Since days when Sir Walter Scott gathered round him at the fireplace in the Parliament Hall of Edinburgh a company of young brother advocates to hear the latest of Lord Eskgrove's eccentric sayings from the Bench, that rendezvous has been the favourite resort for story-telling among succeeding generations of counsel. While the Court is in session, they vary their daily walk up and down the hall by lounging round the spot where the future Wizard of the North proved a strong counter-attraction to many an interesting case being argued before a Lord Ordinary in the alcoves on the opposite side of the hall, which was then the "Outer House." It is even asserted that this same fireplace is the hatchery of many of the amusing paragraphs daily appearing in a column of a certain Edinburgh newspaper. But of all the witticisms that have enlivened the dull hours of the briefless barrister in that historic hall during the past century, none will stand the test of time or be read with so much pleasure as those of that prince of wits, the Hon. Henry Erskine.

Hairry, as he was familiarly called both by judge and counsel, was in an eminent degree the "advocate of the people." It is said that a poor man in a remote district of Scotland thus answered an acquaintance who wished to dissuade him from "going to law" with a wealthy neighbour, by representing the hopelessness of being able to meet the expenses of litigation. "Ye dinna ken what ye're saying, maister," replied the litigious northerner; "there's no' a puir man in a' Scotland need want a freen' or fear a foe, sae lang as Hairry Erskine lives."

When the autocratic reign of Henry Dundas as Lord Advocate was for a time eclipsed, Henry Erskine was his successor in the Whig interest. In his good-humoured way Dundas proposed to lend Erskine his embroidered gown, suggesting that it would not be long before he (Dundas) would again be in office. "Thank you," said Hairry, "I am well aware it is made to suit any party, but it will never be said of me that I assumed the abandoned habits of my predecessor."

Having been speaking in the Outer House at the Bar of Lord Swinton, a very good, but a very slow and deaf judge, Erskine was called away to Lord Braxfield's Court. On appearing his lordship said: "Well, Dean" (he was then Dean of the Faculty of Advocates), "what is this you've been talking so loudly about to my Lord Swinton?"—"About a cask of whisky, my lord, but I found it no easy matter to make it run in his lordship's head."

He was once defending a client, a lady of the name of Tickell, before one of the judges who was an intimate friend, and he opened his address to his lordship in these terms: "Tickell, my client, my lord." But the judge was equal to the occasion and interrupted him by saying: "Tickle her yourself, Harry, you're as able to do it as I am."

Lord Balmuto was a ponderous judge and not very "gleg in the uptak" (did not readily see a point), and retained the utmost gravity while the whole Court was convulsed with laughter at some joke of the witty Dean. Hours later, when another case was being heard, the judge would suddenly exclaim: "Eh, Maister Hairry, a' hae ye noo, a' hae ye noo, vera guid, vera guid."

Hugo Arnot, a brother advocate, a tall, cadaverous-looking man, who suffered from asthma, was one day munching a speldin (a sun-dried whiting or small haddock, a favourite article supplied at that time, and till a generation ago, by certain Edinburgh shops). Erskine coming up to Arnot, the latter explained that he was having his lunch. "So I see," said Harry, "and you're very like your meat." On another occasion these two worthies were discussing future punishment for errors of the flesh, Arnot taking a liberal, and Erskine a strongly Calvinist view. As they were parting Erskine said to Arnot, referring to his spare figure:

Erskine's brother, the extremely eccentric Lord Buchan, who thought himself as great a jester as his two younger brothers, the Lord Chancellor of England and the Dean of Faculty of Advocates, one day putting his head below the lock of a door, exclaimed: "See, Harry, here's Locke on the Human Understanding."—"Rather a poor edition, my lord," replied the younger brother.

Sir James Colquhoun, Baronet of Luss, Principal Clerk of Session, towards the close of the eighteenth century was one of the odd characters of his time, and was made the butt of all the wags of the Parliament House. On one occasion, whilst Henry Erskine was in the Court in which Sir James was on duty, he amused himself by making faces at the Principal Clerk, who was greatly annoyed at the strange conduct of the tormenting lawyer. Unable to bear it longer, he disturbed the gravity of the Court by rising from the table at which he sat and exclaiming, "My lord, my lord, I wish you would speak to Harry, he's aye making faces at me." Harry, however, looked as grave as a judge and the work of the Court proceeded, until Sir James, looking again towards the bar, witnessed a new grimace from his tormentor, and convulsed Bench, Bar, and audience by roaring out: "There, there, my lord, see he's at it again."

Hugo Arnot's eccentricity took various forms. In his house in South St. Andrew Street, in the new town of Edinburgh, he greatly annoyed a lady who lived in the same tenement by the violence with which he kept ringing his bell for his servant. The lady complained; but what was her horror next day to hear several pistol-shots fired in the house, which was Arnot's new method of demanding his valet's immediate attendance.

In his professional capacity, however, he was guided by a high sense of honour and of moral obligation. In a case submitted for his consideration, which seemed to him to possess neither of these qualifications, he with a very grave face said to his client: "Pray what do you suppose me to be?"—"Why, sir," answered the client, "I understood you to be a lawyer."—"I thought, sir," replied Arnot, "you took me for a scoundrel." On another occasion he was consulted by a lady, not remarkable either for youth or beauty or for good temper, as to the best method of getting rid of the importunities of a rejected admirer. After having told her story and claiming a relationship with him because her own name was Arnot, she wound up with: "Ye maun advise me what I ought to do with this impertinent fellow."—"Oh, marry him by all means, it's the only way to get quit of his importunities," was Arnot's advice. "I would see him hanged first," retorted the lady. "Nay, madam," rejoined Arnot, "marry him directly as I said before, and by the Lord Harry he'll soon hang himself."

Of the convivial habits of the Bar as well as the Bench in Scotland at this period many stories are told. The Second Lord President Dundas once refused to listen to counsel who obviously showed signs of having come into Court fresh from a tavern debauch. The check given by the President appeared to effect some sobering of the counsel's faculties and he immediately addressed his lordship upon the dignity of the Faculty of Advocates, winding up a long harangue with: "It is our duty and our privilege to speak, my lord, and it is your duty and your privilege to hear."

Another counsel in a similar condition of haziness hurriedly entered the Court and took up the case in which he was engaged; but forgetting for which side he had been fee'd, to the unutterable amazement of the agent, delivered a long and fervent speech in the teeth of the interests he had been expected to support. When at last the agent made him understand the mistake he had made, he with infinite composure resumed his oration by saying: "Such, my lord, is the statement you will probably hear from my brother on the opposite side of the case. I shall now show your lordship how utterly untenable are the principles and how distorted are the facts upon which this very specious statement has proceeded." And so he went over the same ground and most angelically refuted himself from the beginning of his former pleading to the end.

When a barrister, pleading before Lord Mansfield, pronounced a Latin word with a false quantity his lordship rarely let the opportunity pass without exhibiting his own precise knowledge of that language. "My lords," said the Scottish advocate, Crosbie, at the bar of the House of Lords, "I have the honour to appear before your lordships as counsel for the Curators."—"Ugh," groaned the Westminster-Oxford law lord, softening his reproof by an allusion to his Scottish nationality, "Curators, Mr. Crosbie, Curators: I wish our countrymen would pay a little more attention to prosody."—"My lord," replied Mr. Crosbie, with delightful readiness and composure, "I can assure you that our countrymen are very proud of your lordship as the greatest senator and orator of the present age."

A very young Scottish advocate, afterwards an eminent judge on the Scottish Bench, pleading before the House of Lords, ventured to challenge some early judgments of that House, on which he was abruptly asked by Lord Brougham: "Do you mean, sir, to call in question the solemn decisions of this venerable tribunal?"—"Yes, my lord," coolly replied the young counsel, "there are some people in Scotland who are bold enough to dispute the soundness of some of your lordship's own decisions."

Sheriff Logan, when pleading before Lord Cunningham in a case which involved numerous points of form, on some of which he ventured to express an opinion, was repeatedly interrupted by old Beveridge, the judge's clerk—a great authority on matters of form—who unfortunately possessed a very large nasal organ, which literally overhung his mouth. "No, no," said the clerk, as the sheriff was quietly explaining the practice in certain cases. On which Logan, somewhat nettled at the blunt interruption, coolly replied: "But, my lord, I say: 'Yes, yes, yes,' in spite of Mr. Beveridge's noes."

In the days of Sheriff Harper, Mr. Richard Lees, solicitor, Galashiels, was engaged in a case for a client who was not overburdened with the necessary funds for legal proceedings. However, he was thought good enough for the expenses in the case. The action went against Mr. Lees' client, and then Mr. Lees rose to plead for modified expenses. But the client leant across to speak to the lawyer and said in a hoarse whisper audible over the Court: "Dinna stent (limit) yoursels for the expenses for a haena a fardin'." This was too much even for the gravity of the Bench.

Not many years ago, in the High Court at Glasgow, a case was heard before an eminent judge still on the Scottish Bench, in which the accused had committed a very serious assault and robbery. He was unable to engage counsel for his defence, and the usual course was adopted of putting his case in the hands of "counsel for the poor." There was really no defence; but the young advocate who undertook the task had to make the best of it, and the plea he put forward was that the accused was so drunk at the time he did not know what he was doing. It was the best thing he could do in the circumstances, as all the success he could expect to make with a well-known felon was a mitigation of the sentence. When it came to his time to address the Court, he set out in the following fashion: "My lord and gentlemen of the jury, you all know what it is to be drunk."

It is most important to be exact in stating the times of the movements of a person accused of murder. In a recent case this point was very minutely examined by an advocate in the Scottish Court. One witness deponed that she saw the accused in a certain place at 5.40 P.M. "Are you sure," asked the learned counsel in a tone calculated to make a witness not quite sure after all, "are you sure it was not twenty minutes to six?" And then he seemed surprised at the laughter his question had raised.

When Mr. Ludovick Mair, who was a very short man, was Sheriff-Substitute of Lanarkshire, he was called upon, at an Ayrshire Burns Club dinner, to propose the toast of the "Ayrshire Lasses." After alluding to the honour that had been conferred upon him, happily said that "Provided his fair clients were prepared to be 'contented wi' little and canty wi' mair,' he had no compunction in performing the agreeable duty."

In the Glasgow Small Debt Court where the sheriff frequently presided, a young lawyer's exhaustive eloquence in striving to prove that his client was not due the sum sued for, drew from his lordship the following interruption: "Excuse me, sir, but throughout the conflict and turmoil engendered by this desperate dispute with the pursuer I presume the British Empire is not in any danger?"—"No, my lord," came the reply, "but I fear after that interrogation from your lordship my client's case is?"

On one occasion the sheriff, becoming impatient with an agent's protracted speech, rebuked him thus: "Be brief, be brief, my dear sir; time is short and eternity is long!" And again on being asked by an agent not to allow a witty old Irishman to act as the spokesman of "the defendant" on the ground that the Irishman was not now in the defendant's employment, the sheriff sternly said to the would-be witness: "Now, answer me truthfully, mirthful Michael, are you or are you not in the defendant's employment?"—"Well, my lord of lords," was the reply, "that is to say, in the learned phraseology of the law, pro tem I am and ultimo and proximo I amn't."

Two stories are told of the late Sheriff Balfour. His lordship was addressing a prisoner at unusual length, when he was interrupted more than once by a sotto voce observation from his then clerk, who was very impatient when the luncheon hour drew near. Accustomed to this interruption, the sheriff, as a rule, took no notice of them. On this occasion, however, he threw down his quill with a show of annoyance, leaned back in his chair, and addressed the interrupter thus: "I say, Mr. ——, are you, or am I, sheriff here?" Promptly came the unabashed reply: "You, of course; but your lordship knows that this woman has been frequently here," meaning that it was idle to address words of counsel to the prisoner. On another occasion, the sheriff was pulled up by a male prisoner, who took exception to his version of the story of the crime, and concluded: "So you see I've got your lordship there."—"Have you?" was the sheriff's rejoinder. "No, but I've got you—three months hard."

A law agent was talking at length against an opinion which Sheriff Balfour had already indicated. Twice the sheriff essayed in vain to stay the torrent that was flowing uselessly past the mill. At last, in a more decided tone, he asked the agent to allow him just one word, after which he would engage not to interrupt him again. "Certainly, milord," said the agent. "Decree," said the sheriff.

Counsel who are briefless and who spend much time in perambulating the floor of Parliament Hall should be as careful in their dress as their more fortunate neighbours who jostle each other in the lobbies as they rush from one Court to another. A company of Americans visiting the Courts one day made a casual inquiry of one of the advocates "in waiting," who politely offered to show them all that is to be seen. As they were leaving, one of the party caught hold of a passing solicitor and after apologising for stopping him inquired: "This—this—this gentleman has been very good in showing us over your beautiful place. Would it be correct to give him something?"—"Yes, certainly," said the busy practitioner, "and it will be the first fee he has earned, to my knowledge, for the last ten years."

An advocate of the present day, in trying to induce the Second Division of the Court of Session to reverse a decision pronounced in Glasgow Sheriff Court somewhat startled the Bench by reminding them that their lordships were only mortal after all. "Are you quite sure of that?" asked the presiding judge. Counsel judiciously refrained from replying to this poser. The incident recalls an occasion in the Second Division when it was presided over by Lord Justice-Clerk Moncreiff. A junior counsel was debating a case in the division, and, apparently finding he was not making much headway, invited their lordships to imagine for the moment that they were navvies, and to look at the question from the point of view of the worker. In stately tones the Lord Justice-Clerk informed the audacious junior that his invitation was unsuited to the dignity of the Court.

A learned counsel at the Bar prided himself on the juvenility of his appearance, and boasted that he looked twenty years younger than he was. He was cross-examining a very prepossessing and uncommonly self-possessed young woman as to the age of a person whom she knew quite well, but could get no satisfactory answer. "Well," he persisted, "but surely you must have been able to make a good guess at his age, having seen him often."—"People don't always look their age."—"No, but you can surely form a good idea from their looks. Now, how old should you say I am?" "You might be sixty by your looks, but judging by the questions you ask I should say about sixteen!"

Much amusement is afforded by the answers given by witnesses to judges and counsel. They form the theme of legions of stories, and we append a selection to this chapter of legal wit of the Bar.

An Irishman before Lord Ardwall was giving evidence on the question whether having lived eleven years in Glasgow he was a domiciled Scotsman. He swore that he was, and as a question of succession depended upon the domicile the point was of importance. The opposing counsel thought he had him cornered when on the list of voters for an Irish constituency he found the witness's name. But Pat was equal to the occasion. "It's a safe sate," he said; "they never revise the lists," and by way of clinching the argument, he added: "Shure there's men in Oireland who have been in their graves for twenty years who voted at the last election."

Legal gentlemen sometimes resort to methods not quite in accordance with usual practice to elicit information from stubborn witnesses. In Glasgow Sheriff Court one day a somewhat long and involved question was addressed by the cross-examining agent to a witness who, from his stout build and imperturbable manner, looked the embodiment of Scottish caution. The witness, who was not to be so easily "had," having regarded his questioner with a steady gaze for the space of almost a minute, at last broke silence: "Would you mind, sir," said he, "just repeating that question, and splitting it into bits?" And after the Court had regained its composure the discomfited agent humbly proceeded to subdivide the question.

In the old days when Highlanders "kist oot" (quarrelled) they resorted to the claymore, but the hereditary fighting spirit appears nowadays in an appeal to the law. Perth Sheriff Courts witness many a "bout" between the stalwarts, who are not amiss to clash all round if need be. "You must have been in very questionable company at the show?" inquired a sheriff of a farmer. "Weel, ma lord—you wis the last gentleman I spoke to that day as I was coming oot!" was his reply.

The pointed insinuation to another witness in a claim case at the same Court. "I think I have seen you here rather often of late," drew the reply, "Nae doot, if a'm no takin' onybody here—then it's them that's takin' me!"

Quite recently an old farmer in Perthshire, who had been rather severely cross-examined by the opposing counsel, had his sweet revenge when the sheriff, commenting on the case, inquired: "There seems to be a great deal of dram-dramming at C—— on Tuesdays, I imagine?"—"Aye, whiles," was the canny reply—and immediately following it up, as he pointed across at the rival lawyer, he continued—"an' that nicker ower there can tak' a bit dram wi' the best o' them!"

A young advocate, as junior in a licensing club case, had to cross-examine the certifying Justice of the Peace who was very diffuse and rather evasive in his answers. "Speak a little more simply and to the point, please," said counsel mildly. "You are a little ambiguous, you know."—"I am not, sir," replied the witness indignantly; "I have been teetotal for a year."

It is a fact well known to lawyers that it is a risky thing to call witnesses to character unless you know exactly beforehand what they are going to say. Here is an instance in point. "You say you have known the prisoner all your life?" said the counsel. "Yes, sir," was the reply. "Now," was the next question, "in your opinion is he a man who is likely to have been guilty of stealing this money?"—"Well," said the witness thoughtfully, "how much was it?"

In a County Sheriff Court his lordship addressed a witness: "You said you drove a milk-cart, didn't you?" "No, sir, I didn't."—"Don't you drive a milk-cart?" "No, sir."—"Ah! then what do you do, sir?"—"I drive a horse."

A well-known lawyer not now in practice, who had risen from humble parentage to be Procurator Fiscal of his county, once got a sharp retort from a witness in Court. It was a case of law-burrows—well known in Scotland—which requires a person to give security against doing violence to another. A lady had assaulted a priest who in the discharge of his duty had been visiting her husband—a member of his flock. The lady was herself a Protestant, and suspected the reverend gentleman of designs on her husband's property for behoof of his Church. The witness in the box was prepared on every point, and the following dialogue ensued—P.F.: "Who was your father?" Lady: "My father was a gentleman." P.F.: "Yes, but who was he?" Lady: "He was a good man and much respected, although he didn't make such a noise in the world as yours." The P.F.'s father had been the town crier.

Perhaps it was to the same lawyer who asked the question of a labouring man: "Are you the husband of the previous witness?" and got the answer: "I dinna ken onything aboot the previous witness, but if it was Mrs. ——, a'm her man."

The macer who calls the cases coming before the judges in Court was in older days an interesting personality. Lord Cockburn recalls the time when this duty was performed by the "crier" putting his head out of a small window high up in the wall of the Parliament House and shouting down to the counsel and agents assembled below him. Now it is performed from a raised dais on the floor of the hall, and it is no joke when the macer has to call in stentorian tones such a case as "Dampskibsselskabet Danmary v. John Smith." Learned members of the Faculty approach such a difficulty otherwise. During "motions" one day an astute counsel said, "In number 11 of your lordship's roll." "What did you call it?" inquired the judge. "I called it number 11," naÏvely replied counsel. The case was "Fiskiveidschlutafjelagid Island v. Standard Fishing Company."

The administration of the oath in Courts of Justice is apt to become perfunctory, and some sheriffs shorten the formula, so that it is administered somewhat after this fashion: "I swearbalmitygod, that I will tell the truth, the wholetruth, anothingbuthetruth." There is one sheriff more punctilious, and recently he administered the oath to a female witness, making her recite it in sections after him. "I swear by Almighty God" (pause). Witness: "I swear by Almighty God."—"As I shall answer to God." Witness: "As I shall answer to God."—"At the Great Day of Judgment." The witness stumbled over this clause, and the sheriff had to repeat it twice. As she ran more glibly over the concluding words, the sheriff remarked: "It's extraordinary how many people come to this Court who seem never to have heard of that great occasion."

This is what took place in a Glasgow Court. Sheriff: "Repeat this after me, 'I swear by Almighty God.'" Witness: "I swear by Almighty God." Sheriff: "I will tell the truth." Witness: "I will tell the truth." Sheriff: "The whole truth." Witness: "I HOPE so!"

In Edinburgh Sheriff Small Debt Court the oath was administered to a witness who was dull of hearing. "I swear by Almighty God," said the sheriff. The witness put his hollowed hand to his ear and asked: "Wha dae ye sweer by?" Many Court reporters have heard a witness swear to tell "the truth, the whole truth, and anything but the truth"; and one old lady (mistaking certain words recited by the judge) affirmed her determination to tell the truth "with a great deal of judgment."

As we indicated at the beginning of this volume, stories of wit and humour from the ranks of agents in the legal profession are much rarer than in those of the Bench and the Bar. From the Court of Session Garland we quote the following relating to a worthy practitioner in the days when Councillor Pleydell played "high jinks" in his favourite tavern.

In old times some stray agents in Scotland might be found who were not particularly distinguished for professional attainments, and who sometimes could not "draw" a paper as it is termed. One of these worthies was impressed with the idea that his powers were equal to the preparation of a petition for the appointment of a factor. His clerk was summoned, pens, ink, and paper placed before him, and the process of dictation commenced: "Unto the Right Honourable." "Right Honourable," echoed the clerk. "The Lords of Council and Session."—"Session," continued the scribe—"the Petition of Alexander Macdonald, tenant in Skye—Skye—humbly sheweth—sheweth." "Stop, John, read what I've said."—"Yes, sir. 'Unto the Right Honourable the Lords of Council and Session the Petition of Alexander Macdonald, tenant in Skye, humbly sheweth.'"—"Very well, John, very well. Where did you stop?"—"Humbly sheweth—that the petitioner—petitioner"—here a pause for a minute—"that the petitioner. It's down, sir." Here the master got up, walked about the room, scratched his head, took snuff, but in vain; the inspiration had fled with the mysterious word "petitioner." The clerk looked up somewhat amazed that his master had got that length, and at last ventured to suggest that the difficulty might be got over. "How, John?" exclaimed his master. "As you have done the most important part, what would you say, sir, to send the paper to be finished by Mr. M—— with a guinea?"—"The very thing, John, tak' the paper to Mr. M——, and as we've done the maist fickle pairt of the work he's deevilish weel aff wi' a guinea."

We are indebted to the author of that capital collection of Scottish anecdote, Thistledown, for the following story, as illustrating one of the many humorous attempts to get the better of the law, and one in which the lawyer was "hoist with his own petard." A dealer having hired a horse to a lawyer, the latter, either through bad usage or by accident, killed the beast, upon which the hirer insisted upon payment of its value; and if it was not convenient to pay costs, he expressed his willingness to accept a bill. The lawyer offered no objection, but said he must have a long date. The hirer desired him to fix his own time, whereupon the writer drew a promissory note, making it payable at the day of judgment. An action ensued, when in defence, the lawyer asked the judge to look at the bill. Having done so, the judge replied: "The bill is perfectly good, sir; and as this is the day of judgment, I decree that you pay to-morrow."

Joseph Gillon was a well-known Writer to the Signet early in the nineteenth century. Calling on him at his office one day, Sir Walter Scott said, "Why, Joseph, this place is as hot as an oven."—"Well," quoth Gillon, "and isn't it here that I make my bread?"

A celebrated Scottish preacher and pastor was visiting the house of a solicitor who was one of his flock, but had a reputation of indulging in sharp practice. The minister was surprised to meet there two other members of his flock whose relations with the solicitor were not at the time known to be friendly or otherwise. In course of conversation the solicitor, alluding to some disputed point, appealed to the minister: "Doctor, these are members of your flock; may I ask whether you look on them as black or as white sheep?"—"I don't know," answered the minister, "whether they are black or white sheep; but this I know, that if they are long here they are pretty sure to be fleeced."

Apropos of this story is the one of a Scottish countrywoman who applied to a respectable solicitor for advice. After detailing all the circumstances of the case, she was asked if she had stated the facts exactly as they had occurred. "Ou ay, sir," rejoined the applicant; "I thought it best to tell you the plain truth; you can put the lees till't yoursel'."

The Lawyer's Toast

At a dinner of a Scots Law Society, the president called upon an old solicitor present to give as a toast the person whom he considered the best friend of the profession. "Then," said the gentleman very slyly, "I'll give you 'The Man who makes his own will.'"