XLVIII

IN THE HIGHLANDS

THE WRITER THE GUEST OF A GENTLEMAN IN THE SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS DUNSTAFFNAGE CASTLE IONA AND SAINT SENATOR BECK AND MR. SMITH BOTH DEVOTEES

COLUMBA

OF BURNS.

D

URING a sojourn of some weeks on the western coast of Scotland, I was the guest for a time of Mr. Stewart, the head of what remained of a once powerful clan in the Highlands. My host was a distinguished member of the London Bar, but spent his Summers at the home of his ancestors a few miles out from Alpin. Here, in as romantic a locality as is known even to the Highlands, with his kindred about him he enjoyed a full measure of repose from the distracting cares of the great metropolis. At the time of my visit his brother, an officer of the British army, just returned from India, was with him. Both gentlemen wore kilts for the time; and all the appointments of the house were reminders of bygone centuries when border warfare was in full flower, forays upon the Lowlands of constant occurrence, and the principle of the clans in action,

"Let him take who has the power

And let him hold who can."

At the bountifully furnished board of my Highland host there was much "upon the plain highway of talk" I will not soon forget. And then, with the gathering shadows in the ancestral hall, with the rude weapons of past generations hanging upon every wall, and the stirring strains of the bagpipe coming from the distance, it was worth while to listen to the Highland legends that had been handed down from sire to son.

Not far away was the old castle of Dunstaffnage, which in its prime had been the scene of innumerable tournaments

and battles that have added many pages to Scottish annals. Within the enclosure of the old castle sleeps the dust of longago kings- the veritable grave of Macbeth being readily pointed out to inquiring travellers.

The conversation around the hearthstone of my host turned to the famous island of the Inner Hebrides, Iona, with its wonderful history reaching back to the sixth century. The ruins of the old monastery, built fourteen hundred years ago by the fugitive Saint, Columba, are well worth visiting. The dust of the early kings of Norway, Ireland, and Scotland rest within these ancient walls, and it is gratifying to know that here even the ill-fated Duncan

"After life's fitful fever sleeps well."

It would have been passing strange, with host and guests all of Scottish lineage, if there had been no mention of Robbie Burns, for in old Scotia, whether in palace or hovel, the one subject that never tires is the "ploughman poet of Ayr." A little incident of slightly American relish which I related the evening of my departure needed no "surgical operation" to find appropriate lodgment.

Senator Beck of Kentucky was a Scotchman. He was in the highest sense a typical Scotchman - lacking nothing, either of the brawn, brain, or brogue, of the most gifted of that race. It is needless to say he was a lover of Burns. From "Tam O'Shanter" to "Mary in Heaven," all were safely garnered in his memory-to be rolled out in rich, melodious measure at the opportune moment. The close friend and associate of Senator Beck, when the cares of State were for a time in abeyance, and the fishing season at its best, was "old Smith," superintendent of the Botanical Gardens, also a Scotchman, and likewise in intense degree a devotee of Burns. The bond of union between the man of flowers and the Kentucky statesman was complete.

Now, it so fell out that a newly elected member of the House, from the Green River district, one day called upon his distinguished colleague of the Senate, and requested a note of introduction to the superintendent of the Botanical

Gardens, as he wished to procure some flowers to send a lady constituent then in the city. "Certainly, certainly," replied the ever-obliging statesman; "I will give you a line to old Smith." Just as the delighted member was departing with the letter in hand, Senator Beck remarked, in his peculiarly snappy Scotch accent, "Now, Tom, if you will only tell old Smith that you are a great admirer of his countryman, Robbie Burns, he will give you all the flowers in the conservatory." The member, who knew as little of Burns as he did of the "thirty-nine articles," departed in high feather.

Almost immediately thereafter, presenting his letter, he was received with great cordiality by the superintendent and assured that any request of Senator Beck would be cheerfully granted. Just as he was reaching out for the fragrant bouquet the superintendent was graciously presenting, the closing words of the Senator were indistinctly recalled, and in manner indicating no small measure of self-confidence, the member remarked, "By the way, Mr. Smith, I am a great admirer of your countryman, Jimmy Burns." "Jimmy Burns! Jimmy Burns! Jimmy Burns!" exclaimed the overwhelmingly indignant Scotchman, "Jimmy Burns! Depart instantly, sir!"

The member from the Green River district departed as bidden, taking no thought of the flowers; delighted -as he often asseverated to have escaped even with his life.

XLIX

ANECDOTES OF LAWYERS

JUDGE BALDWIN'S BOOK, "THE FLUSH TIMES

COUNSEL ASKS ONE QUESTION TOO MANY CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE AGAINST A CARD-PLAYER · JOHN RANDOLPH'S REVENGE HORACE GREELEY NOT A MINISTER OF THE GOSPEL A CANDIDATE'S QUALIFICATIONS FOR SCHOOL-TEACHING THE AUTHOR OF "DON'T YOU REMEMBER SWEET ALICE, BEN BOLT?" A CANDIDATE'S POSITION WITH REGARD TO THE MAINE LAW GOVERNOR TILDEN'S POPULARITY MR. TRAVERS MISSES A PORTRAIT- A CANDIDATE FOR HOLY ORDERS TELLS A BIBLE STORY.

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O better place can be found for studying that most interesting of subjects, Man, than in our courts of justice. Indeed, what a readable book that would be which related the best things which have occurred at the bar! Judge Baldwin conferred an inestimable blessing upon our profession when he wrote "The Flush Times," a book that will hold a place in our literature as long as there is a lawyer left on earth. To two generations of our craft this book has furnished agreeable and delightful entertainment. To the practitioner "shattered with the contentions of the great hall," its pages have been as refreshing as the oasis to the travel-stained pilgrim.

The late Justice Field, long his associate upon the supreme bench of California, told me that Judge Baldwin was one of the most genial and delightful men he had ever known, and certainly he must have been to have written "Cave Burton," "My First Appearance at the Bar,” “A Hung Court," and "Ovid Bolus, Esq., Attorney-at-law and Solicitor in Chancery."

Almost every Bar has some tradition or incident worth preserving something in the way of brilliant witticism or repartee that should not be wholly lost. Of the race of oldtime lawyers of which Mr. Lincoln was the splendid type

but few remain. Of the survivors, I know of no better representative than Proctor Knott of Kentucky. The possessor of ability of the highest order, and of splendid attainments as well, he is of all men the best story-teller this country of ours has known. Among his delighted auditors in and out of Congress have been men from every section and of exalted public station. For some of the incidents to be related I am indebted to Governor Knott. The obligation would be much greater if the stories could be retold in manner and form as in days gone by, and upon occasions never to be forgotten when they fell from his own lips.

If, however, even fairly well I might garner up and hand down some of the experiences of the generation of lawyers now passing, I would feel that I had, in some humble measure, discharged that obligation that Lord Bacon says, "every man owes to his profession."

ONE QUESTION TOO MANY

What lawyer has not, at some time, in the trial of a case asked just one question too many? I know of nothing better along that line of inquiry than the following related by Governor Knott. He was attending the Circuit Court in one of the Green River counties in Kentucky, when the case of the "Commonwealth versus William Jenkins" was called for trial. The aforesaid William was under indictment for having bitten off the ear of the prosecuting witness. Fairly strong but by no means conclusive testimony against the defendant had been given when the State "rested."

A lawyer of the old school, who still carried his green bag into Court, and who never wearied of telling of his conflicts at the bar with Grundy, Holt, and Ben Hardin, in their palmiest days, was retained for the defence. His chief witness was Squire Barnhouse, who lived over on the "Rolling Fork." He was the magistrate for his precinct, deacon in the church, and the recognized oracle for the neighborhood. Upon direct examination, in the case at bar, he testified that "he knowed the defendant William Jenkins; had knowed him thirty year or more; knowed his father and mother