LAW AND LAUGHTER
BY GEORGE A. MORTON
AND D. MACLEOD MALLOCH

CHAPTER ONE
THE JUDGES OF ENGLAND

Mr. Justice Darling, whose witty remarks from the Bench are so much appreciated by his audiences in Court, and, it is rumoured, are not always received with approval by his brother judges, says, in his amusing book Scintillæ Juris:

"It is a common error to suppose that our law has no sense of humour, because for the most part the judges who expound it have none."

But law is, after all, a serious business—at any rate for the litigants—and it would appear also for the attorneys, for while witticisms of the Bench and Bar abound, very few are recorded of the attorney and his client. "Law is law" wrote the satirist who decided not to adopt it as a profession. "Law is like a country dance; people are led up and down in it till they are tired. Law is like a book of surgery—there are a great many terrible cases in it. It is also like physic—they who take least of it are best off. Law is like a homely gentlewoman—very well to follow. Law is like a scolding wife—very bad when it follows us. Law is like a new fashion—people are bewitched to get into it. It is also like bad weather—most people are glad when they get out of it."

From very early times there have appeared on the Bench expounders of the law who by the phrase "for the most part" must be acquitted of Mr. Justice Darling's charge of having no sense of humour; judges who, like himself, have lightened the otherwise dreary routine of duty by pleasantries which in no way interfered with the course of justice. One of the earliest of our witty judges, whose brilliant sayings have come down to us, was Henry VIII's Lord Chancellor, Sir Thomas More, who lost his head because he would not acknowledge his king as head of the Church. To Sir Thomas Manners, Earl of Rutland, who had made a somewhat insolent remark, the Lord Chancellor quietly replied, 'Honores mutant mores'—Honours change manners. Sir Thomas's humour was what may be called quiet, because its effect did not immediately show itself in boisterous merriment, but would undoubtedly remain long in the remembrance of those to whom it was addressed. Made with as much courtesy as irony, is it likely his keeper in the Tower would ever forget his remark? "Assure yourself I do not dislike my cheer; but whenever I do, then spare not to thrust me out of your doors." Nor did his quaint humour desert him at the scaffold: "Master Lieutenant," said he, "I pray you see me safe up; for my coming down let me shift for myself." Even with his head on the block he could not resist a humorous remark, when putting aside his beard he said to the executioner, "Wait, my good friend, till I have removed my beard, for it has never offended his highness."

Another judge of the sixteenth century, Sir Nicholas Bacon, who resembled Sir Thomas More in the gentleness of his happiest speeches, could also on occasion exhibit an unnecessary coarseness in his jocular retorts. A circuit story is told of him in which a convicted felon named Hog appealed for remission of his sentence on the ground that he was related to his lordship. "Nay, my friend," replied the judge, "you and I cannot be kindred except you be hanged, for hog is not bacon until it be well hung." This retort was not quite so coarse as that attributed to the Scottish judge, Lord Kames, two centuries later, who on sentencing to death a man with whom he had often played chess and very frequently been beaten, added after the solemn words of doom, "And noo, Matthew, ye'll admit that's checkmate for you."

To Lord Chancellor Hatton, also an Elizabethan judge who aimed at sprightliness on the Bench, a clever mot is attributed. The case before him was one concerning the limits of certain land. The counsel having remarked with emphasis, 'We lie on this side, my lord,' and the opposing counsel with equal vehemence having interposed, 'And we lie on this side, my lord'—the Lord Chancellor dryly observed, "If you lie on both sides, whom am I to believe?" It would seem that punning was as great a power in the Law Courts of that time as it is at the present day. When Egerton as Master of the Rolls was asked to commit a cause—refer it to a Master in Chancery—he would reply, "What has the cause done that it should be committed?"

Many witticisms of Westminster Hall, attributed to barristers of the Georgian and Victorian periods, are traceable to a much earlier date. There is the story of Serjeant Wilkins, whose excuse for drinking a pot of stout at mid-day was, that he wanted to fuddle his brain down to the intellectual standard of a British jury. Two hundred and fifty years earlier, Sir John Millicent, a Cambridgeshire judge, on being asked how he got on with his brother judges replied, "Why, i' faithe, I have no way but to drink myself down to the capacity of the Bench." And this merry thought has also been attributed to one eminent barrister who became Lord Chancellor, and to more than one Scottish advocate who ultimately attained to a seat on the Bench.

And to various celebrities of the later Georgian period has been attributed Lord Shaftesbury's reply to Charles II. When the king exclaimed, "Shaftesbury, you are the most profligate man in my dominions," the Chancellor answered somewhat recklessly, "Of a subject, sir, I believe I am."

Bullying witnesses is an old practice of the Bar, but for instances of it emanating from the Bench one has to go very far back. A witness with a long beard was giving evidence that was displeasing to Jeffreys, when judge, who said: "If your conscience is as large as your beard, you'll swear anything." The old man retorted: "My lord, if your lordship measures consciences by beards, your lordship has none at all."

A somewhat similar story of Jeffreys' bullying manner, when at the Bar, is that of his cross-examining a witness in a leathern doublet, who had made out a complete case against his client. Jeffreys shouted: "You fellow in the leathern doublet, pray what have you for swearing?" The man looked steadily at him, and "Truly, sir," said he, "if you have no more for lying than I have for swearing, you might wear a leathern doublet as well as I."

Instances of disrespect to the Bench are rarely met with in early as happily in later days. There is, perhaps, the most flagrant example of young Wedderburn in the Scottish Court of Session, when with dramatic effect he threw off his gown and declared he would never enter the Court again; but he rose to be Lord Chancellor of England. Scarcely less disrespectful (but not said openly to the Bench) was young Edward Hyde when hinting that the death of judges was of small moment compared with his chances of preferment. "Our best news," he wrote to a friend, "is that we have good wine abundantly come over; our worst that the plague is in town, and no judges die."

ALEXANDER WEDDERBURN, EARL OF ROSSLYN, LORD CHANCELLOR.

In squabbles between the Bench and the Bar there are few stories that match for personality the retort of a counsel to