Law and Laughter

by George A. Morton; D. Macleod Malloch

"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.