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 been _proved_ _guilty_, by unquestionable evidence, or by unimpeachable witnesses, according to law, they are bound by their oaths to return a verdict of _not 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. If _satisfied_ of 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 every _reasonable_ doubt. 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—by _acclamation_.