "enow." His repetition of the word in the latter form drew from the Lord Chancellor the remark that at the English Courts the word was pronounced "enough." "Very well, my lord," replied Clerk, and he proceeded with his address till coming to describe his client, who was a ploughman, and his client's claim, he went on: "My lords, my client is a pluffman, who pluffs a pluff gang o' land in the parish of," &c. "Oh! just go on with your own pronunciation, Mr. Clerk," remarked the Lord Chancellor.

His encounters with members of the Scottish Bench were of a more personal character. Indeed, for years he appears to have held most of them in unfeigned contempt. A junior counsel on hearing their lordships give judgment against his client exclaimed that he was surprised at such a decision. This was construed into contempt of Court, and he was ordered to attend at the Bar next morning. Fearing the consequences of his rash remark, he consulted John Clerk, who offered to apologise for him in a way that would avert any unpleasant result. Accordingly, when the name of the delinquent was called, John Clerk rose and addressed the Bench: "I am sorry, my lords, that my young friend so far forgot himself as to treat your lordships with disrespect. He is extremely penitent, and you will kindly ascribe his unintentional insult to his ignorance. You will see at once that it did not originate in that: he said he was surprised at the decision of your lordships. Now, if he had not been very ignorant of what takes place in this Court every day; had he known your lordships but half so long as I have done, he would not be surprised at anything you did."

Two judges, father and son, sat on the Scottish Bench, in succession, under the title of Lord Meadowbank. The second Lord Meadowbank was by no means such a powerful judge as his father. In his Court, Clerk was pressing his construction of some words in a conveyance, and contrasting the use of the word "also" with the use of the word "likewise."

"Surely, Mr. Clerk," said his lordship, "you cannot seriously argue that 'also' means anything different from 'likewise'! They mean precisely the same thing; and it matters not which of them is preferred."—"Not at all, my lord; there is all the difference in the world between these two words. Let us take an instance: your worthy father was a judge on that Bench; your lordship is 'also' a judge on the same Bench; but it does not follow that you are a judge 'like wise.'"

When Meadowbank was about to be raised to the Bench he consulted John Clerk about the title he should adopt. Clerk's suggestion was "Lord Preserve Us." The legal acquirements of James Wolfe Murray were not held in high esteem by his brethren of the Bar, and when he became a judge with the title of Lord Cringletie, Clerk wrote the following clever epigram:

The only man on the Bench for whom John Clerk retained a respectfulness not generally exhibited to others in that position was Lord President Blair. After hearing the President overturn without any effort an argument he had laboriously built up, and which appeared to be regarded as unsurmountable by the audience who heard it, Clerk sat still for a few moments, then as he rose to leave the Court he was heard to say: "My man, God Almighty spared nae pains when He made your brains."

When he ascended the Bench in his sixty-fifth year, and when his physical powers were declining, he received the congratulations of his brother judges, one of whom expressed surprise that he had waited so long for the distinction. "Well, you see, I did not get 'doited' just as soon as the rest of you," replied the new-made judge.

Like the generation preceding his, Clerk was of a very convivial disposition. Of him the story is told that one Sunday morning, while people were making their way to church, he appeared at his door in York Place in his dressing-gown and cowl, with a lighted candle in his hand, showing out two friends who had been carousing with him, and in the firm belief that it was about midnight instead of next mid-day. At the termination of a Bannatyne Club dinner, where wit and wine had contended for the mastery, the excited judge on the way to his carriage tumbled downstairs and, miserabile dictu, broke his nose, an accident which compelled him to confine himself to the house for some time. He reappeared, however, with a large patch on his olfactory member, which gave a most ludicrous expression to his face. On someone inquiring how this happened, he said it was the effect of his studies. "Studies!" ejaculated the inquirer. "Yes," growled the judge; "ye've heard, nae doot, about Coke upon Littleton, but I suppose you never before heard of Clerk upon Stair!"

When asked by a friend what was the difference between him and Lord Eldon, the Lord Chancellor of England, Eldin replied; "Oh, there's only an 'i' of a difference."

Charles Hay (Lord Newton), known in private life as "The Mighty," has been described by Lord Cockburn as "famous for law, paunch, whist, claret, and worth." His indulgence in wine and his great bulk made him slumbrous, and when sitting in Court after getting the gist of a case he almost invariably fell fast asleep. Yet it is strange to find it recorded that whenever anything pertinent to the matter under discussion was said he was immediately wide awake and in full possession of his reasoning faculties. While a very zealous but inexperienced counsel was pleading before him, his lordship had been dozing, as usual, for some time, till at last the young man, supposing him asleep, and confident of a favourable judgment in his case, stopped short in his pleading and, addressing the other judges on the Bench, said: "My lords, it is unnecessary that I should go on, as Lord Newton is fast asleep."—"Ay, ay," cried Lord Newton, "you will have proof of that by and by"—when, to the astonishment of the young advocate, after a most luminous view of the case, he gave a very decided and elaborate judgment against him.

Lord Jeffrey himself declared that he only went to Oxford to improve his accent, and according to some of the older members of the Bar of his days, he only lost his Scots accent and did not learn the English. A story of his early days at the Bar is related to the effect that when pleading before Lord Newton the judge stopped him and asked in broad Scots, "Whaur were ye educat', Maister Jawfrey."—"Oxford, my lord."—"Then I doot ye maun gang back there again, for we can mak' nocht o' ye here." But Mr. Jeffrey got back his own. For, before the same judge, happening to speak of an "itinerant violinist," Lord Newton inquired: "D'ye mean a blin' fiddler?"—"Vulgarly so called, my lord," was the reply.

Circuit Courts were in Scotland, in the eighteenth and early years of the nineteenth century (as in England and Ireland), occasions for a great display in the county towns in which they were held. Whether the judges had arrived on horseback or as later in their private carriages, there was always the procession to the court-house, in which the notabilities of the district took part. Lord Cockburn, who had no sympathy with this part of a judge's duties, thus describes one of his experiences in the early days of his Circuit journeys: "Yet there are some of us who like the procession, though it can never be anything but mean and ludicrous, and who fancy that a line of soldiers, or the more civic array of paltry policemen, or of doited special constables, protecting a couple of judges who flounder in awkward gowns and wigs through ill-paved streets, followed by a few sneering advocates and preceded by two or three sheriffs or their substitutes, with their swords, which trip them, and a provost and some bailie-bodies trying to look grand, the whole defended by a poor iron mace, and advancing each with a different step, to the sound of two cracked trumpets, ill-blown by a couple of drunken royal trumpeters, the spectators all laughing, who fancy that all this pretence of greatness and reality of littleness contributes to the dignity of judges." Things are changed now. Even Lord Cockburn saw the change that the introduction of railways made in the progress of Circuit work, and with them a lesser display and more dignified opening of the courts of justice in local towns. But the older Circuits were times of much feasting and merriment, in which the judges of that period took their full share as well as the members of the Bar accompanying them. In the eyes of some of these old worthies it was part of the dignity of their position to sit down after Court work at two o'clock in the morning to a collation of salmon and roast beef, and drink bumpers of claret and mulled port with the provosts and other local worthies, although they were due in Court that same morning at nine to try some miserable creature for a serious crime. Lord Pitmilly had no stomach for such proceedings, his inclination was stronger for decorum and law than for revelling. Once at a Circuit town he ordered his servant to bring to his room a kettle of hot water. Lord Hermand on his way to dinner at midnight, meeting the servant, said, "God bless me, is he going to make a whole kettle of punch—and before supper too?"—"No, my lord, he's going to bed, but he wants to bathe his feet."—"Feet, sir! what ails his feet? Tell him to put some rum among it, and to give it all to his stomach."

The Circuit sermon was an important part of the duties to which the judges had to attend in the course of their visits in the country. One of these that Lord Cockburn had to listen to was delivered from the text, "What are these that are arrayed in white robes, and whence came they?" There was nothing personal intended, but the ermine on the judges gowns naturally attracted significant glances from the other members of the congregation. A Glasgow clergyman and friend of the judge, not knowing that his lordship was present in his church, preached from the text, "There was in a city a judge which feared not God, neither regarded man." The announcement of the text directed all eyes towards the learned judge, which attracting the preacher's attention nearly prevented him from proceeding further with the service. The judge was the pious Lord Moncreiff, the son of the Rev. Sir Henry Wellwood Moncreiff, and the text stuck to him ever afterwards. But there seemed to have been deliberation in selection of the text made by a south-country minister who, before Lord Justice Boyle and Samuel M'Cormick, Advocate-Depute, preached from I Samuel vii. 16, "And Samuel went from year to year in circuit to Bethel, and Gilgal, and Mizpeh." The two legal gentlemen took offence at this audacious attempt to ridicule the Court, they identifying the places mentioned in the text as representing their circuit towns of Jedburgh, Dumfries, and Ayr. In this connection maybe told the story of Lord Hermand, beside whom stood the clergyman whose duty it was to offer up the opening prayer before the work of the Court began. He seemed to think the company had assembled for no other purpose than to hear him perform, and after praying loud and long his lordship's patience gave way, and with a decided jog of his elbow he exclaimed in a stage whisper, "We've a lot of business to do, sir."

From a somewhat rare volume printed for private circulation we are permitted to quote the following ballad, the authorship of which may be easily guessed, as the circuiteer who mourns the loss of his Circuit days may be as easily identified.

Lord Hermand's manner on the Bench conveyed the impression that he was of an impatient, almost savage temper, but in his domestic circle he was one of the warmest-hearted of men, and one with the simplest of tastes. His outbursts on the Bench, too, were emphasised by what, in Scotland, was called "Birr"—the emphatic energy of his pronunciation—which may be imagined but cannot be transcribed in the following dialogue between him and Lord Meadowbank.

Meadowbank: "We are bound to give judgment in terms of the statute, my lords."

Hermand: "A statute! What's a statute? Words—mere words. And am I to be tied down by words? No, my laards; I go by the law of right reason."

He was a great friend of John Scott (Lord Eldon). In a case appealed to the House of Lords, Scott had taken the trouble to write out his speech, and read it over to Hermand, inviting his opinion of it. "It is delightful—absolutely delightful. I could listen to it for ever," said Hermand. "It is so beautifully written, and so beautifully read. But, sir, it's the greatest nonsense! It may do very well for an English Chancellor, but it would disgrace a clerk with us." The blunder that drew forth this criticism was a gross one for a Scottish lawyer, but one an English barrister might readily fall into.

It was put forward in mitigation of the crime that the prisoner was in liquor when, either rashly or accidentally, he stabbed his friend. While the other judges were in favour of a short sentence, Lord Hermand—who had no sympathy with a man who could not carry his liquor—was vehement for transportation: "We are told that there was no malice, and that the prisoner must have been in liquor. In liquor! Why, he was drunk!... And yet he murdered the very man who had been drinking with him! Good God, my laards, if he will do this when he is drunk, what will he not do when he is sober?"

On one of Lord Hermand's circuits a wag put a musical-box, which played "Jack Alive," on one of the seats of the Court. The music struck the audience with consternation, and the judge stared in the air, looking unutterable things, and frantically called out, "Macer, what in the name of God is that?" The macer looked round in vain, when the wag called out, "It's 'Jack Alive,' my lord."—"Dead or alive, put him out this moment," called out the judge. "We can't grip him, my lord."—"If he has the art of hell, let every man assist to arraign him before me, that I may commit him for this outrage and contempt." Everybody tried to discover the offender, and fortunately the music ceased. But it began again half an hour afterwards, and the judge exclaimed, "Is he there again? By all that's sacred, he shall not escape me this time—fence, bolt, bar the doors of the Court, and at your peril let not a man, living or dead, escape." All was bustle and confusion, the officers looked east and west, and up in the air and down on the floor; but the search was in vain. The judge at last began to suspect witchcraft, and exclaimed, "This is a deceptio auris—it is absolute delusion, necromancy, phantasmagoria." And to the day of his death the judge never understood the precise origin of this unwonted visitation.

On another occasion, in his own Court in the Parliament House, he was annoyed by a noise near the door, and called to the macer, "What is that noise?"—"It's a man, my lord."—"What does he want?"—"He wants in, my lord."—"Keep him out!" The man, it seems, did get in, and soon afterwards a like noise was renewed, and his lordship again demanded, "What's the noise there?"—"It's the same man, my lord."—"What does he want now?"—"He wants out, my lord."—"Then keep him in—I say, keep him in!"

Lord President Campbell, after the fashion of those times, was somewhat addicted to browbeating young counsel; and as bearding a judge on the Bench is not a likely way to rise in favour, his lordship generally got it all his own way. Upon one occasion, however, he caught a tartar. His lordship had what are termed pig's eyes, and his voice was thin and weak. Corbet, a bold and sarcastic counsel in his younger days, had been pleading before the Inner House, and as usual the President commenced his attack, when his intended victim thus addressed him: "My lord, it is not for me to enter into any altercation with your lordship, for no one knows better than I do the great difference between us; you occupy the highest place on the Bench, and I the lowest at the Bar; and then, my lord, I have not your lordship's voice of thunder—I have not your lordship's rolling eye of command."

Robert Macqueen (Lord Braxfield), the prototype of Stevenson's "Weir of Hermiston," was known as the "hanging judge"—the Judge Jeffreys of Scotland; but he was a sound judge. He argued a point in a colloquial style, asking a question, and himself supplying the answer in his clear, abrupt manner. But he was illiterate, and without the least desire for refined enjoyment, holding in disdain natures less coarse than his own; he shocked the feelings of those even of an age which had less decorum than prevailed in that which succeeded, and would not be tolerated by the working classes of to-day. Playing whist with a lady, he exclaimed, "What are ye doin', ye damned auld ...," and then recollecting himself, "Your pardon's begged, madam; I took ye for my wife." When his butler gave up his place because his lordship's wife was always scolding him: "Lord," he exclaimed, "ye've little to complain o'; ye may be thankfu' ye're no mairred to her."

His most notorious sayings from the Bench were uttered during the trials for sedition towards the end of the eighteenth century, and even some of these are too coarse for repetition. "Ye're a very clever chiel," he said to one of the prisoners; "but ye wad be nane the waur o' a hangin'." And to a juror arriving late in Court he said, "Come awa, Maister Horner, come awa and help us to hang ane o' they damned scoondrels." Hanging was his term for all kinds of punishment.

To Margarot, a Baptist minister of Dundee—another of the political prisoners of that time—he said, "Hae ye ony coonsel, man?"—"No," replied Margarot. "Dae ye want tae hae ony appointed?" continued the Justice-Clerk. "No," replied the prisoner, "I only want an interpreter to make me understand what your lordship says."

We have already referred to Lord Moncreiff's piety, and to it must be added his great simplicity of nature. Like many of his predecessors, he had a habit of making long speeches to prisoners on their conviction; but his intention was to help them to a better mode of life, not to aggravate their feelings by silly or coarse remarks. This habit, however, led him occasionally into enunciating principles which rather astonished his friends. In a murder case he found that the woman killed was not the wife of the prisoner but his mistress, which led his lordship to explain to the prisoner that it might have been some apology for his crime had the woman been his wife, because there was difficulty in getting rid of her any other way. But the victim being only his associate he could have left her at any time, and consequently there were absolutely no ameliorating circumstances in the case. From this point of view it would seem to have been (in Lord Moncreiff's eyes) less criminal to murder a wife than a mistress. In another, a bigamy case, after referring to the perfidy and cruelty to the women and their relations, Lord Cockburn reports him to have said: "All this is bad; but your true iniquity consists in this, that you degraded that holy ceremony which our blessed Saviour condescended to select as the type of the connection between him and His redeemed Church."

In the Court of Session, the judges who do not attend or give a proper excuse for their absence are (or were) liable to a fine. This, however, is never enforced: but it is customary on the first day of the session for the absentee to send an excuse to the Lord President. Lord Stonefield having sent an excuse, and the Lord President mentioning that he had done so, the Lord Justice-Clerk said: "What excuse can a stout fellow like him hae?"—"My lord," said the President, "he has lost his wife." To which the Justice-Clerk replied: "Has he? That is a gude excuse indeed, I wish we had a' the same."

Lord Cockburn's looks, tones, language, and manner were always such as to make one think that he believed every word he said. On one occasion, before he was raised to the Bench, when defending a murderer, although he failed to convince the judge and jurymen of the innocence of his client, yet he convinced the murderer himself that he was innocent. Sentence of death was pronounced, and the day of execution fixed for the 3rd of March. As Lord Cockburn was passing the condemned man, the latter seized him by the gown, saying: "I have not got justice!" To this the advocate coolly replied: "Perhaps not; but you'll get it on the 3rd of March."

Cockburn's racy humour displayed itself in another serious case; one in which a farm-servant was charged with maiming his master's cattle by cutting off their tails. A consultation was held on the question of the man's mental condition at which the farmer was present, and at the close of it some conversation took place about the disposal of the cattle. Turning to the farmer Cockburn said that they might be sold, but that he would have to dispose of them wholesale for he could not now retail them.

He was walking on the hillside on his estate of Bonaly, near Edinburgh, talking to his shepherd, and speculating about the reasons why his sheep lay on what seemed to be the least sheltered and coldest situation on the hill. Said his lordship: "John, if I were a sheep I would lie on the other side of the hill." The shepherd answered: "Ay, my lord; but if ye had been a sheep ye would have had mair sense."

Sitting long after the usual hour listening to a prosy counsel, Lord Cockburn was commiserated by a friend as they left the Court together with the remark: "Counsel has encroached very much on your time, my lord."—"Time, time," exclaimed his lordship; "he has exhausted time and encroached on eternity."

When a young advocate, Cockburn was a frequent visitor at Niddrie Marischal, near Edinburgh, the residence of Mr. Wauchope. This gentleman was very particular about church-going, but one Sunday he stayed at home and his young guest started for the parish church accompanied by one of his host's handsomest daughters. On their way they passed through the garden, and were so beguiled by the gooseberry bushes that the time slipped away and they found themselves too late for the service. At dinner the laird inquired of his daughter what the text was, and when she failed to tell him he put the question to Cockburn, who at once replied: "The woman whom thou gavest to be with me she gave me of the fruit and I did eat."

Jeffrey and Cockburn were counsel together in a case in which it was sought to prove that the heir of an estate was of low capacity, and therefore incapable of administrating his affairs. Jeffrey had vainly attempted to make a country witness understand his meaning as he spoke of the mental imbecility and impaired intellect of the party. Cockburn rose to his relief, and was successful at once. "D'ye ken young Sandy ——?"—"Brawly," said the witness; "I've kent him sin' he was a laddie."—"An' is there onything in the cratur, d'ye think?"—"Deed," responded the witness, "there's naething in him ava; he wadna ken a coo frae a cauf!"

When addressing the jury in a case in which an officer of the army was a witness, Jeffrey frequently referred to him as "this soldier." The witness, who was in Court, bore this for a time, but at last, exasperated, exclaimed, "I am not a soldier, I'm an officer!"—"Well, gentlemen of the jury," proceeded Jeffrey, "this officer, who on his own statement is no soldier," &c.

Patrick, Lord Robertson, one of the senators of the College of Justice, was a great humorist. He was on terms of intimacy with the late Mr. Alexander Douglas, W.S., who, on account of the untidiness of his person, was known by the sobriquet of "Dirty Douglas." Lord Robertson invited his friend to accompany him to a ball. "I would go," said Mr. Douglas, "but I don't care about my friends knowing that I attend balls."—"Why, Douglas," replied the senator, "put on a well-brushed coat and a clean shirt, and nobody will know you." When at the Bar, Robertson was frequently entrusted with cases by Mr. Douglas. Handing his learned friend a fee in Scottish notes, Mr. Douglas remarked: "These notes, Robertson, are, like myself, getting old."—"Yes, they're both old and dirty, Douglas," rejoined Robertson.

When Robertson was attending an appeal case in the House of Lords he received great attention from Lord Brougham. This gave rise to a report in the Parliament House of Edinburgh that the popular Tory advocate had "ratted" to the Liberal side in politics, which found expression in the following jeu d'esprit:

Lord Rutherford when at the Bar put an illustration to the Bench in connection with a church case. "Suppose the Justiciary Court condemned a man to be hanged, however unjustly, could that man come into this Court of Session and ask your lordships to interfere?" and he turned round very majestically to Robertson opposing him. "Oh, my lords," said Robertson, "a case of suspension, clearly."

When a sheriff, Rutherford, dining with a number of members of the legal profession, had to reply to the toast, "The Bench of Scotland." In illustration of a trite remark that all litigants could not be expected to have the highest regard for the judges who have tried their cases, he told the following story: A worthy but unfortunate south-country farmer had fought his case in the teeth of adverse decisions in the Lower Courts to the bitter end in one of the divisions of the Court of Session. After the decision of this tribunal affirming the judgment he had appealed against, and thus finally blasting his fondest hopes, he was heard to mutter as he left the Court: "They ca' themselves senators o' the College o' Justice, but it's ma opeenion they're a' the waur o' drink!"

It was only a small point of law, but the two counsel were hammering at each other tooth and nail. They had been submitting this and that to his lordship for twenty minutes, and growing more and more heated as they argued. At last: "You're an ass, sir!" shrieked one. "And you're a liar, sir!" roared the other. Then the judge woke up. "Now that counsel have identified each other," said he, "let us proceed to the disputed points."

A recent eminent judge of the Scottish Bench when sitting to an artist for his portrait was asked what he thought of the likeness. His lordship's reply was that he thought it good enough, but he would have liked "to see a little more dislike to Gladstone's Irish Bills in the expression."

Lord Shand's shortness of stature has been a theme of several stories. When he left Edinburgh after sitting as a judge of the Court of Session for eighteen years, one of his colleagues suggested that a statue ought to be erected to him. "Or shall we say a statuette?" was the remark of another friend. His lordship lived at Newhailes—the property of one of the Dalrymple family, several members of which were eminent judges in the late seventeenth and the early eighteenth centuries—and travelled to town by rail. The guard was a pawky Aberdonian, and had evidently been greatly struck by Lord Shand's appearance, for his customary salutation to him, delivered no doubt in a parental and patronising fashion, was: "And fu (how) are ye the day, ma lordie?" His lordship's manner of receiving this greeting is not recorded. Still another anecdote on the same subject is that when still an advocate, it was proposed to make Mr. Shand a Judge of Assize. On the proposal being mentioned to a colleague famous for his caustic wit, the latter with a good-humoured sneer which raised a hearty laugh at the expense of his genial friend, remarked: "Ah, a judge of a size, indeed."

Lord Young's wit was of this caustic turn and not infrequently was intended to sting the person to whom it was addressed. An advocate was wending his weary way through a case one day, and in the course of making a point he referred to a witness who had deponed that he had seen two different things at one time and consequently contradicted himself. Lord Young gave vent to the feelings of his colleagues in the Second Division of the Court, when he interrupted thus:

"Oh, Mr. B——, I can see more than two things at one time. I can see your paper, and beyond your paper I can see you, and beyond you I can see the clock, and I can see that you have been labouring for an hour over a point that is capable of being expressed in a sentence."

In the course of an argument in the same division, counsel had occasion to refer to "Fraser" (a brother judge) "on Husband and Wife." Lord Young, interrupting, asked: 'Hasn't Fraser another book?'—'Yes, my lord, 'Master and Servant!''—'Well,' said Lord Young, 'isn't that the same thing?'

Owing to a vacancy on the Bench having been kept open for a long period, Lord Young's roll had become very heavy. Hearing that a new colleague had been appointed, and like the late judge had adopted a title ending in "hill," he gratefully quoted the lines of the one hundred and twenty-first psalm:

Before the same judge, two prominent advocates in their day were debating a case. One of them was a particularly well-known figure, the feature of whose pinafore, if he wore one, would be its extensive girth. The other advocate, who happened to be rather slim, was addressing his lordship: "My learned friend and I are particularly at one upon this point. I may say, my lord, that we are virtually in the same boat." Here his opponent broke in: "No, no, my lord, we are nothing of the kind. I do not agree with that." Lord Young, leaning across the bench, remarked: "No, I suppose you would need a whole boat to yourself."

It is also attributed to Lord Young that, when Mr. Baird of Cambusdoon bequeathed a large sum of money to the Church of Scotland to found the lectureship delivered under the auspices of the Baird Trust, he remarked that it was the highest fire insurance premium he had ever heard of. "Possibly, my lord," observed a fire insurance manager who heard the remark; "but you will admit that cases occur where the premium scarcely covers the risk."

Lord Guthrie tells that when, as an advocate, he was engaged in a case before Lord Young, he mentioned that his client was a Free Church minister. "Well," said Lord Young, "that may be, but for all that he may perhaps be quite a respectable man."

And there is the story that when Mr. Young was Lord Advocate for Scotland a vacancy occurred on the Bench and two names were mentioned in connection with it. One was that of Mr. Horne, Dean of Faculty, a very tall man, and the other Lord Shand. "So, Mr. Young," said a friend, "you'll be going to appoint Horne?"—"I doubt if I will get his length," was the reply. "Oh, then," queried the friend, "you'll be going to appoint Shand?"—"It's the least I could do," answered the witty Lord Advocate.

"What is your occupation?" asked Lord Ardwall of a witness in a case. "A miner, sir."—"Good; and how old are you?"—"Twenty, sir."—"Ah, then you are a minor in more senses than one." Whereat, no doubt, the Court laughed. "Now, my lord, we come to the question of commission received by the witness, which I was forgetting," said a counsel before the same judge one day. "Ah, don't commit the omission of omitting the commission," replied his lordship.

An unfortunate miner had been hit on the head by a lump of coal, and the judges of the First Division of the Court of Session were considering whether his case raised a question of law or of fact. "The only law I can see in the matter," said Lord Maclaren, "is the law of gravitation."

In a fishing case heard in the Court of Session some years ago, a good deal of evidence was led on the subject of taking immature salmon from a river in the north. The case was an important one, and the evidence was taken down in shorthand notes and printed for the use of the judge and counsel next day. The evidence of one of the witnesses with respect to certain of the salmon taken was that "some of them were kelts." When his lordship turned over the pages of the printed evidence next morning to refresh his memory, he was astonished to find it stated by one of the witnesses in regard to the salmon that "some of them wore kilts."

Many other stories, particularly of the older judges, might be given, were they not too well known. We may therefore close this chapter with the following epigram by a Scottish writer, which is decidedly pointed and clever, and has the additional merit of being self-explanatory: