Law student days in London and Lincoln’s Inn

Excerpted from The Memoirs of a Cabinet Secretary by BP Peiris

(Continued from last week)

One day, in the Library, J. B. C. Rodrigo was reading Pollock on torts. A ‘tort’ in law is a civil wrong. There was, next to him a hoary, old gentleman, making weird noises in his breathing which was distracting Rod’s attention. He went across to another table and asked someone who the old buffoon was, to be told “Good Lord, don’t you know? That’s Sir Frederic Pollock”. Our law books are always styled with the author’s name first. For example, there is ‘Anson on the Crown’, ‘Parry on Contracts’ and ‘Odgers on Libel and Slander’. A girl friend of mine, seeing the last named book with me, asked me ‘What’s an odger?’

I passed my Roman Law in Class III within six weeks of my joining the Inn and was very proud of it and cabled my father to give him the good news. I had a snorter from him by ordinary mail. There was no hurry, he said, to pass these examinations, all the papers had to be taken together. The Director of Legal studies of the Council of Legal Education informed me that I had got a good second class mark in the Common Law and Equity papers and a very good second class mark in the General Paper. In the Evidence and Civil Procedure papers and the paper on Roman-Dutch Law I had got a first class mark.

By a strange turn of events or an unusual stroke of luck, call it what you like, I was the only Ceylonese student to pass each of the principal law examinations which I sat. Seven of us sat the London University Intermediate Laws and six failed; nine of us sat the LL. B. and eight failed; twelve sat the Bar Final and eleven failed! I have before me, the Bar Final Examination results of the Hilary Examination, 1932: examined 94, passed 53. There was one in Class I (not from Lincoln’s Inn). I was placed in Class 11, fourth in order of merit, and I was just beaten by a silver-haired old lady who sat next to me during the examination.

Now came the day of our call to the Bar. The Juniors who had passed the Final and were about to be ‘called’ no longer sat at the students’ table. We had a table to ourselves and, as all my friends had failed the Final, I was the only Ceylonese at the table. At Lincoln’s Inn, Call is always after dinner. The different Inns have different customs in this matter.

Our full names were shouted by an usher, we walked up to the dais as each name was called, the Treasurer on the dais bowed three times, each bow being returned by the student, the Treasurer shook hands and then said “By the authority and on behalf of the Masters of the Bench I publish Mr… a Barrister of this Honourable Society” Three more bows on each side and we were back at our table, each one a Barrister-at-law, awaiting our orders.

When the ceremony was over, barristers and students, who had been dining, left. The Benchers left for their private chamber. The Juniors remained. After a short time, the usher came and summoned us into this private, red-carpeted room. There were the Benchers, seated round the table, with vacant seats between them. A Junior sat with a Bencher on either side of him. They rose as we entered. There were more drinks, and cigars and cigarettes served in ancient silver boxes.

They were great gentlemen and great hosts. I sat between Lord Buckmaster and a well-known King’s Counsel, whose name I have forgotten. Several times the Peer shouted to the waiter to “Fill the gentleman’s glass”. I reluctantly kept pace hoping that I would not disgrace the Honourable Society by ending up as a casualty like my friend an Grand Night.

This reminds me of a poem by Benjamin H. Burt:

One evening in October,

When I was far from sober

And dragging home a load with manly pride,

My feet began to stutter

So I laid down in the gutter

And a pig came up and parked right by my side.

Then I warbled “It’s fair weather When good fellows get together”

Till a lady passing by was heard to say

“You can tell a man who boozes By the company he chooses.”

Then the pig got up and slowly walked away.

The Treasurer, Lord Blanesborough, made a speech congratulating the Juniors and telling them a few things about professional ethics, the nobility of the profession and the dignity of the bar. The person who replied was the student, if any, who had passed in Class I. There was no one in my year. The task, under the rules, therefore fell on the student who, according to seniority, was the oldest by date of admission. The honour fell to someone who said in his speech that he was old vintage – he was enrolled in 1914 and was called in 1932.

At the time I was called, there were very few in Ceylon who had passed in Class I and I valued my Class II high. As far as I know, those who had passed in Class I were F. A. Hayley, A. E. Keuneman, D. S. Jayawickrama and Cyril E. S. Pereira.

After the speeches on Call Night, the Benchers retired arm in arm, and the Juniors were left to help themselves to more drinks and to bring in friends as the guests of the Inn. Each was allowed to have two guests. Then came the butler with a muslin bag for the only tip which one was required to give throughout one’s stay at the Inn, and each Junior dropped a five pound note in it.

At Lincoln’s Inn, no one stands up for the toast of the king. Tradition has it that King Charles II who was entertained at Lincoln’s Inn in 1671 dined so well that the King gave his permission for the Royal Toast to be drunk in this manner. And so it has been ever since.

It only remained to go the next day to the King’s Bench Division and sign the Roll of Barristers. My certificate states that I had paid all dues, that my deportment at the Inn “hath” been proper and that I had been called to the Outer Barrister as opposed to an Inner Barrister, one who sits at the inner Bar, that is, a Queen’s Counsel.

The lunches at the Inn were delightful and cheap. Lunch was served in the hall on all days on which the Courts were sitting. Judges, Barristers in their wigs and gowns, students all used to sit on the benches irrespective of status and an animated conversation went round the table over the meal. No bill was brought, but after the meal, one was expected to go to the butler who sat at a high table at the entrance to the hall and tell him what one had ordered and eaten. One was then told the amount due. Everyone was placed on trust and that trust was never misplaced.

Before finishing with Lincoln’s Inn, I take the liberty of reproducing a very interesting and humorous editorial from the London Times of May 1931:

Polygamy in Lincoln’s Inn

The Inns of Court, as befits their great age and greater dignity, take particular pains about the character of those whom they allow to reside inside their gates; and as the Courts of Chancery claim a traditional pre-eminence over the Courts of Common Law as homes of the most austere rectitude, where rhetoric is never heard or is heard in tight-lipped silence, so is no Inn more careful to maintain the standard of impeccability among its tenants than Lincoln’s Inn. Common lawyers expect to jostle and mingle with all manner of men, but Chancery lawyers who take neither pride nor pleasure in the rough and tumble, are not to be offered any but the hand-picked company of highly necessary solicitors, the more thoughtful and statistical kind of politician and the steadier sort of journalist.

Into this company have now intruded individuals of a different stamp, whose general air of insolvency, combined with an addiction to the pond and to matrimonial irregularities, suggest that they have mistaken the Inn for the neighbouring Courts of Bankruptcy or Probate, Admiralty and Divorce. The Inn allows married couples, and smiles indulgently at the spectacle of children playing on its lawns. The law has always recognized marriage and its customary consequence as among the most valuable of the institutions which make the legal profession a necessity.

The litigation in Chancery is so peculiarly dependent on the family and the family quarrels, that the noise of children quarreling, so painful to many other men of affairs, is sweet prophetic music to the Chancery silk. But the three drakes and two ducks who have started to live in New Square an unseemly life of indolence and pleasure, with an absence of reticence that a Hollywood publicity man might envy, are carrying things altogether too far.

When a duck and a drake first appeared and settled in the pond at New Square and reared a family, everyone wished them well and the only anxiety was how to retain so model a couple as an encouragement to everyone else. They flew away, but another reappeared this year, and it looked as if the kindly offices of the Inn in making its pond comfortable have not been in vain, and that the lawyers were earning a good name among the better class of duck.

But the correspondent who has followed events for this journal has had an increasingly disreputable tale to unfold. The drake brought a second duck openly to the pond in full view of the King’s Proctor, and the appearance of two more drakes has now given the pond an example of the type of promiscuous modern household which has sometimes been described in fiction but which respectable people have liked to think was exaggerated.

It is only three days since this last development, but already the trouble which any experienced solicitor could have predicted seems to be breaking out, and the King’s peace is endangered where it ought to be most secure. There is an excuse, and it is the excuse common in such entangling alliances – the excuse of unhappiness. Four out of the first wife’s seven eggs were stolen, one by one, by rats, and the substitutes provided by the Inn never seemed the same.

If the feathered creation offends against the spirit of much of our legislation, at least it is guiltless of the kidnapping and rapine which makes the name of rat enjoy so little favour. But, though the guardians of the law must feel a little outraged that robbery can take place under their very noses like this, there is a certain consolation for legal men in the goings on by the pond. “That”, the lawyer can exclaim, “is nature for you, in all her notorious disrepute”.

So ruminating, he can turn away his gaze and, thinking with pride what the police mean and the judge have managed to make of human kind, and how seldom they steal each other’s offspring, he can settle down with all the clearer conscience to the preparation of his bills of costs.”

This was followed by a letter to the Editor…

The Ducks of Lincoln’s Inn Sir,

We are instructed by our clients, who, by the courtesy of the Benchers of Lincoln’s Inn, are occupying the premises known as “The pond”, to inform you that the other ladies and gentlemen referred to in your fourth leader of today were friends who sought a good address for census night, and some have stayed on to enjoy the hospitality of the beadle. There is no ground whatever for any suggestion of scandal.

We are directed to inform you that our clients require you to withdraw the imputation contained in your fourth leader. Otherwise they will take steps.

Yours faithfully Quackett and Quackett

Concurrently with my admission to Lincoln’s Inn, I entered as I have said, University College, London. The University Professors and lecturers were on the academic side, whereas the Bar lecturers, I was told, emphasized the practical or the court side of the law. Although I was enrolled at University College, lectures were also given at King’s College and at the London School of Economics, and the lecture hours were so fixed that, on the conclusion of one lecture, the students had time to walk to the other College for the next lecture.

I had many friends among the students. Amongst them was a Japanese professor of law who just didn’t and couldn’t understand what English Equity was. He was a most lovable man, fond of whisky. Before his departure for Tokyo, I presented him with a copy of Snell’s Equity.

I had the most amazing collection of professors and lecturers: amazing in the sense that most of them had an amazing memory, lecturing for an hour without a note before them and referring to leading cases by volume and page. There was Professor Parry lecturing on Contracts and Professor Lauterpacht on International law. He carried no notes with him but referred to the sections of the four treaties entered into after the first world war as if the treaties were before him.

There was Wolff who spoke on Logic, which was one of my sidelines. There was a very young and good-looking lecturer, very shabbily dressed, the only thing clean about him being his collar, who lectured to a class of about 60 students on the Conflict of Laws. The lectures were given on the third floor of the London School of Economics. The floor of the lecture room was boarded.

One day, the lecturer arrived in well-creased striped trousers, a smartly tailored black coat, wing collar, bow tie, etc. He looked a bridegroom. The entire class just gazed at the change in the man and 60 pairs of feet were going on the boarded floor creating a violent disturbance. Said the lecturer “Ladies and Gentlemen, I propose to proceed with my lecture. Please use your heads instead of your feet” and the noise subsided.

There was Professor Harold Laski about whom it would be impertinent for me to write. He is too well known in the world of politics and economics to need an introduction from me.

Special mention must be made of Professor Smith, the most eccentric man I ever met. I was following a course for the LL. M. on the Diplomatic History of the Nile, the Scheldt, the Elbe and the Danube. It happened that I was the only student following these lectures. Into a cold, large room in wintertime the Professor walked a minute before the lecture was due to start and asked me “You the only one?”

I said I did not know and that no one else had come. He said “Oh. Come up to my room. I have a fire there.”

Up in his room, when I had removed my overcoat, he said “You may smoke”. I took my pipe, and he his. Then he addressed me in these terms. “My lectures are from 6. 30 to 8 p.m. You will come at 6.30, not a minute earlier, not a minute late. You will knock on the door but you needn’t wait for an answer. You will leave at 8, not a minute early and not a minute late. You don’t need my permission.”

I was terrified with all this introduction, but discovered later that he was one of the kindliest of men. I was outside his door for the next day’s lecture ten minutes before time. At 6.30 sharp, I knocked and entered, and he had started his lecture to his only pupil, pointing with the stem of his pipe at the source of the Nile on a huge map which was hanging on the wall. He used no notes and kept puffing at his pipe, pacing up and down his book-lined room while he talked.

At one minute to 8 p.m. I was collecting my overcoat and books. At about one second to 8, my hand was on the doorknob, about to take myself out, when I heard him saying “and from there we’ll continue next time”. It was the same each week. As I entered at 6.30 “As I was saying last time… etc.” talk, talk talk till 8 p.m. And then “and from there we’ll continue next time.” A marvellous man with a marvellous brain, but an utter eccentric.

With the drop in rubber prices in 1932, I decided to return home and in the few months left to me before I sailed, to study Income Tax Law. I therefore went to my Professor and asked him to excuse me from attending his lectures. He said (remember I was the only student) “Oh! It doesn’t matter. I am paid to deliver these lectures and I deliver them whether you are here or not.”