"I have somewhere read that when God in His eternal councils conceived the thought of man's creation, he called to him the three ministers who wait constantly upon the throne, Justice, Truth, and Mercy, and thus addressed them: "'Shall we make man?' "Then said Justice, 'O God, make him not, for he will trample upon Thy laws.' "Truth made answer also, 'O God, make him not, for he will pollute Thy sanctuaries.' "Then Mercy, dropping upon her knees and looking up through her tears, exclaimed, 'O God, make him. I will watch over him through all the dark paths he may have to tread.' "Then God made man and said to him: 'Thou art the child of Mercy; _go and deal in mercy with thy brother.'"_ In speaking of Mr. Webster's marvellous power over a jury, Mr. Hubbard told me that he was present during the trial of a once celebrated divorce case in one of the courts of Boston. The husband was the complainant, and the alleged ground the one of recognized sufficiency in all countries. Mr. Webster was the counsel for the husband; Rufus Choate for the wife. As an advocate, the latter has had few equals, no superiors, at the American bar. In the case mentioned, with a distressed woman for a client, what was dearer than life, her reputation, in the balance, it may well be believed that the wondrous powers of the advocate were in requisition to the utmost. At the conclusion of Choate's speech, as Mr. Hubbard assured me, the case of the injured husband appeared hopeless. It seemed impossible that such a speech could be successfully answered. The opening sentence, in deep and measured tones, of Webster in reply, the prelude to an unrivalled argument and to victory, was: "Saint Paul in the twenty-fourth verse of the seventh chapter of his wondrous Epistle to the Romans says: 'O wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from the body of this death?' You alone, gentlemen, can deliver this wretched man _from the body of this dead woman!"_ What in word-painting can exceed the following from an address by Robert G. Ingersoll? "A little while ago, I stood by the grave of the old Napoleon--a magnificent tomb of gilt and gold, almost fit for a dead deity-- and gazed upon the sarcophagus of black Egyptian marble where rest the ashes of that restless man. I leaned over the balustrade and thought about the career of the greatest soldier of the modern world.