A legal friend has told me of a celebrated circuit where Lord Hermand was judge, and Clephane depute-advocate.  The party got drunk at Ayr, and so continued (although quite able for their work) till the business was concluded at Jedburgh.  Some years after, my informant heard that this circuit had, at Jedburgh, acquired the permanent name of the “daft circuit.”

Lord Cockburn was fond of describing a circuit scene at Stirling, in his early days at the bar, under the presidency of his friend and connection Lord Hermand.  After the circuit dinner, and when drinking had gone on for some time, young Cockburn observed places becoming vacant in the social circle, but no one going out at the door.  He found that the individuals had dropped down under the table.  He took the hint, and by this ruse retired from the scene.  He lay quiet till the beams of the morning sun penetrated the apartment.  The judge and some of his staunch friends coolly walked up stairs, washed their hands and faces, came down to breakfast, and went into court quite fresh and fit for work.

The feeling of importance frequently attached to powers of drinking was formally attested by a well-known western baronet of convivial habits and convivial memory.  He was desirous of bearing testimony to the probity, honour, and other high moral qualities of a friend whom he wished to commend.  Having fully stated these claims to consideration and respect, he deemed it proper to notice also his convivial attainments:  he added accordingly, with cautious approval on so important a point—­“And he is a fair drinker[31].”

The following anecdote is an amusing example of Scottish servant humour and acuteness in measuring the extent of consumption by a convivial party in Forfarshire.  The party had met at a farmer’s house not far from Arbroath, to celebrate the reconciliation of two neighbouring farmers who had long been at enmity.  The host was pressing and hospitable; the party sat late, and consumed a vast amount of whisky toddy.  The wife was penurious, and grudged the outlay.  When at last, at a morning hour, the party dispersed, the lady, who had not slept in her anxiety, looked over the stairs and eagerly asked the servant girl, “How many bottles of whisky have they used, Betty?” The lass, who had not to pay for the whisky, but had been obliged to go to the well to fetch the water for the toddy, coolly answered, “I dinna ken, mem, but they’ve drucken sax gang o’ water.”

We cannot imagine a better illustration of the general habits that prevailed in Scottish society in regard to drinking about the time we speak of than one which occurs in the recently-published “Memoirs of a Banking House,” that of the late Sir William Forbes, Bart, of Pitsligo.  The book comprises much that is interesting to the family, and to Scotchmen.  It contains a pregnant hint as to the manners of polite society and business habits in those days.  Of John Coutts, one of four brothers connected with the house, Sir William records how he was “more correct in his conduct than the others; so much so, that Sir William never but once saw him in the counting-house disguised with liquor, and incapable of transacting business.”