is
abstract vices. He was the last judge on the Scots bench to employ the
pure Scots idiom. His opinions, thus given in Doric, and conceived in a
lively, rugged, conversational style, were full of point and authority.
Out of the bar, or off the bench, he was a convivial man, a lover of
wine, and one who "shone perculiarly" at tavern meetings. He has left
behind him an unrivalled reputation for rough and cruel speech; and to
this day his name smacks of the gallows. It was he who presided at the
trials of Muir and Skirving in 1793 and 1794; and his appearance on
these occasions was scarcely cut to the pattern of to-day. His summing
up on Muir began thus--the reader must supply for himself "the growling
blacksmith's voice" and the broad Scots accent: "Now this is the
question for consideration--Is the panel guilty of sedition, or is he
not? Now, before this can be answered, two things must be attended to
that require no proof: _First_, that the British constitution is the
best that ever was since the creation of the world, and it is not
possible to make it better." It's a pretty fair start, is it not, for a
political trial? A little later, he has occasion to refer to the
relations of Muir with "those wretches," the French. "I never liked the
French all my days," said his Lordship, "but now I hate them." And yet a
little further on: "A government in any country should be like a
corporation; and in this country it is made up of the landed interest,
which alone has a right to be represented. As for the rabble who have
nothing but personal property, what hold has the nation of them? They
may pack up their property on their backs, and leave the country in the
twinkling of an eye." After having made profession of sentiments so
cynically anti-popular as these, when the trials were at an end, which
was generally about midnight, Braxfield would walk home to his house in
George Square with no better escort than an easy conscience. I think I
see him getting his cloak about his shoulders, and, with perhaps a
lantern in one hand, steering his way along the streets in the mirk
January night. It might have been that very day that Skirving had defied
him in these words: "It is altogether unavailing for your lordship to
menace me; for I have long learned to fear not the face of man"; and I
can fancy, as Braxfield reflected on the number of what he called
_Grumbletonians_ in Edinburgh, and of how many of them must bear special
malice against