In his younger days Robertson was travelling for a stage or two on the coach from Inverness to Perth, when a number of ministers were his fellow-passengers, bound for the General Assembly at Edinburgh. He engaged in conversation with them, and led them to believe that he was also a clergyman from the extreme north of Scotland. When they reached the point at which he meant to quit the coach there was a halt for breakfast, and Robertson was asked to say grace. He began with a word or two of Gaelic, but as his acquaintance with that language was but slender, he poured forth a torrent of gibberish pronounced through his nose with an occasional Gaelic word interjected. The ministers listened with praiseworthy decorum, uncertain what particular dialect of Gaelic it might be, for it was one with which none of them had any acquaintance. But while Robertson still continued his nasal monologue the coachman’s horn blew, and the clerical guests had to hurry breakfastless back to their seats.
In the early years of last century Gaelic was frequently heard in the Court of Session, as Highland witnesses were often ignorant of English, and their evidence had to be translated by interpreters kept for the purpose. Sometimes the ignorance of English was more assumed than real. There is a story told of Lord Cullen, long remembered for his brilliant feats of mimicry, who had a case in court where a Highland witness was evidently ‘hedging’ and prevaricating. The judge at last lost his patience and asked the Gaelic expert, ‘Mr. Interpreter, will you inquire of the witness whether he saw the thing or did not see it, if his language is capable of so fine a distinction.’
LORD NEAVES
Another witness got the better of his cross-questioner in a simple way. The question in dispute turned upon the identity of a particular box, and this witness was called to prove that the nails in the box had been made by him. The advocate for the other side ridiculed the idea that any man could recognise his own made nails, and badgered the man into desperation. The poor fellow at last leant across the witness-box and asked his tormentor if he would allow him to look at a sheet of paper lying in front of the counsel, who had been making some jottings on it. Having got the paper into his hands, the man turned to the advocate and asked, ‘Is that your hand o’ vrite?’ ‘Yes, it is,’ was the reply. ‘But hoo can you prove it’s yours? Could you swear to it anywhere?’ ‘Of course I could.’ ‘Weel, then, if you can swear to your hand o’ vrite, hoo the deevil should I no’ swear to my ain nails?’
One of the last of the old race of Scottish judges was Lord Neaves, an excellent lawyer and accomplished scholar, with so much humour, wit and bonhommie that he generally became the centre of any company where he might be. One of his favourite diversions was to write songs, which he sang at convivial gatherings, such as the Royal Society Club in Edinburgh. Many of these appeared first in print among the pages of Blackwood’s Magazine, to which he was for many years a valued contributor, and he collected them into a little volume entitled Songs and Verses, Social and Scientific, by an Old Contributor to ‘Maga.’ Some of these were inimitably clever, and as sung or chanted by him in his cracked, unmusical voice, with appropriate gesticulations and modulations, they were irresistibly droll. Some of the scientific ditties, dashed off in the intervals of work in court, and sung the same evening at the club, were brimful of fun and wit, hitting off points in theory or in dispute with great acumen. Among these may be mentioned ‘The Origin of Species,’ a versified account of Darwin’s views; ‘Stuart Mill on Mind and Matter’; and ‘The Origin of Language.’ Some of the social ditties were likewise delightful, such as ‘I’m very fond of water,’ ‘The Permissive Bill,’ ‘Let us all be unhappy on Sunday’ (which has already been cited), and the ‘Sheriffs life at sea.’ A verse of one or two of these may be quoted here.
Pray what is this Permissive Bill
That some folks rave about?
I can’t with all my pains and skill
Its meaning quite make out.
‘O! it’s a little simple Bill