DEI GRATIA, REX.

[3]Mexican leagues—about one hundred and forty miles.

[3]

Mexican leagues—about one hundred and forty miles.

DEI GRATIA, REX.

———

BY W. E. GILMORE.

———

King“by the grace of God!” where is the tokenBy which we know thy right it is to reign!Jehovah’s will, of old, in words was spoken,Who heard His voice thy sovereignty proclaim?No! thou art king,notby “the grace of God,”But usurpation only—guiltless heThat doth resist thy claims, and, though in bloodPoured out like water, rids the earth of thee!

King“by the grace of God!” where is the tokenBy which we know thy right it is to reign!Jehovah’s will, of old, in words was spoken,Who heard His voice thy sovereignty proclaim?

King“by the grace of God!” where is the token

By which we know thy right it is to reign!

Jehovah’s will, of old, in words was spoken,

Who heard His voice thy sovereignty proclaim?

No! thou art king,notby “the grace of God,”But usurpation only—guiltless heThat doth resist thy claims, and, though in bloodPoured out like water, rids the earth of thee!

No! thou art king,notby “the grace of God,”

But usurpation only—guiltless he

That doth resist thy claims, and, though in blood

Poured out like water, rids the earth of thee!

OUR CHILDHOOD

———

BY JANE GAY.

———

Howbrightly did the summer’s sunWake up the dewy morn,And chase the misty shadows fromThe cot where we were born;It stood amid the peaceful hillsWhere worldlings never rove,The violet-spotted earth around—The glorious sky above.Two tall elms were its sentinels,With arms uplifted high;And these were all we needed, saveThe watchers of the sky;And while amid the thick, green leavesThe moonbeams dallied bright,The stars looked down on us at play,Oft on the summer night.O, every month of childhood’s years,How well do I remember,With all their smiles and fleeting tears,From New Year’s till December;No care or burden had we then—No life-lines on the brow;We knew it not—I wonder ifWe’re any wiser now.Were we not with ye, brothers, whenWith spade or hoe ye spedTo dig the homely artichokeFrom out its winter bed?Or when, with boyhood’s free, glad shout,Ye ran with pole and hook,To draw the golden-spotted troutFrom out the alder-brook?Ay, ay! and I must tell it, too,Ye’dsometimesplay the churls;And cry, when we would run away—“Mother, call back the girls!”And then came tasks of knitting-workFor us, and dreaded patch,With sullen faces, till we thoughtTo try a knitting match.The summer days were ne’er too longFor busy life like ours;For every hill had berries then,And every meadow, flowers.And joyfully, when school was done,We’d stay to glean our store;For though we loved the school-book well,We loved the free hills more.And very pleasant ’mid those hillsSeptember’s sun did shine,As we went forth to gather grapesFrom many a loaded vine;And while October’s gorgeous huesOf red and gold were seen;We searched for chestnuts in the wood,Or pulled the winter-green.And when November’s winds came chillWith icy sleet and rain,We knew the old brown barns were filledWith stores of golden grain;And what cared we how bleak or coldThe wintry storms might rise—Our dreams were of Thanksgiving-days,And all their wealth of pies.Though ye have left the homestead nowGrave men to walk among,Yet while our sire and grandsire live—Brothers, ye still are young!Nor, sisters, is it time for usLife’s lantern dark to trim,Our own dear mother has not yetSung her half-century hymn!And while our childhood’s guardians liveTo bless the passing years,’Twere more than vain in sad regretsTo waste Life’s precious tears;Yet if our summer sky is fair,And green our summer bowers,We know that many walk the earthWith sadder hearts than ours.

Howbrightly did the summer’s sun

Wake up the dewy morn,

And chase the misty shadows from

The cot where we were born;

It stood amid the peaceful hills

Where worldlings never rove,

The violet-spotted earth around—

The glorious sky above.

Two tall elms were its sentinels,With arms uplifted high;And these were all we needed, saveThe watchers of the sky;And while amid the thick, green leavesThe moonbeams dallied bright,The stars looked down on us at play,Oft on the summer night.

Two tall elms were its sentinels,

With arms uplifted high;

And these were all we needed, save

The watchers of the sky;

And while amid the thick, green leaves

The moonbeams dallied bright,

The stars looked down on us at play,

Oft on the summer night.

O, every month of childhood’s years,How well do I remember,With all their smiles and fleeting tears,From New Year’s till December;No care or burden had we then—No life-lines on the brow;We knew it not—I wonder ifWe’re any wiser now.

O, every month of childhood’s years,

How well do I remember,

With all their smiles and fleeting tears,

From New Year’s till December;

No care or burden had we then—

No life-lines on the brow;

We knew it not—I wonder if

We’re any wiser now.

Were we not with ye, brothers, whenWith spade or hoe ye spedTo dig the homely artichokeFrom out its winter bed?Or when, with boyhood’s free, glad shout,Ye ran with pole and hook,To draw the golden-spotted troutFrom out the alder-brook?

Were we not with ye, brothers, when

With spade or hoe ye sped

To dig the homely artichoke

From out its winter bed?

Or when, with boyhood’s free, glad shout,

Ye ran with pole and hook,

To draw the golden-spotted trout

From out the alder-brook?

Ay, ay! and I must tell it, too,Ye’dsometimesplay the churls;And cry, when we would run away—“Mother, call back the girls!”And then came tasks of knitting-workFor us, and dreaded patch,With sullen faces, till we thoughtTo try a knitting match.

Ay, ay! and I must tell it, too,

Ye’dsometimesplay the churls;

And cry, when we would run away—

“Mother, call back the girls!”

And then came tasks of knitting-work

For us, and dreaded patch,

With sullen faces, till we thought

To try a knitting match.

The summer days were ne’er too longFor busy life like ours;For every hill had berries then,And every meadow, flowers.And joyfully, when school was done,We’d stay to glean our store;For though we loved the school-book well,We loved the free hills more.

The summer days were ne’er too long

For busy life like ours;

For every hill had berries then,

And every meadow, flowers.

And joyfully, when school was done,

We’d stay to glean our store;

For though we loved the school-book well,

We loved the free hills more.

And very pleasant ’mid those hillsSeptember’s sun did shine,As we went forth to gather grapesFrom many a loaded vine;And while October’s gorgeous huesOf red and gold were seen;We searched for chestnuts in the wood,Or pulled the winter-green.

And very pleasant ’mid those hills

September’s sun did shine,

As we went forth to gather grapes

From many a loaded vine;

And while October’s gorgeous hues

Of red and gold were seen;

We searched for chestnuts in the wood,

Or pulled the winter-green.

And when November’s winds came chillWith icy sleet and rain,We knew the old brown barns were filledWith stores of golden grain;And what cared we how bleak or coldThe wintry storms might rise—Our dreams were of Thanksgiving-days,And all their wealth of pies.

And when November’s winds came chill

With icy sleet and rain,

We knew the old brown barns were filled

With stores of golden grain;

And what cared we how bleak or cold

The wintry storms might rise—

Our dreams were of Thanksgiving-days,

And all their wealth of pies.

Though ye have left the homestead nowGrave men to walk among,Yet while our sire and grandsire live—Brothers, ye still are young!Nor, sisters, is it time for usLife’s lantern dark to trim,Our own dear mother has not yetSung her half-century hymn!

Though ye have left the homestead now

Grave men to walk among,

Yet while our sire and grandsire live—

Brothers, ye still are young!

Nor, sisters, is it time for us

Life’s lantern dark to trim,

Our own dear mother has not yet

Sung her half-century hymn!

And while our childhood’s guardians liveTo bless the passing years,’Twere more than vain in sad regretsTo waste Life’s precious tears;Yet if our summer sky is fair,And green our summer bowers,We know that many walk the earthWith sadder hearts than ours.

And while our childhood’s guardians live

To bless the passing years,

’Twere more than vain in sad regrets

To waste Life’s precious tears;

Yet if our summer sky is fair,

And green our summer bowers,

We know that many walk the earth

With sadder hearts than ours.

I’LL BLAME THEE NOT.

———

BY J. A. TINNON.

———

I’llblame thee not—for I can love,Another eye as bright as thine,A form as fair, and ne’er regret,This worship at a faithless shrine.I’ll blame thee not—love fond and trueMay still be won in beauty’s bowers,Though I may never dare again,To wear a wreath of fading flowers.I’ll blame thee not—for thoughts of loveAnd thee no more my bosom fill;And of that dream there lingers scarceOne trace of its deep burning thrill.I’ll blame thee not—I smile to seeThe golden vision pass away,When its bright tints a mask have beenTo hide a heart of common clay.I’ll blame thee not—for I, perchance,May learn the trick of gladness well,And none shall mark upon my browA trace of joy or pain to tell.I’ll blame thee not—for I will careNo more to bind a restive heart,Though every joy my life can knowShould with its passion-dream depart.

I’llblame thee not—for I can love,

Another eye as bright as thine,

A form as fair, and ne’er regret,

This worship at a faithless shrine.

I’ll blame thee not—love fond and true

May still be won in beauty’s bowers,

Though I may never dare again,

To wear a wreath of fading flowers.

I’ll blame thee not—for thoughts of loveAnd thee no more my bosom fill;And of that dream there lingers scarceOne trace of its deep burning thrill.I’ll blame thee not—I smile to seeThe golden vision pass away,When its bright tints a mask have beenTo hide a heart of common clay.

I’ll blame thee not—for thoughts of love

And thee no more my bosom fill;

And of that dream there lingers scarce

One trace of its deep burning thrill.

I’ll blame thee not—I smile to see

The golden vision pass away,

When its bright tints a mask have been

To hide a heart of common clay.

I’ll blame thee not—for I, perchance,May learn the trick of gladness well,And none shall mark upon my browA trace of joy or pain to tell.I’ll blame thee not—for I will careNo more to bind a restive heart,Though every joy my life can knowShould with its passion-dream depart.

I’ll blame thee not—for I, perchance,

May learn the trick of gladness well,

And none shall mark upon my brow

A trace of joy or pain to tell.

I’ll blame thee not—for I will care

No more to bind a restive heart,

Though every joy my life can know

Should with its passion-dream depart.

LAW AND LAWYERS.

———

BY JOHN NEAL.

———

“Once more into the breach, dear friends:Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the bends!”

“Once more into the breach, dear friends:

Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the bends!”

Withall my heart, Graham! But inasmuch as the lecture you want a copy of has never been reduced to writing, though portions have appeared from time to time in the newspapers of the day; and I have no notes worth referring to, I dare not pretend to give you the language I employ; for, between ourselves, that depends upon the weather and the House, to say nothing of my temper at the time. For example; if I see before me a goodly proportion of what are called thelearned, or theeducated, I never mince matters—I never talk as if butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth, but go to work with my sleeves rolled up, as if I heard a trumpet in the hollow sky. In other cases, where the great majority of my hearers happen to be neither learned nor educated—though there may be a sprinkling of both—I am apt, I acknowledge, to wander off into familiar every-day illustrations—perhaps into down-right story-telling, or what my brethren of the bar would be likely to denominateunprofessionalrigmarole. But the substance of my preaching for many years upon this subject, and the “thing signified,” and the general arrangement, under all sorts of provocation, I think I may venture to promise you.

Bear in mind, I pray you, that phantoms under one aspect, may be more terrible than giants, cased in proof, under another. Every great mischief, being once enthroned or established, is a host of itself.

In the open field, lawyers are not easily vanquished—out-manœuvered or overborne. Walled about, as with a triple wall of fire—orbrass?—high up and afar off, their intrenchments are only to be carried by storm. They must be grappled with, face to face. No quarter must be granted—for no quarter do they give—no mercy do they show, after their banners are afield. “Up, guards! and at ’em!” said Wellington, at the battle of Waterloo; and so say I! whenever I see my brethren of the bar rallying for a charge.

They will bear with me, I hope—as I have borne with them for twenty-five years; for, while I complain of their unreasonable ascendency throughout our land, of their imperious, overbearing, unquestioned domination, I acknowledge that, constituted as we are—We, the People—we cannot do without them—and the more’s the pity. Law we must have, and with it, as if by spontaneous generation—lawyers, till Man himself undergoes a transformation, and his very nature is changed. Both are necessary evils—much like war, pestilence, and famine, or lunatic-asylums, poor-houses, and penitentiaries; or apothecaries’ shops, with their adulterous abominations; and every other substitute for, and abridgment of, human liberty, human happiness, the laws of health, or the instinct of self-reliance. If men will not do as they would be done by; if they will not be “temperate in all things”—then they deserve to be drugged, and blistered, and bled here by the doctors, and there by the lawyers, till they have come to their senses, or can no longer be dealt with profitably by either; for, although every man, according to the worthy Joe Miller, may be his own washerwoman—at least in Ireland—it is very clear that in this country, he might as well undertake to be his own jailer, as his own lawyer.

I would go further; for, like the illustrious Hungarian, I desire to conciliate and satisfy, not the few but the many; not only my brethren of the bar, but everybody else worth satisfying; I would even admit—and how could I well go further, and “hope to be forgiven?”—that, in view of Man’s nature, as developed by our social institutions, Law and Lawyers both, may be, and sometimes are, under special circumstances, not only a necessary evil, but a very good thing.There!I have said it—and let them make the most of it. I mean to admit all I can—and much good may it do them! But then, I would ask, if we may not have too much, even of a good thing?

I hold that we may; and I appeal for proof to the countless volumes of law which cannot be understood by any but lawyers; nor by any two of them alike, till every other word, perhaps, in a long paragraph has been settled by adjudication—two or three different ways—after solemn argument.

I appeal to what is called the administration of justice, by jury-trial, in our courts of law, where twelve ignorant, unreasoning men, got together, nobody knows how—hit or miss—are held to be better qualified—being bound by their oaths to think alike in most cases, and to return a unanimous verdict, whether or no—than Lord Chancellor Bacon himself, or Chief Justice Marshall would be, to settle any and every question, however new, and however abstruse and complicated, upon every possible subject that may happen to be brought before them for the first time in all their lives! And this, without any previous knowledge on their parts, or any other preparation by the lawyers who are to enlighten them, than may have been made the night before, by “reading up,” or “stuffing” for the occasion.

I appeal, moreover, to the testimony of the sufferers themselves—parties, they are technically called—who, after being scorched, and sifted, and harassed, and pillaged, under one pretence or another, year after year, and within an inch of their lives; or driven well-nigh distracted by the vicissitudes and anxieties incident to every well-managed law-suit, where “good pickings” are to be had, or by that hope-deferred “which maketh the heart sick,” begin to get their eyes opened, and to see for themselves, and are sometime ready to acknowledge for the help of others, who are elbowing their way up—or down?—toseethe elephant, that when they pass over the threshold of those gambling-houses, that are established by law, under the name of Courts of Justice, and put up their stakes, they will find three times out of four—perhaps nineteen times out of twenty—that when the raffle comes off at last—with the jury-box—it is to decide, not which of the two parties litigant—plaintiffs or defendants—but what third party—the lawyers—shall sweep the board.

And I might appeal to the swarming thousands of our younger professional brethren, who, ashamed to beg, afraid to steal, and too lazy to work, instead of following the business of their fathers, taking their places, and maintaining themselves honestly, give way to a foolish mother, or sister, or to some greater simpleton still more to be pitied, or to a most unhealthy ambition—that of being anEsquire, and a pauper, with very white hands, who, having studied law, will have to be provided for at last by marriage, or office; and with that view have literally taken possession of our high places, our kneading-troughs and our bed-chambers—after the fashion of their predecessors in Egypt.

Nay, more—I am ready to acknowledge, and I do for myself, my executors, administrators and assigns—or publishers—hereby acknowledge, and I hope with no unbecoming nor uncourteous qualification, that, taken together, as a power, body, or estate, the Lawyers of our land are to the full as honest—and as trustworthy—bynature—as any other power, body or estate among us, of equal numbers, wealth, dignity, or intelligence; notwithstanding the opinion so generally entertained, and so often expressed, to their disadvantage, in the plays and farces, or newspapers and story-books of the day, (not always, nor altogether synonymous, I hope;) but no honester, and no more trustworthy; for, although I believe—and I mean just what I say—that nogreat advocate, in the popular sense of the words, can be an honest man, however conscientious he may be out of court, or in other business; and however anxious he and others may be to distinguish between the Advocate and the Man—as if a lawyer were allowed two consciences to practice with, and two courts—one above and the other below—to practice in; yet I believe that a great Lawyer, or Jurist, like Sir Matthew Hale, or Chief Justice Marshall, or Chancellor Kent, or any one of a score that might be named, or Judge Parsons, being translated to the bench, from the corrupting influences and stifling atmosphere below, may be a very honest man; just as I believe—and I don’t care who knows it—that silver spoons and watches left within striking distance of an attorney at law—I am only supposing a case—may be safe, “notwithstanding and nevertheless.”

Bynature, I say, and not by education, habit, or association at the bar. Away from the bar, I acknowledge the integrity of my brethren as equal to that of any other class whatever. And this being admitted—what more would they have? Would they claim to be honester and more trustworthy than any other class, either by education or nature?

But observe; though ready to acknowledge their honesty, bynature, as men; or rather, while I acknowledge that they are, to the full, as honest as other men are bynature—but no honester; and as trustworthy in all other relations, apart from law—as good but no better, I maintain that they are constantly exposed to such disqualifying temptations, and to such disastrous influences peculiar to their profession; that they have established a code of morals for themselves, as lawyers, which would not be allowed to them as citizens; and which, if openly avowed and persisted in, by brethren out of the profession, would be sure to send them to the penitentiary; that they have altogether too much power in this country—a power out of all proportion to their numbers, their talents, their intelligence, their virtues, and their usefulness; and that, instead of being chosen for lawgivers throughout our land, in a proportion varying from three-fifths to nearly seven-eighths, in all our legislative bodies, they are the very last persons among us to be intrusted with the business of legislation—having a direct personal interest in multiplying our laws—in altering them—and in making them unintelligible to all the rest of the world.

Not satisfied with their pay, as legislators, for making the law, varying from two to ten dollars a-day—with washing and mending, where washing and mending are possible—they require, as lawyers, from twenty-five to one hundred dollars a-day for telling, or rather for guessing what it means.

And what is the result? Just this. That a privileged body, anointed for office and power, who, but for the blindness and prodigal infatuation of the People, would often be the nobodies of every productive or efficient class, are enabled to fare sumptuously every day, wear purple and fine linen—at the expense of others—all their lives long; and to carry off all the honors from every other class of the community. Think of this, I pray you; and bear with me, while I proceed with my demonstration.

That they have learned to reverence themselves, and all that belongs to them, I do not deny; but then, if it is only themselves, and not the image of God—if it is only what belongs to themselves and to their estate, or craft, as lawyers, and not as Men, they so reverence—in what particular do they differ from other self-idolators?

Are We, the People, to be concluded by their very pretensions? Are We to be estopped by the very deportment we complain of? Because they are exacting and supercilious, and self-satisfied, and arrogant, and overbearing, are we to be patient and submissive? Are we to be told, if not in language, at least by the bearing and behavior of these gentry, that, inasmuch as all men may be supposed to be best acquainted with themselves, therefore Lawyers are to be taken by others at their own valuation?

Let it be remembered that they who properly reverence themselves, always reverence others. But who ever heard of a Lawyer with any reverence—worth mentioning—for anybody out of the profession? This, to be sure, is very common with ignorant and presumptuous men. It is the natural growth of a narrow-minded, short-sighted, selfish bigotry. A mountebank or a rope-dancer will betray the same ridiculous self-complacency, if hard pushed. Were you to speak of a great man—Kossuth, for example—in the presence of a fiddler, who had never heard of him before, he would probably crook his right elbow, and cant his head to the left, as if preparing to draw the long bow, or go through some of the motions common to all the great men he had ever been acquainted with, or heard of, or acknowledged, before he questioned you further.

It would never enter his head that a truly great man could be any thing but a fiddler; a Paganini dethroned perhaps—like Peter the Great in a dockyard—or that “any gentleman as was a gentleman,” could ever so far forget himself inhiscompany, as to call a man great who was no fiddler.

“What do they say of me in England?” said the corpulent, half-naked savage that Mungo Park saw stuffing for a cross-examination under a bamboo tree in Africa.

Just so is it with our brethren of the bar. Law being the “perfection of Reason,” and her seat “the bosom of God,” they, of course, are the expounders or interpreters of both; a priesthood from the beginning, therefore, with the privilege and power of indefinite self-multiplication. The sum and substance of all they know, and all they care for under Heaven, if they are greatly distinguished, being Law, what else could be expected of them? If they are great lawyers they are never any thing else—they are never statesmen, they are never orators—they are never writers. Carefully speaking, Daniel Webster is not a great lawyer—nor is Henry Clay—nor was Lord Brougham; but they were advocates, and orators and statesmen. Sir James Scarlett and Denham were great lawyers, before whose technical superiority and sharp practice Lord Brougham quailed and shriveled in the Court of King’s Bench. But when they encountered each other in the House of Commons—what a figure the two lawyers cut, to be sure, in the presence of the thunderer! They were phantoms, and he the Olympian Jove. William Pinkney was a great lawyer; but for that very reason he was out of place in the Senate chamber, and made no figure there.

But even for this they have a justification—or a plea in bar. The law is a “jealous mistress,” we are told, and will endure no rival; a monarch “who bears no brother near the throne.” And well do they act upon this belief; and well do they teach it by precept and by practice; for few indeed are they, even among the foremost, who have gathered up, in the course of a long life, any considerable amount of miscellaneous knowledge, notwithstanding the reputation they sometimes acquire, in a single day, by their insolent questioning of learned, shy and modest professional men, or experts, after they have once got them caged and cornered, and tied up hand and foot in a witness-box, and allowed to speak only when they are spoken to; there to be badgered for the amusement of people outside, more ignorant, if possible, than the learned counsel themselves; but incapable of seeing through the counterfeit, which, while it makes them laugh, makes the “judicious grieve;” and mistaking for cleverness and smartness the blundering audacity of an ignorant and garrulous, though privileged pretender, who does not know that it often requires about as much knowledge of a subject to propound a safe and proper question, as to answer it: nor that the veriest blockhead may ask twenty questions in a breath, which no mortal man could ever answer, and would not even try to answer, unless he were a still greater blockhead.

And now, having swept the stage fore and aft, and secured, as I trust, a patient hearing from the profession, let us go to work in earnest.

I maintain that among the popular delusions of the day, there is no one more dangerous nor alarming than that which leads our People to believe that they constitute a republic and that they govern themselves, merely because they are allowed to choose their own masters;providedthey choose them out of a particular class—that of the lawyers.

At the opening of every great political campaign, we hear a great deal about the privileged classes; the ruffled-shirt and silk-stocking gentry: and sometimes men prattle about the aristocracy of talent, or the aristocracy of wealth—but who ever heard any complaints of our legal aristocracy—an oligarchy rather—for they make all the laws, they expound all the laws, and they hold all the offices worth having—in perpetuity.

And whose fault is it? If the People are such asses, why should they not be saddled and bridled, and ridden in perpetuity? It is their nature. They are prone to class-worship, and to family-worship—to self-depreciation, and to a most incapacitating jealousy of one another. Even in the day of the elder Adams, it was found that the office of a justice of the peace, like that of a legislator, was well-nigh hereditary in New England. Having anointed the father, how could they help anointing the son?—or the daughter’s husband, if the father had no son?

And now, let us look at the consequences. From Aristotle down to the last elementary writer on Government, it has been every where, and at all times, acknowledged, that every possible kind of sway upon earth, between Despotism and Anarchy, may be resolved into three elements of power, differently combined, or combined in different proportions. These elements are: 1. The Legislative, or law-making power; 2. The Judicial, or law-expounding power; and 3. The Executive, or law-enforcing power.

Taken together we have what is called the Sovereign Power. The power of making laws, of saying what they mean, and of carrying them into execution being all that is ever needed for government.

And this, the Sovereign Power, may be concentrated in one person, whence we have the Czar, the Sultan, or the Autocrat; or it may be confined to a few—as in Sparta, or Genoa, or Venice, or Poland—constituting either an Aristocracy or an Oligarchy; or it may be distributed among the people equally, as at Rome or Athens at particular periods of their history, when they were a tumultuous unmanageable Democracy: or unequally, as in England, or in these United States, thereby constituting a Limited Monarchy, or a Representative Republic, pretending to a balance, by the help of a King or President, a House of Lords, or a Senate, and a House of Commons or a House of Representatives, and a Judiciary, more or less dependent upon the Executive.

Of all these different systems the worst by far is an Oligarchy—or the government of a privileged few—no matter whether elective and shifting, or permanent, provided that, as a body or estate, they are allowed by common consent to make the laws—to expound the laws—and to carry the laws into execution, by holding all the offices worth having, from that of the monarch or president, down to that of a clerk or sergeant-at-arms.

True it is, that by no human contrivance can the three elements of power above mentioned, be kept entirely separate—for they will run into each other—as where the Supreme Executive is allowed a veto, or required to sanction a law: and where the Senate, as a branch of the Supreme Legislative power, intermeddles with the appointing power of the Executive under the name of confirmation; and where the Supreme Judiciary, after being appointed by the Executive and confirmed by the Senate, are made dependent upon that other branch of the Supreme Legislative power for the payment of their salaries—the House originating all money bills and voting supplies—turn about, in their capacity of Supreme Judges, and are allowed to unsettle, if they please, by their interpretation, whatever the Supreme Legislative power may choose to enact for law.

But although these three elements can never be wholly separated—it does not follow that men, who desire to be well-governed, should not try to separate them and to keep them separated as far as they can. Still less, that because they cannot be wholly separated, they shall therefore be encouraged to run together and to crystalize into a mischief that may never be resolved again but by the process of decomposition.

And now, I contend that, in effect,We, the People of these United States, are governed by an Oligarchy; and that, by being allowed to choose our own masters—provided we choose them, or at least, a large majority of them, out of a particular class—we are blinded to the inevitable consequences: till we mistake words for things, and shadows for substances: and that our mistake is all the more dangerous and alarming that we cannot be persuaded to treat the matter seriously.

I contend, moreover, that, inasmuch as the Lawyers of our land make all the laws; and as Judges expound all the laws, and as office-holders carry all the laws into execution, therefore they constitute of themselves the Sovereign Power.

Are the facts questioned? In the Massachusetts legislature, we have had two hundred and sixty lawyers out of three hundred and fifty members; and in congress we had not long ago, the same number, two hundred and sixty lawyers out of two hundred and ninety-seven members—the balance being made up in this way. Manufacturers and farmers, fifteen: Merchants, one: Unknown, (being mechanics or preachers, or something of the sort,) twenty-one. Perhaps there may be some error here, as I find the only note I have upon the subject so blurred, that I am not sure of the figures; but the fact on which I rely is too notorious to be questioned. Every body knows that lawyers constitute a large majority in all our legislative bodies, and have done so for the last fifty years; and that they make about all the speeches that are made there, or supposed to be made there, and afterward reported by themselves for the newspapers. Can it be doubted therefore, that they as a body do in fact and in truth constitute our supreme legislative power—thereby absorbing to themselves just one third part, and by far the most important part of our whole sovereignty as a people.

As little can it be seriously questioned that, inasmuch as all our judges, from the highest to the lowest are lawyers; or ought to be, as they are always ready enough to acknowledge—they constitute the supreme judiciary; another third part of our whole sovereignty as a people.

And now let us see how the account stands with the Executive Power. Are not our presidents, and have they not been from the first—with only three exceptions out of twelve—lawyers? And our vice presidents; and all our secretaries of state; and most of our secretaries of war, and of the navy; and about all our foreign ministers; our chief clerks, our post-master generals; our collectors; our land agents; and even a large proportion of our foreign consuls—have they not always been, and are they not always with an ever increasing ratio—Lawyers? And if so, what becomes of the other third part of our whole sovereignty as a people—the Executive Power? It is in the hands of the lawyers; and as three thirds make a whole—out of the courts of law, I mean—does it not follow that the whole sovereign power of this mighty people—of this great commonwealth of republics—this last refuge of the nations is in the hands of our lawyers, hardly a fraction of the whole?

Oh! but we have nothing to fear. Lawyers are always at loggerheads. They are incapable of working together, even for mischief. Granted—and there, let me tell you is our only safety, and our only hope. But, suppose they should wake up to a knowledge of their own strength—and of our weakness—who shall say that they must always be incapable of conspiring together? And if they did—when should we begin to perceive our danger? Would they be likely to tell us before-hand? Or would they go on, year after year, quietly absorbing office, power, and prerogative, as all such bodies do; until they had become too strong for the great unreasoning multitude. With public opinion—with long established usage in their favor—with a sort of hallucination, hard to be accounted for in a jealous people; acquainted with history, what have they to fear? Neither overthrow nor disaster—till the people come to their senses and wake up, and harness themselves; and then, they are put upon trial, as with the voice of many thunders; and instantly and forever dethroned, as by an earthquake.

But you do not see the danger. Granted. And this very thing is what I complain of. Did you see the danger there would be some hope of you; and it would soon pass away forever.

But suppose we take another case for illustration. Suppose that three-fifths of all our law-makers were soldiers instead of lawyers. Suppose that all our judges from the highest to the lowest were soldiers; and that all our presidents, and secretaries, and foreign ministers, and collectors, and consuls—with here and there an exception—were all soldiers; most of them experienced soldiers—veterans; and the others, conscripts or new levies—what would be the consequences, think you? How long should we be at peace with the rest of the world? How long would Cuba, Mexico, or the rest of North and South America be unattempted? Would not our whole sea-coast, and all our lakes and rivers, and all our frontiers be fortified and garrisoned? Would there not be great armies constantly marching and counter-marching through our midst? Would not our very dwelling-houses and churches be wanted for barracks—and if wanted, would they not be taken by little and little?

Would not all our young men be mustering for the battle-field? Would not foolish mothers, and sisters, and sweet-hearts, be urging them to try for a shoulder-knot or a feather, as the only thing on earth to be cared for by a young man of spirit and enterprise?

Look at Russia. The military have dominion there—and all the rest of the world are slaves. The greatest men we have, not bearing a military title, would be overlooked by the emperor, while any thing in the shape of a general, though he never “set a squadron in the field,” and was never heard of beyond the neighborhood of a militia muster, would be fastened on horseback, and have thousands and tens of thousands, from the harnessed legions of the north, passed in review before him. What wonder that in such a country, the very nurses of the bed-chamber; yea, the very bishops of the land have military titles, and are regularly passed up through successive grades, from that of a platoon officer to that of a colonel, and perhaps to that of a field-marshall, by the emperor himself.

Yet soldiers are at least as trustworthy, are they not—as lawyers?

Take another case. It will not be denied, that physicians on the whole, are about as intelligent and trustworthy as lawyers. Now, let us suppose that, instead of being as in the Massachusetts legislature, eighteen to two hundred and sixty—in a body of two hundred and ninety-seven; they should happen to be two hundred and sixty physicians, to eighteen lawyers, and that in our other legislative bodies they should constitute a majority of the members: that all our presidents, and secretaries, and foreign ministers, and chief clerks, and post-masters, and collectors, and consuls, were physicians; or as many as are now lawyers: and that all the laws were made subject to the decision of a bench of doctors, eminent for the knowledge of medicine, and for nothing else—what, think you, would be the situation of our people under such an administration? Would any mortal man dare to refuse any pill the president might offer? Would not our dwellings and churches be converted—not into barracks, but hospitals? Would not millions be lavished upon theories, and experiments, and preparations for pestilence? Would not the whole country be divided into contagionists, and non-contagionists—parties for, and parties against the yellow fever and the cholera? Would not platforms be established, and pledges required, and offices filled—here by the believers in allopathy, and there by the disciples of homeopathy? To-day, by the rain-water, screw-auger, and vegetable doctors; and to-morrow, by the unbelievers in lobelia, bella-donna, and pulverized charcoal, or infinitesimal silex? In a word, if the government were allowed to have its own way—and after they were established as the lawyers are now, how could you help it?—would not the president, and all his secretaries be obliged to prescribe for the sovereign people—or suffering people—gratuitously; and would not the whole country be drugged, and physicked, and bled and blistered—samewhat as they are now—and would not all our finest young men be rushing into the apothecary shops, and lying-in hospitals, and clinical establishments for diplomas—to qualify them for the business of legislation, and for holding office?

And again. Suppose we had as many preachers of the Gospel for lawgivers—for presidents, secretaries, ministers, etc., and for judges—what would be our situation? However they might differ among themselves upon the minor points of their faith and practice, would they not combine together? And would it not be their duty to combine, for the establishment of whatever opinion they might all, or a great majority of them, have agreed to uphold, as vital to Christianity? And how could we help ourselves? And what would become of our ambitious young men, or still more ambitious daughters? And what—I beseech you to think of this—what would become of the right we now claim of judging for ourselves upon all subjects, that in any way belong to our everlasting welfare? Yet these men are honest, and taken together, are they not as trustworthy and conscientious under all circumstances, think you, as our present masters, the lawyers? And if so, would they—or would the physicians, or the soldiers be a whit more dangerous? Answer these questions for yourselves.

But I have not finished. I hold that the professional training of a lawyer disqualifies him for the very business, which might be entrusted with comparative safety to the soldier, the physician, or the preacher.

And wherefore? Because it substitutes a new law for the law of God. He that by his professional adroitness can secure the escape of the bloodiest and most atrocious criminal from justice, in spite of the clearest proof, obtains a reputation, and with it correspondent advantages in wealth, influence, and power, which under no other circumstances could he obtain. It is the worst cases, whether criminal or civil—cases which he gains in defiance of law, and against evidence—which give a lawyer reputation. To win a cause which every body says he ought to win,thatnever gives a man reputation, and is therefore committed to the nobodies below him. But, if there be a case beyond the reach of hope or palliation; clear and conclusive against the party, so that our very blood thrills when he is mentioned, and no human being supposes he can get clear; still if he does get clear—no matter how—by browbeating or bothering witnesses; by bamboozling the jury, and misrepresenting the evidence under the direction of the court; or by down-right bullying; the advocate is complimented by his brethren of the bar, and even by the bench; for his learned, ingenious, and eloquent, and faithful vindication of his client; and he goes forth, carrying with him these trophies,—and others, it may be—dabbled and stained with blood, like the murderer’s knife, with “the gray hair stickin’ to the haft,” only to be retained in advance by every desperate ruffian, and every abandoned wretch, who may happen to hear of the result, and to have the where-withal to secure his timely co-operation.

Just observe how this affair is managed. If a father should give aid and comfort to a child, after she had been guilty of murder; if a husband should open his doors to a wife, or a daughter to her father, at dead of night; or furnish a horse, or money, or a mouthful of bread, or a cup of cold water, or the means of escape to a beloved brother, hunted for his life, with the avenger of blood at his heels, time was, when they were all accessories after the fact, and were treated as murderers or principals, whatever might be the offense, and put to death accordingly; and even yet, although that most barbarous law has undergone a few changes, so that in some portions of our country, they who stand in the relation of husband and wife, or parent and child, may help one another when fleeing for their lives; yet no other man, woman, or child can do it, in the whole community, but at the risk of death or imprisonment for life—except he be a lawyer, and the prisoner’s counsel. And then he may, and he not only may, but he is expected and required to do so: in other words, to aid and comfort, counsel and help the prisoner, heedless of all consequences, here and hereafter. And for this, he may receive the very gold which has been wrenched from the grasp of the murdered man; or the bank bills that are glued together by his heart’s blood; and nobody shall dare to question his integrity, or to have any secret misgivings about his honesty or conscientiousness—if it can be helped.

Let me not be misunderstood. I do not deny that the worst of criminals are to be tried fairly. I acknowledge, moreover, that they cannot be tried fairly with men of the law against them, unless they have lawyers to help them: and that it is as much a part of the law that they shall be tried in a certain way, and proved guilty in a certain way, for the satisfaction of the world, as that they shall be punished at all; and that, if it were enough to be satisfied of another’s guilt as a murderer, to justify us in putting him to death, without going through the regular forms of law, then might we run him up at the next yard-arm, or tree branch, or lamp-post; on happening to see the bloody act perpetrated with our own eyes.

But how should we know even in such a case, that “the man was not beside himself;” or that the homicide was not justifiable, or at least excusable? He may have acknowledged his guilt. And what if he has? He may have been mistaken; for such things have happened, and murders which never took place—though intended—have been acknowledged, and the missing parties have re-appeared after a long while, and explained the mystery. Or he may have been deranged; or being accused, and as it were enmeshed by a web of circumstances, he may have been led away like the son, who charged himself and his aged father, in Vermont, with the murder of a poor helpless creature, who was afterward found alive, by the instinct of self-preservation; hoping to lengthen, if not to save his life, at least until his innocence might be made to appear; and believing his father guilty.

To prove all these things there must be a trial, and a public trial; otherwise, whatever may be the result, he will not beprovedguilty, according to the law and the evidence; nor could he be justly condemned; and there would be no safety for others.

No matter how clear his guilt may be; nor how bad his character may be; the greater his guilt in the judgment of those who decide against him before trial, and without evidence upon oath, or sifting, or cross-examination—the more precious to him and to all, is the privilege of being put to death according to law. The fewer his rights, the more sacred they are. The more decided and overwhelming the evidence against him, the more necessary it is to wall him round about, as with a sword that turneth every way, against the influence of public opinion. It was in this way that the elder Adams reasoned, when he undertook the defense of the British officer, charged with the murder of Boston citizens, at the outbreak of the revolutionary war—and triumphed.

And how shall this be done without the help of a Lawyer? Law, living a science, complicated, and full of mystery and fear, how is the poor criminal to prepare himself? How is he to defend his few remaining rights? And how is he to bear up against the ponderous and crushing weight of public opinion? He cannot. The thing is impossible. He must have help; and that help must be a lawyer; and that lawyer must be not only faithful to him, but unable to take advantage of, or to betray him, if he would; otherwise the culprit will never trust him, and his life will be at the mercy of the prosecutor, generally chosen for his knowledge of the law, and for his adroitness in making “the worse appear the better reason.”

Well, then, a lawyer must be allowed to the greatest criminal—and the greater criminal he is, the more lawyers he ought to be allowed—if able to pay for them! or if the court, in consideration of his deplorable and hopeless guilt, or the atrocious character of the charge against him, be willing to assign them.

And now—being assigned, or otherwise engaged, what shall thehonestlawyer do? He must be faithful to his client, happen what may—but is he required to lie for him? to foreswear himself? As “the indiscriminate defender of right and wrong,” to borrow the words of Jeremy Bentham, “seeking truth in the competition of opposite analogies,” according to Blackstone, shall he undertake to get the fellow clear—to bring him off—against law, and against evidence? If such be the meaning of that faithfulness to his client, what becomes of his faithfulness to God?—to his fellow man—to himself? And yet, where is the great Advocate who does not glory in doing just this? and who has not gained his whole reputation by just such cases, and no others?

There stands the murderer, with garments rolled in blood. There stands his counsel, giving him aid and comfort, under the sanction of law, with his right hand lifted to Heaven, and swearing to a belief in the utter groundlessness of the charge, and calling upon Jehovah himself to witness for him, that he speaks the truth! Such things have happened, and are happening every day; and these honest lawyers are still suffered to go at large, unrebuked and unappalled: nay, worse—for by these very practices they get famous and grow rich and secure the patronage—that’s the very word—thepatronageof all the inexorable and shameless villains and cut-throats in the community.

But if the lawyer may not do these thingshonestly, what may he do for the help of his client?

He may lay his hand reverently upon the statute book. He may show that the law does not reach the case charged upon the prisoner at the bar, and that he must therefore go free—though his right hand be dripping and his garments be stiffened with blood.

He may show that the only witness against him is unworthy of belief, on account of self-contradictions, or utter worthlessness; or that he has become disqualified, by the commission of some offense that incapacitates him for life; and, by producing the record of his conviction, he may oblige the court to let the prisoner go free. All this he may do, and still be an honest man.

Yet more. Having satisfied himself of the innocence of the accused; or of the probability that the witnesses are mistaken, or dishonest, or that they have conspired together to destroy a fellow creature, doomed to death by public opinion without proof; he may put forth all his strength, and appear in “panoply complete,” heedless of all consequences, to save him—provided only that he sticks to the truth, and is honest in what he says or does. I care not how eloquent he may be, nor how able or ingenious—the more eloquent and able and ingenious the better, and I shall reverence him all the more as an Advocate and as a Man.

But I do insist upon it, that he shall not be allowed to forget every thing else—and every other obligation—and every other law, whether divine or human, for the sake of his client; and that if he does, he shall be held answerable for the consequences, and be punished, as he deserves, with a burst of indignation—a general outcry of shame on thee for a traitor!—a traitor to thyself, to thy Maker, and to thy brethren at large, under pretence of being faithful to a murderer whom it would be death, perhaps, for his own mother to help or comfort in any way.

I would even allow him to urge upon the jury, not only in such a case, but in every case where the punishment might be death, to bear in mind, that no matter how perfectly satisfied they may be of the prisoner’s guilt; still, if he has not beenprovedguilty, by unquestionable evidence, or by unimpeachable witnesses, according to law, they are bound by their oaths to return a verdict ofnot guilty; and if they do not, they themselves are guilty of murder.

Otherwise they would sanction the most dangerous of Lynch-laws; those which are executed under the forms of justice, and in mockery of all human right.

Ifsatisfiedof the prisoner’s guilt, they must have seen the murder perpetrated with their own eyes; and they must have known that there was no excuse for it, and no palliation: and in that case, instead of relying upon questionable testimony from others, it would be their duty to leave the jury-box and go into the witness-box, and allow others to judge of the truth of their story, and of the soundness of their conclusions.

And I would allow the accused the benefit of every flaw on the statute, of every error in the forms of procedure, and of everyreasonabledoubt. I would even suffer him to array as many young and pretty women as he could entrap into the witness-box fronting the jury—although, perhaps, I might object to their appearing in tears or in mourning, like the Ionians and Greeks and Irish, lest, peradventure, the tables should be turned, as where an Irish barrister, pleading the cause of a little orphan, with the mother and all the rest of the family standing about with handkerchiefs to their eyes, held up the boy in tears. The jury, overcome with sympathy and compassion, were about rendering a verdict at once, and were only delayed by a question from the opposite counsel—“My little fellow,” said he, “what makes you cry?”—“He pinched me!” was the answer, and a verdict was rendered accordingly—as the Irish only are allowed to do it—byacclamation.

And I should not stop here. I would go further. For the purpose of fixing forever and ever the responsibility of a decision upon each of the twelve jurymen—I would have them polled, and questioned separately, and man by man (if permitted by the law,) and not lump their verdict, as they generally do, hit or miss: and I would call upon each to remember that if he erred in pronouncing the judgment of death—of death here, and it might be of death hereafter, he alone would be accountable—for he, alone, might interpose if he would, and arrest that judgment of death, and send the prisoner back to his family—a living man: and I would so picture his own death-bed to every man of that jury, if I had the power, that he should hear himself shrieking for mercy, and see and feel and acknowledge by his looks, that if he betrayed the awful trust, or trifled with it, by deference to others, he himself would be a man-slayer, and utterly without excuse here and hereafter, in this world or the next.

All this I would do, or try to do: for all this might be done by thehonestlawyer without a violation of God’s law. But, as I have said before, I would not have him “play falsely,” nor yet “foully win.” I would not have him brow-beat nor entrap honest witnesses. I would not have him guilty of misrepresenting the evidence nor the law “with submission to the court.” I would not have the opposite counsel insulted, nor the bench quarreled with—if it could be helped—

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