Clerk was another type of man. In his last years Carlyle, then in his early career, noted that “grim strong countenance, with its black, far projecting brows.” He fought his way slowly into fame. His father had half humorously complained, “I remember the time when people seeing John limping on the street were told, that’s the son of Clerk of Eldin; but now I hear them saying, ‘What auld grey-headed man is that?’ and the answer is, ‘That is the father of John Clerk.’” He was a plain man, badly dressed, with a lame leg. “There goes Johnny Clerk, the lame lawyer.” “No, madam,” said Clerk, “the lame _man_, not the lame _lawyer_.” Cockburn says that he gave his client his temper, his perspiration, his nights, his reason, his whole body and soul, and very often the whole fee to boot. He was known for his incessant quarrels with the bench, and yet his practice was enormous. He lavished his fees on anything from bric-à-brac to charity, and died almost a poor man. In consultation at Picardy Place he sat in a room crowded with curiosities, himself the oddest figure of all, his lame foot resting on a stool, a huge cat perched at ease on his shoulder. When the oracle spoke, it was in a few weighty Scots words, that went right to the root of the matter, and admitted neither continuation nor reply. His Scots was the powerful direct Scots of the able, highly-educated man, a speech faded now from human memory. Perhaps Clerk was _princeps_ but not _facile_, for there was Braxfield to reckon with. On one famous occasion, to wit, the trial of Deacon Brodie, they went at it, hammer and tongs, and Clerk more than held his own, though Braxfield as usual got the verdict. They took Clerk to the bench as Lord Eldin, when he was sixty-five, which is not very old for a judge. But perhaps he was worn out by his life of incessant strife, or perhaps he had not the judicial temperament. At any rate his record is as an advocate, and not as a senator. He had also some renown as a toper. There is a ridiculous story of his inquiring early one morning, as he staggered along the street, “Where is John Clerk’s house?” of a servant girl, a-“cawming” her doorstep betimes. “Why, _you_’re John Clerk,” said the astonished lass. “Yes, yes, but it’s his house I want,” was the strange answer. I have neither space nor inclination to repeat well-known stories of judicial topers. How this one was seen by his friend coming from his house at what seemed an early hour. “Done with dinner already?” queried the one. “Ay, but we sat down yesterday,” retorted the other. How this luminary awakened in a cellar among bags of soot, and that other in the guard-house; how this set drank the whole night, claret, it is true, and sat bravely on the bench the whole of next day; how most could not leave the bottle alone even there; and biscuits and wine as regularly attended the judges on the bench as did their clerks and macers. The pick of this form is Lord