On a vacancy on the Scotch bench, a certain advocate of some standing at
the bar, but by no means remarkable for the brilliancy of his parts, or
the extent of his legal knowledge, was in full expectation of being
appointed to the vacant gown. This is done by a court letter, signed
with the King's sign manual. In the full flutter of his darling hopes,
he one day encountered an old brother lawyer, notorious for the acidity
of his temper, and the poignancy and acrimony of his remarks. "Weel,
friend Robby," said the latter, "I hear you're to get the vacant
gown."--"Yes, Mr. C--k, I have every reason to believe so."--"Have ye
gotten doon your letter yet frae London?"--"No: but I expect an express
every minute."--"Nae doot, nae doot; have you bethocht yoursel o' what
teetle ye're to tak'? Lord H--n will never do; ye ken that's the teetle
o' ane o' oor grandest dukes. Gudesake, for a bit session lordy, like
you, to gang by that style and teetle o' ane high and michty prince!
that wad be a bonny boorlesque on a' warldly honours and dignities. Weel
a weel, let that be a pass over. Noo a teetle ye maun hae, that's as
clear as the licht, and there's ane come just now into my head that will
answer ye to a T; when ye're a lord, freend, Robby, ye'll be Lord
Preserve Us?"--"You are very impertinent Mr. C--k," replied the nettled
judge expectant; "I am sure you may find a waur."--There never, perhaps,
was, or will be, comprehended so much pithy meaning and bitter sarcasm
in a single syllable, as that which formed the astounding
response--"Whaur (where)?"
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