The original of my fiction character of “Judge Priest” was a certain Judge William Bishop, now deceased. He was a wonderful old man—shrewd, simple, kindly, witty, gentle.
One time the old Judge was acting as chairman of a committee of three lawyers who sat to examine a gangling young man from the country who sought a license to practice at the local bar. The candidate had started out to be a blacksmith, but he had decided that wearing a frock coat and making speeches to juries would be easier than bending mule shoes and shrinking wagon tires.
Judge Bishop opened the inquiry.
“Henry, my son,” he began in his usual benignant fashion, “I suppose you have done a course of reading with a view to acquiring the rudiments of this calling of ours and thereby fitting yourself for your new career?”
“Well, Jedge, I done some readin’ but not so very much,” confessed Henry. “I aims to do the most of my readin’ after I opens an office.”
“Well, let’s see just what reading you have done,” pursued Judge Bishop. “I assume naturally that you have read Blackstone?”
“Black which, Jedge?”
“Blackstone, author of great textbooks on the practice and principle of the law.”
The candidate shook his head.
“I ain’t never heared of him,” he confessed.