From the middle of the thirteenth century the senior rank to which a barrister could attain at the Bar was that of serjeant-at-law, and from that body, which existed until 1875, the judges were selected. If a barrister below the rank of serjeant was invited to take a seat on the Bench he invariably conformed to the recognised custom and "took the coif"—became a serjeant-at-law—before he was sworn as one of his (or her) Majesty's judges. This explains the term "brother" applied by judges when addressing serjeants pleading before them in Court. "Taking the coif" had a curious origin. It was customary in very early times for the clergy to add to their clerical duties that of a legal practitioner, by which considerable fees were obtained, and when the Canon law forbade them engaging in all secular occupations the remuneration they had obtained from the law-courts proved too strong a temptation to evade the new law. They continued therefore to practise in the Courts, and to hide their clerical identity they concealed the tonsure by covering the upper part of their heads with a black cap or coif. When ultimately clerical barristers were driven from the law-courts, the "coif" or black patch on the crown of a barrister's wig became the symbol of the rank of serjeant-at-law. That this distinguishing mark has been, in later years, occasionally misunderstood is illustrated in the story of Serjeant Allen and Sir Henry Keating, Q.C., who were opposed to one another in a case before the Assize Court at Stafford. During the hearing of the case a violent altercation had taken place between them, but when the Court rose they left the building together, walking amicably to their lodgings. Two men who had been in Court and had heard their wrangle were following behind them, when one said to the other: "If you was in trouble, Bill, which o' them two tip-top 'uns would you have to defend you?"—"Well, Jim," was the reply, "I should pitch upon this 'un," pointing to the Q.C. "Then you'd be a fool," said his companion; "the fellow with the sore head is worth six of t'other 'un."

There used to be a student joke against the serjeants. "Why is a serjeant's speech like a tailor's goose?"—"Because it is hot and heavy."

"Taking silk," or becoming a K.C. and a senior at the Bar, originated at a much later date than that of serjeant-at-law. Lord Bacon was the first to be recognised as Queen's Counsel, but this distinction arose from his position as legal adviser to Queen Elizabeth, and did not indicate the existence of a senior body (as K.C. does now) among the barristers of that period. The institution of the rank dates from the days of Charles II, when Sir Francis North, Lord Guildford, was created King's Counsel by a writ issued under the Great Seal. As was customary in the case of a barrister proposing to "take the coif," so in that of one proposing to "take silk"; he intimates to the seniors already holding the rank that he intends to apply for admission to the body. A story is current in the Temple that when Mr. Justice Eve "took silk" the usual notification of his intention was sent to the seniors, and from one of them he received the following reply: "My dear Eve, whether you wear silk or a fig-leaf, I do not care.—A Dam."

Our selection of facetiÆ of the English Bar, therefore, naturally opens with stories of the serjeants-at-law, and one of the best-known members of that body in early days was Serjeant Hill, a celebrated lawyer, who was also somewhat remarkable for absence of mind, which was attributed to the earnestness with which he devoted himself to his professional duties.

On the very day when he was married, he had an intricate case on hand, and forgot his engagement, until reminded of his waiting bride, and that the legal time for performing the ceremony had nearly elapsed. He then quitted law for the church; after the ceremony, the serjeant returned to his books and his papers, having forgotten the cause he had been engaged in during the morning, until again reminded by his clerk that the assembled company impatiently awaited his presence at dinner.

Being once on Circuit, and having occasion to refer to a law authority, he had recourse, as usual, to his bag; but, to the astonishment of the Court, instead of a volume of Viner's abridgment, he took out a specimen candlestick, the property of a Birmingham traveller, whose bag Serjeant Hill had brought into Court by mistake.

A learned serjeant kept the Court waiting one morning for a few minutes. The business of the Court commenced at nine. "Brother," said the judge, "you are behind your time this morning. The Court has been waiting for you."—"I beg your lordship's pardon," replied the serjeant; "I am afraid I was longer than usual in dressing."—"Oh," returned the judge, "I can dress in five minutes at any time."—"Indeed!" said the learned brother, a little surprised for the moment; "but in that my dog Shock beats your lordship hollow, for he has nothing to do but to shake his coat, and thinks himself fit for any company."

Serjeant Davy, when at the height of his professional career, once received a large brief on which a fee of two guineas only was marked on the back. His client asked him if he had read the brief. Pointing with his finger to the fee, Davy replied: "As far as that I have read, and for the life of me I can read no further." Of the same eminent serjeant in his earlier years an Old Baily story is told. Judge Gould, who presided, asked: "Who is concerned for the prisoner?"—"I am concerned for him, my lord," said Davy, "and very much concerned after what I have just heard."

If Serjeant Davy was concerned about his client, Serjeant Miller had no such scruple about the man charged with horse stealing whom he successfully defended, although the evidence convinced the judge and everybody in the Court that there ought to have been a conviction. When the trial was over and the prisoner had been acquitted, the judge said to him: "Prisoner, luckily for you, you have been found Not Guilty by the jury, but you know perfectly well you stole that horse. You may as well tell the truth, as no harm can happen to you now by a confession, for you cannot be tried again. Now tell me, did you not steal that horse?" "Well, my lord," replied the man, "I always thought I did, until I heard my counsel's speech, but now I begin to think I didn't."

In the days of "riding" and "driving circuit," and even later, the Circuit mess was a very popular institution with circuiteers, and was made the occasion of much merriment. After the table had been cleared a fictitious charge would be made against one of the barristers present, and a mock tribunal was immediately constituted before which he was arraigned and his case duly set forth with all solemnity. The victim was invariably fined—generally in wine, which had to be paid at once, and consumed before the company retired to bed. On one such occasion Serjeant Prime, who is represented as a good-natured but rather dull man, and as a barrister wearisome beyond comparison, was engaged in an important case in an over-crowded courtroom. He had been speaking for three hours, when a boy, seated on a beam above the heads of the audience, overcome by the heat and the serjeant's monotonous tones, fell asleep, and, losing his balance, tumbled down on the people below. The incident was made the subject of a charge against the serjeant at the mess, and he was duly sentenced to pay a fine of two dozen of wine, which he did with the greatest good humour.

Serjeant Wilkins, on one occasion, on defending a prisoner, said: "Drink has upon some an elevating, upon others a depressing, effect; indeed, there is a report, as we all know, that an eminent judge, when at the Bar, was obliged to resort to heavy drinking in the morning, to reduce himself to the level of the judges." Lord Denman, the judge, who had no love for Wilkins, bridled up instantly. His voice trembled with indignation as he uttered the words: "Where is the report, sir? Where is it?" There was a death-like silence. Wilkins calmly turned round to the judge and said: "It was burnt, my lord, in the Temple fire." The effect of this was considerable, and it was a long time before order could be restored, but Lord Denman was one of the first to acknowledge the wit of the answer.

Difference of manner or temperament sometimes gives point to the collisions which occasionally occur in Court between rival counsel. Serjeant Wilkins, who had an inflated style of oratory, was once opposed in a case to Serjeant Thomas, whose manner of delivery was lighter and more lively. On the conclusion of a heavy bombardment of ponderous Johnsonian sentences from the former, Thomas rose, and, with his eyes fixed on his opponent, prefaced his address to the jury with the words, delivered with much solemnity of manner and intonation: "And now the hurly-burly's done."

Dunning was defending a gentleman in an action brought from crim. con. with the plaintiff's wife. The chief witness for the plaintiff was the lady's maid, a clever, self-composed person, who spoke confidently as to seeing the defendant in bed with her mistress. Dunning, on rising to cross-examine her, first made her take off her bonnet, that they might have a good view of her face, but this did not discompose her, as she knew she was good-looking. He then arranged his brief, solemnly drew up his shirt sleeves, and then began: "Are you sure it was not your master you saw in bed with your mistress?"—"Perfectly sure."—"What, do you pretend to say you can be certain when the head only appeared from the bedclothes, and that enveloped in a nightcap?"—"Quite certain."—"You have often found occasion, then, to see your master in his nightcap?"—"Yes—very frequently."—"Now, young woman, I ask you, on your solemn oath, does not your master occasionally go to bed with you?"—"Oh, that trial does not come on to-day, Mr. Slabberchops!" replied the witness. A loud shout of laughter followed, and Lord Mansfield leaned back to enjoy it, and then gravely leaned forward and asked if Mr. Dunning had any more questions to put to the witness. No answer was given, and none were put. The same counsel, when at the height of his large practice at the Bar, was asked how he got through all his work. He replied: "I do one-third of it; another third does itself; and I don't do the remaining third."

A witness under severe cross-examination by Serjeant Dunning was repeatedly asked if he did not live close to the Court. On admitting that he did, the further question was put, "And pray, sir, for what reason did you take up your residence in that place?"—"To avoid the rascally impertinence of dunning," came the ready answer.

A barrister's name once gave a witness the opportunity to score in the course of a severe cross-examination. Missing was the leader of his Circuit and was defending his client charged with stealing a donkey. The prosecutor had left the donkey tied up to a gate, and when he returned it was gone. "Do you mean to say," said counsel, "the donkey was stolen from the gate?"—"I mean to say, sir," said the witness, giving the judge and then the jury a sly look, at the same time pointing to the counsel, "the ass was missing."

Mr. Clarke, a leader of the Midland Circuit, was a very worthy lawyer of the old school. A client long refusing to agree to refer to arbitration a cause which judge, jury, and counsel wished to get rid of, he at last said to him, "You d—d infernal fool, if you do not immediately follow his lordship's recommendation, I shall be obliged to use strong language to you." Once, in a council of the Benchers of Lincoln's Inn, the same gentleman very conscientiously opposed their calling a Jew to the Bar. Some tried to point out the hardship to be imposed upon the young gentleman, who had been allowed to keep his terms, and whose prospects in life would thus be suddenly blasted. "Hardship!" said the zealous churchman, "no hardship at all! Let him become a Christian, and be d—d to him!"

It is sometimes imagined by laymen that verdicts may be obtained by the trickery of counsel. Doubtless counsel may try to throw dust in the eyes of jurors, but they are not very successful. Lord Campbell tells a story of Clarke, who by such tactics brought a case to a satisfactory compromise. The attorney, coming to him privately, said, "Sir, don't you think we have got very good terms? But you rather went beyond my instructions."—"You fool!" retorted Clarke; "how do you suppose you could have got such terms if I had stuck to your instructions."

In the biography of John Adolphus, a famous criminal lawyer, we are told that the judges of his time were much impressed with the following table of degrees. "The three degrees of comparison in a lawyer's progress are: getting on; getting on-er (honour); getting on-est (honest)." He declared the judges acknowledged much truth in the degrees. The third degree in Mr. Adolphus' table reminds us of the story of the farmer who was met by the head of a firm of solicitors, who inquired the name of a plant the farmer was carrying. "It's a plant," replied the latter, "that will not grow in a lawyer's garden; it is called honesty."

One night, walking through St. Giles's by way of a short cut towards home, an Irish woman came up to Mr. Adolphus. "Why, Misther Adolphus! and who'd a' thought of seeing you in the Holy Ground?"—"And how came you to know who I am?" said Adolphus. "Lord bless and save ye, sir! not know ye? Why, I'd know ye if ye was boiled up in a soup!"

Mr. Montagu Chambers was counsel for a widow who had been put in a lunatic asylum, and sued the two medical men who signed the certificate of her insanity. The plaintiff's case was to prove that she was not addicted to drinking, and that there was no pretence for treating hers as a case of delirium tremens. Dr. Tunstal, the last of plaintiff's witnesses, described one case in which he had cured a patient of delirium tremens in a single night, and he added, "It was a case of gradual drinking, sipping all day from morning till night." These words were scarcely uttered when Mr. Chambers rose in triumph, and said, "My lord, that is my case."

On the Northern Circuit a century ago, there was a famous barrister who was familiarly known among his brother advocates as Jack Lee. He was engaged in examining one Mary Pritchard, of Barnsley, and began his examination with, "Well, Mary, if I may credit what I hear, I may venture to address you by the name of Black Moll."—"Faith you may, mister lawyer, for I am always called so by the blackguards." On another occasion he was retained for the plaintiff in an action for breach of promise of marriage. When the consultation took place, he inquired whether the lady for whose injury he was to seek redress was good-looking. "Very handsome indeed, sir," was the assurance of her attorney. "Then, sir," replied Lee, "I beg you will request her to be in Court, and in a place where she can be seen." The attorney promised compliance, and the lady, in accordance with Lee's wishes, took her seat in a conspicuous place, where the jury could see her. Lee, in addressing the jury, did not fail to insist with great warmth on the "abominable cruelty" which had been exercised towards "the highly attractive and modest girl who trusted her cause to their discernment"; and did not sit down until he had succeeded in working upon their feelings with great and, as he thought, successful effect. The counsel on the other side, however, speedily broke the spell with which Lee had enchanted the jury, by observing that "his learned friend, in describing the graces and beauty of the plaintiff, ought in common fairness not to have concealed from the jury the fact that the lady had a wooden leg!" The Court was convulsed with laughter at this discovery, while Lee, who was ignorant of this circumstance, looked aghast; and the jury, ashamed of the influence that mere eloquence had had upon them, returned a verdict for the defendant.

Justice Willes, the son of Chief Justice Willes, had an offensive habit of interrupting counsel. On one occasion an old practitioner was so irritated by this practice that he retorted sharply by saying, "Your lordship doubtless shows greater acuteness even than your father, the Chief Justice, for he used to understand me after I had done, but your lordship understands me even before I have begun."

Of Whigham, a later leader on the Northern Circuit, an amusing story used to be told. He was defending a prisoner, and opened an alibi in his address to the jury, undertaking to prove it by calling the person who had been in bed with his client at the time in question, and deprecating their evil opinion of a woman whose moral character was clearly open to grave reproach, but who was still entitled to be believed upon her oath. Then he called "Jessie Crabtree." The name was, as usual, repeated by the crier, and there came pushing his way sturdily through the crowd a big Lancashire lad in his rough dress, who had been the prisoner's veritable bedfellow—Whigham's brief not having explained to him that the Christian name of his witness was, in this case, a male one.

Colman, in his Random Records, tells the following anecdote of the witty barrister, Mr. Jekyll. One day observing a squirrel in Colman's chambers, in the usual round cage, performing the same operation as a man in a tread-mill, and looking at it for a minute, exclaimed, "Oh! poor devil, he's going the Home Circuit."

Jekyll was asked why he no longer spoke to a lawyer named Peat; to which he replied, "I choose to give up his acquaintance—I have common of turbary, and have a right to cut peat!" An impromptu of his on a learned serjeant who was holding the Court of Common Pleas with his glittering eye, is well known:

Mr. H. L. Adam, in his volume The Story of Crime, tells an amusing story of a prisoner whose counsel had successfully obtained his acquittal on a charge of brutal assault. A policeman came across a man one night lying unconscious on the pavement, and near by him was an ordinary "bowler" hat. That was the only clue to the perpetrator of the deed. The police had their suspicions of a certain individual, whom they proceeded to interrogate. In addition to being unable to give a satisfactory account of his movements on the night of the assault, it was found that the "bowler" hat in question fitted him like a glove. He was accordingly arrested and charged with the crime, the hat being the chief evidence against him. Counsel for the defence, however, dwelt so impressively on the risk of accepting such evidence that the jury brought in a verdict of "not proven," and the prisoner was discharged. Before leaving the dock he turned to the judge, and pointing to the hat in Court, said, "My lord, may I 'ave my 'at."

Some amusing scenes have occurred in suits brought by tailors and dressmakers to recover the price of garments for which their customers have declined to pay on the ground of misfit. Serjeant Ballantine, in his Experiences of a Barrister, relates the case of a tailor in which the defendant was the famous Sir Edwin Landseer. It was tried in the Exchequer Court, before Baron Martin. "The coat was produced," says the serjeant, "and the judge suggested that Sir Edwin should try it on; he made a wry face, but consented, and took off his own upper garment. He then put an arm into one of the sleeves of that in dispute, and made an apparently ineffectual endeavour to reach the other, following it round amidst roars of laughter from all parts of the Court. It was a common jury, and I was told that there was a tailor upon it, upon which I suggested that there was a gentleman of the same profession as the plaintiff in Court who might assist Sir Edwin. This was acceded to, and out hopped a little Hebrew slop-seller from the Minories, to whom the defendant submitted his body. With difficulty he got into the coat, and then stood as if spitted, his back one mass of wrinkles. The tableau was truly amusing; the indignant plaintiff looking at the performance with mingled horror and disgust; Sir Edwin, as if he were choking; whilst the juryman, with the air of a connoisseur, was examining him and the coat with profound gravity. At last the judge, when able to stifle his laughter, addressing the little Hebrew, said, 'Well, Mr. Moses, what do you say?'—'Oh,' cried he, holding up a pair of hands not over clean, and very different from those encased in lavender gloves which graced the plaintiff, 'it ish poshitively shocking, my lord; I should have been ashamed to turn out such a thing from my establishment.' The rest of the jury accepted his view, and Sir Edwin, apparently relieved from suffocation, entered his own coat with a look of relief, which again convulsed the Court, bowed, and departed."

Financial prosecutions are as a rule very dreary, and any little joke perpetrated by counsel during the course of them is a relief. One was being heard, in which Mr. Muir was counsel, and to many of his statements the junior counsel for the prosecution shook his head vehemently, although he said nothing. This continual dumb contradiction at length got on the customary patience of Mr. Muir, who blurted out: "I do not know why my friend keeps shaking his head, whether it is that he has palsy, or that there's nothing in it!"

Mr. Baldwin was the counsel employed to oppose a person justifying bail in the Court of King's Bench. After some common questions, a waggish counsel sitting near suggested that the witness should be asked as to his having been a prisoner in Gloucester gaol. Mr. Baldwin thereon boldly asked: "When, sir, were you last in Gloucester gaol?" The witness, a respectable tradesman, with astonishment declared that he never was in a gaol in his life. Mr. Baldwin being foiled after putting the question in various ways, turned round to his friendly prompter, and asked for what the man had been imprisoned. He was told that it was for suicide. Thereupon Mr. Baldwin, with great gravity and solemnity addressed the witness: "Now, sir, I ask you upon your oath, and remember that I shall have your words taken down, were you not imprisoned in Gloucester gaol for suicide?"

A young lawyer who had just "taken the coif," once said to Samuel Warren, the author of Ten Thousand a Year: "Hah! Warren, I never could manage to get quite through that novel of yours. What did you do with Oily Gammon?"—"Oh," replied Warren, "I made a serjeant of him, and of course he never was heard of afterwards."

Warner Sleigh, a great thieves' counsel, was not debarred by etiquette from taking instructions direct from his clients. One day, following a rap on the door of his chambers in Middle Temple Lane, a thick-set man, with cropped poll of unmistakably Newgate cut, slunk into the room, when the following colloquy took place.

"Mornin', sir," said the man, touching his forelock. "Morning," replied counsel. "What do you want?"—"Well, sir, I'm sorry to say, sir, our little Ben, sir, has 'ad a misfortin'; fust offence, sir, only a 'wipe'—"—"Well, well!" interrupted counsel. "Get on."—"So, sir, we thought as you've 'ad all the family business we'd like you to defend 'im, sir."—"All right," said counsel; "see my clerk—."—"Yessir," continued the thief; "but I thought I'd like to make sure you'd attend yourself, sir; we're anxious, 'cos it's little Ben, our youngest kid."—"Oh! that will be all right. Give Simmons the fee."—"Well, sir," continued the man, shifting about uneasily, "I was going to arst you, sir, to take a little less. You see, sir (wheedlingly), it's little Ben—his first misfortin'."—"No, no," said the counsel impatiently. "Clear out!"—"But, sir, you've 'ad all our business. Well, sir, if you won't, you won't, so I'll pay you now, sir." And as he doled out the guineas: "I may as well tell you, sir, you wouldn't 'a' got the 'couties' if I 'adn't 'ad a little bit o' luck on the way."

The gravity of the Court of Appeal was once seriously disturbed by Edward Bullen reading to them the following paragraph from a pleading in an action for seduction: "The defendant denies that he is the father of the said twins, or of either of them." This he apologetically explained was due to an accident in his pupil-room, but everyone recognised the style of the master-hand.

Serjeant Adams, who acted as assistant judge at the sessions, had a very pleasant wit, and knew how to deal with any counsel who took to "high-falutin." On one occasion, after an altercation with the judge, the counsel for the prisoner in his address to the jury reminded them that "they were the great palladium of British Liberty—that it was their province to deal with the facts, the judge with the law—that they formed one of the great institutions of their country, and that they came in with William the Conqueror." Adams at the end of his summing up said: "Gentlemen, you will want to retire to consider your verdict, and as it seems you came in with the Conqueror you can now go out with the beadle."

There was always a mystery how Edwin James, who at the Bar was earning an income of at least £10,000 a year, was continually in monetary difficulties. Like Sir Thomas Lawrence, he must have had some private drain on his resources which was never disclosed. Among others who suffered was the landlord of his chambers, whose rent was very much in arrear. In the end the landlord hit upon a plan to discover which would be the best method of recovering his rent, and one day asked James to advise him on a legal matter in which he was interested, and thereupon drew up a statement of his grievance against his own tenant. The paper was duly returned to the landlord next day with the following sentence subjoined: "In my opinion this is a case which admits of only one remedy—patience. Edwin James."

In a case before Lord Campbell, James took a line with a witness which his lordship considered quite inadmissible, and stopped him. When summing up to the jury Lord Campbell thought to soften his interruption by saying: "You will have observed, gentlemen, that I felt it my duty to stop Mr. Edwin James in a certain line which he sought to adopt in the cross-examination of one of the witnesses; but at the same time I had no intention to cast any reflection on the learned counsel who I am sure is known to you all as a most able—" but before his lordship could proceed any further James interposed, and in a contemptuous voice exclaimed: "My lord, I have borne your lordship's censure, spare me your lordship's praise."

Mr. W. G. Thorpe, F.S.A., in his entertaining volume of Middle Temple Table Talk, relates a curious story of a judge taking an extremely personal interest in a case which was brought before him. A milk company had sold off a lot of old stock to a cake-maker, and the cake-maker had declined to pay because the milk had turned out to be poisonous. As the case went on the judge became more and more exercised. "What do they do with this stuff?" he asked, pointing to a mass of horrible mixture. "Oh, my lord, they make cakes of it; it doesn't taste in the cakes."—"Where do they sell these cakes?" was the judge's next question, and the reply was, "They are used for certain railway stations, school-treats, and excursions." Then the defendant specified one of the places. "Bless me!" said the judge, turning an olive-green, "I had some there myself," and with a shudder he retired to his private room, returning in a few minutes wiping his mouth.

There is another story of a counsel defending a woman on a charge of causing the death of her husband by administering a poisoned cake to him. "I'll eat some of the cake myself," he said in Court, and took a bite. Just at this moment a telegram was brought to him to say that his wife was seriously ill, and he obtained permission to leave in order to answer the message. He returned, finished his speech, and obtained the acquittal of his client. It transpired afterwards that the telegram business was arranged in order that counsel could obtain an emetic after swallowing the cake.

Mr. Montagu Williams tells a story, in his interesting Leaves of a Life, of two members of the Bar, one of whom had made a large fortune by his practice, but worked too hard to enjoy his gains, while the other, who only made a decent living, liked to enjoy life. They met on one occasion at the end of a long vacation, and the rich man asked his less fortunate brother what he had been doing. "I have been on the Continent," the other replied, "and I enjoyed my holiday very much. What have you been doing?"—"I have been working," said the rich Q.C., "and have not been out of town; I had lots of work to do."—"What is the use of it?" queried the other; "you can't carry the money with you when you die; and if you could, it would soon melt."

From the same work we take the following story of Serjeant Ballantine. On one occasion he was acting in a case with a Jewish solicitor, and it happened that one of the hostile witnesses also belonged to the same race. Just as the serjeant was about to examine him, the solicitor whispered in Ballantine's ear: "Ask him as your first question, if he isn't a Jew."—"Why, but you're a Jew yourself," said the serjeant in some surprise. "Never mind, never mind," replied the little solicitor eagerly. "Please do—just to prejudice the jury."

No collection of the wit and humour of the Bar would be complete without some specimens of Sir Frank Lockwood's racy sayings. From Mr. Augustine Birrell's Life of Lockwood we quote the following:

"A tale is attached to Lockwood's first brief. It was on a petition to the Master of the Rolls for payment out of Court of a sum of money; and Lockwood appeared for an official liquidator of a company whose consent had to be obtained before the Court would part with the fund. Lockwood was instructed to consent, and his reward was to be three guineas on the brief and one guinea for consultation. The petition came on in due course before Lord Romilly, and was made plain to him by counsel for the petitioner, and still a little plainer by counsel for the principal respondent.

"Then up rose Lockwood, an imposing figure, and indicated his appearance in the case.

"'What brings you here?' said Lord Romilly, meaning, I presume, 'Why need I listen to you?'

"Lockwood looking puzzled, Lord Romilly added a little testily, 'What do you come here for?'

"The answer was immediate, unexpected, and, accompanied as it was by a dramatic glance at the outside of his brief, as if to refresh his memory, triumphant, 'Three and one, my lord!'"

"The following letter is to Mrs. Atkinson:

"Mr. Mellor vouches for the following story, which, as it illustrates Lockwood's humour and had gone the round of the newspapers, I will tell. It is the ancient custom of the new Lord Mayor of London, attended by the Recorder and Sheriffs, to come into the law-courts and be introduced to the Lord Chief Justice or, if he is not there, to the senior judge to be found on the premises, and, after a little lecture from the Bench, to return good for evil by inviting the judges to dinner, only to receive the somewhat chilling answer, 'Some of their lordships will attend.' On this occasion the ceremony was over, and the Lord Mayor and his retinue was retiring from the Court, when his lordship's eye rested on Lockwood, who in a new wig was one of the throng by the door. 'Ah, my young friend!' said the Lord Mayor in a pompous way (for in those days there was no London County Council to teach Lord Mayors humility); 'picking up a little law, I suppose?' Lockwood had his answer ready. With a profound bow, he replied: 'I shall be delighted to accept your lordship's hospitality. I think I heard your lordship name seven as the hour.' The Lord Mayor hurried out of Court, and even the policeman (and to the police Lord Mayors are almost divine) shook with laughter."

Counsel sometimes find their position so weak that their only hope of damaging the other side lies in ridiculing their witnesses. Serjeant Parry on one occasion was defending a client against a claim for breach of promise of marriage made a few hours after a chance meeting in Regent Street. According to the lady's story the introduction had been effected through the gentleman offering to protect her from a dog. In course of cross-examination Parry said: "You say you were alarmed at two dogs fighting, madam?"—"No, no, it was a single dog," was the reply. "What you mean, madam," retorted Parry, "is that there was only one dog; but whether it was a single dog or a married dog you are not in a position to say." With this correction it need not be wondered that the lady had little more to say.

A learned counsellor in the midst of an affecting appeal in Court on a slander case delivered himself of the following flight of genius. "Slander, gentlemen, like a boa constrictor of gigantic size and immeasurable proportions, wraps the coil of its unwieldy body about its unfortunate victim, and, heedless of the shrieks of agony that come from the utmost depths of its victim's soul, loud and reverberating as the night thunder that rolls in the heavens, it finally breaks its unlucky neck upon the iron wheel of public opinion; forcing him first to desperation, then to madness, and finally crushing him in the hideous jaws of mortal death."

Talking of his early days at the Bar, Mr. Thomas Edward Crispe, in Reminiscences of a K.C., relates how on one occasion he was opposed by a somewhat eccentric counsel named Wharton, known in his day as the "Poet of Pump Court." The case was really a simple one, but Wharton made so much of it that when the luncheon half-hour came the judge, Mr. Justice Archibald, with some emphasis, addressing Mr. Wharton, said: "We will now adjourn, and, Mr. Wharton, I hope you will take the opportunity of conferring with your friend Mr. Crispe and settling the matter out of Court."

But Wharton would not agree to this, and when at last he had to address the jury, he, in the course of his speech, made the following remarks, for every word of which Mr. Crispe vouches:

"Gentlemen, I think it only courteous to the learned judge to refer to the advice his lordship gave me to settle the matter out of Court. That reminds me of a case, tried in a country court, in an action for detention of a donkey. The plaintiff was a costermonger and the defendant a costermonger; they conducted the case in person. At one o'clock the judge said: 'Now, my men, I'm going to have my lunch, and before I come back I hope you'll settle your dispute out of Court.' When he returned the plaintiff came in with a black eye and the defendant with a bleeding nose, and the defendant said: 'Well, your honour, we've taken your honour's advice; Jim's given me a good hiding, and I've given him back his donkey.'"

Mr. F. E. Smith, M.P., tells a story of a County Court case he was once engaged in, in which the plaintiff's son, a lad of eight years, was to appear as a witness.

When the youngster entered the box he wore boots several sizes too large, a hat that almost hid his face, long trousers rolled up so that the baggy knees were at his ankles, and, to complete the picture, a swallow-tail coat that had to be held to keep it from sweeping the floor. This ludicrous picture was too much for the Court; but the judge, between his spasms of laughter, managed to ask the boy his reason for appearing in such garb.

With wondering look the lad fished in an inner pocket and hauled the summons from it, pointing out a sentence with solemn mien as he did so: "To appear in his father's suit" it read.

There have been few readier men in retort than the late Mr. Francis Oswald, the author of Oswald on Contempt of Court. After a stiff breeze in a Chancery Court, the judge snapped out, "Well, I can't teach you manners, Mr. Oswald."—"That is so, m'lud, that is so," replied the imperturbable one. On another occasion, an irascible judge observed, "If you say another word, Mr. Oswald, I'll commit you."—"That raises another point—as to your lordship's power to commit counsel engaged in arguing before you," was the cool answer.

The author of Pie Powder in his entertaining volume, tells us that he was once dining with a barrister who had just taken silk. In the course of after-dinner talk, the new K.C. invited his friend to tell him what he considered was his (the K.C.'s) chief fault in style. After some considerable hesitation his friend admitted that he thought the K.C. erred occasionally in being too long. This apparently somewhat annoyed the K.C., and his friend feeling he had perhaps spoken too freely, thought he would smooth matters by inviting similar criticism of himself from the K.C., who at once replied, "My dear boy, I don't think really you have any fault. Except, you know, you are so d—d offensive."

A judge and a facetious lawyer conversing on the subject of the transmigration of souls, the judge said, "If you and I were turned into a horse and an ass, which of them would you prefer to be?"—"The ass, to be sure," replied the lawyer.—"Why?"—"Because," replied the lawyer, "I have heard of an ass being a judge, but of a horse, never."

In some cases counsel receive answers to questions which they had no business to put, and these, if not quite to their liking, are what they justly deserve. The following story of George Clarke, a celebrated negro minstrel, is a case in point. On one occasion, when being examined as a witness, he was severely interrogated by a lawyer. "You are in the minstrel business, I believe?" inquired the lawyer. "Yes, sir," was the reply. "Is not that rather a low calling?"—"I don't know but what it is, sir," replied the minstrel; "but it is so much better than my father's that I am rather proud of it." The lawyer fell into the trap. "What was your father's calling?" he inquired. "He was a lawyer," replied Clarke, in a tone that sent the whole Court into a roar of laughter as the discomfited lawyer sat down.

At the Durham Assizes an action was tried which turned out to have been brought by one neighbour against another for a trifling matter. The plaintiff was a deaf old lady, and after a pause the judge suggested that the counsel should get his client to compromise it, and to ask her what she would take to settle it. Very loudly counsel shouted out to his client: "His lordship wants to know what you will take?" She at once replied: "I thank his lordship kindly, and if it's no ill convenience to him, I'll take a little warm ale."

A tailor sent his bill to a lawyer, and a message to ask for payment. The lawyer bid the messenger tell his master that he was not running away, and was very busy at the time. The messenger returned and said he must have the money. The lawyer testily answered, "Did you tell your master that I was not running away?"—"Yes, I did, sir; but he bade me tell you that he was."

A well-known barrister at the criminal Bar, who prided himself upon his skill in cross-examining a witness, had an odd-looking witness upon whom to operate. "You say, sir, that the prisoner is a thief?"—"Yes, sir—'cause why, she confessed it."—"And you also swear she did some repairs for you subsequent to the confession?"—"I do, sir."—"Then," giving a knowing look at the Court, "we are to understand that you employ dishonest people to work for you, even after their rascalities are known?"—"Of course! How else could I get assistance from a lawyer?"—"Stand down!" shouted the man of law.

At Worcester Assizes, a cause was tried as to the soundness of a horse, and a clergyman had been a witness, who gave a very confused account of the transaction, and the matters he spoke to. A blustering counsel on the other side, after many attempts to get at the facts, said: "Pray, sir, do you know the difference between a horse and a cow?"—"I acknowledge my ignorance," replied the clergyman. "I hardly know the difference between a horse and a cow, or between a bully and a bull. Only a bull, I am told, has horns, and a bully," bowing respectfully to the counsel, "luckily for me, has none."

"In Court one day," says Mr. W. Andrews in The Lawyer, "I heard the following sharp encounter between a witness and an exceedingly irascible old-fashioned solicitor who, among other things, hated the modern custom of growing a beard or moustache. He himself grew side-whiskers in the most approved style of half a century ago. "Speak up, witness," he shouted, "and don't stand mumbling there. If you would shave off that unsightly moustache we might be better able to hear what was coming out of your lips." "And if you, sir," said the witness quietly, "would shave off those side-whiskers you would enable my words to reach your ears.""

"My friend," said an irritable lawyer, "you are an ass."—"Do you mean, sir," asked the witness, "that I am your friend because I am an ass, or an ass because I am your friend?"

Counsel sometimes comes to grief in dealing with experts. "Do you," asked one of a scientist, "know of a substance called Sulphonylic Diazotised Sesqui Oxide of Aldehyde?" and he looked round triumphantly. "Certainly," came the reply. "It is analogous in diatomic composition of Para Sulpho Benzine Azode Methyl Aniline in conjunction with Phehekatoline." Counsel said he would pursue the matter no further.

An action was brought by the owner of a donkey which was forced against a wall by a waggon and killed. The driver of the donkey was the chief witness, and was much bullied by Mr. Raine, the defendant's counsel, so that he lost his head and was reprimanded by the judge for not giving direct answers, and looking the jury in the face. Mr. Raine had a powerful cast in his eye, which probably heightened the poor fellow's confusion; and he continued to deal very severely with the witness, reminding him again and again of the judge's caution, saying: "Hold up your head, man: look up, I say. Can't you hold up your head, fellow? Can't you look as I do?" The witness, with much simplicity, at once answered, "I can't, you squint." On re-examination, Serjeant Cockle for the plaintiff, seeing gleams of the witness's recovery from his confusion, asked him to describe the position of the waggon and the donkey. After much pressing, at last he said, "Well, my lord judge, I'll tell you as how it happened." Turning to Cockle, he said, "You'll suppose ye are the wall."—"Aye, aye, just so, go on. I am the wall, very good."—"Yes, sir, you are the wall." Then changing his position a little, he said, "I am the waggon."—"Yes, very good; now proceed, you are the waggon," said the judge. The witness then looked to the judge, and hesitating at first, but with a low bow and a look of sudden despair, said, "And your lordship's the ass!"

Serjeant Cockle, who had a rough, blustering manner, once got from a witness more than he gave. In a trial of a right of fishery, he asked the witness: "Dost thou love fish?"—"Aye," replied the witness, with a grin, "but I donna like cockle sauce with it." The learned serjeant was not pleased with the roar of laughter which followed the remark.

Mr. H. L. Adam in The Story of Crime says he remembers a very amusing incident in one of our police courts. A prisoner had engaged a solicitor to defend him, and while the latter was speaking on his behalf he suddenly broke in with, "Why, he dunno wot the devil he's talking abaht!" Thereupon the magistrate informed him that if he was dissatisfied with his advocate's capabilities, he could, if he chose, defend himself. This he elected to do, and in the end was acquitted, the magistrate remarking that had the case been left to counsel he would unquestionably have been convicted.

In cross-examining a witness, says Judge Parry in What the Judge Saw, who had described the effects of an accident, was confronted by counsel with his statement, and asked, "But hadn't you told the doctor that your thigh was numb and had no feeling?"—"What's the good o' telling him anything," replied the witness. "That's where doctor made a mistake. I told 'im I was numb i' front, and what does he do but go and stick a pin into my back-side. 'E's no doctor."

From the same source is the following story. Another man was testifying to an accident that had occurred to him at the works where he was employed. It was sought to prove that his testimony was false because he had a holiday that day, and this poser was put to him: "Do you mean to tell the Court that you came to work when you might have been enjoying a holiday?"—"Certainly."—"Why did you do that?" The reply was too obviously truthful. "What should I do? I have nowhere to go. I'm teetotal now."

A Jew had been condemned to be hanged, and was brought to the gallows along with a fellow prisoner; but on the road, before reaching the place of execution, a reprieve arrived for the Jew. When informed of this, it was expected that he would instantly leave the cart in which he was conveyed, but he remained and saw his fellow prisoner hanged. Being asked why he did not at once go about his business, he said, "He was waiting to see if he could bargain with Mr. Ketch for the other gentleman's clothes!"

A sign-painter presented his bill to a lawyer for payment. After examining it the lawyer said, "Do you expect any painter will go to heaven if they make such charges as these?"—"I never heard of but one that went," said the painter, "and he behaved so badly that they determined to turn him out, but there being no lawyer present to draw up the Writ of Ejectment, he remained."

This must be the lawyer who, being refused entrance to heaven by St. Peter, contrived to throw his hat inside the door; and then, being permitted to go and fetch it, took advantage of the Saint being fixed to his post as doorkeeper and refused to come back again.

A solicitor who was known to occasionally exceed the limit at lunch betrayed so much unsteadiness that the magistrate quickly observed, "I think, Mr. ——, you are not quite well, perhaps you had a little too much wine at lunch."—"Quite a mistake, your worship," hiccoughed Mr. ——. "It was brandy and water."

The son-in-law of a Chancery barrister having succeeded to the lucrative practice of the latter, came one morning in breathless haste to inform him that he had succeeded in bringing nearly to its termination a cause which had been pending in the Court for several years. Instead of obtaining the expected congratulations of the retired veteran of the law, his intelligence was received with indignation. "It was by this suit," exclaimed he, "that my father was enabled to provide for me, and to portion your wife, and with the exercise of common prudence it would have furnished you with the means of providing handsomely for your children and grandchildren."