prisoner at any bar daily committed on the bench and in the jury-box.  The worst of the bad acts which brought discredit on the old parliaments of France, the condemnation of Lally, for example, or even that of Calas, may seem praiseworthy when compared with the atrocities which follow each other in endless succession as we turn over that huge chronicle of the shame of England.  The magistrates of Paris and Toulouse were blinded by prejudice, passion, or bigotry.  But the abandoned judges of our own country committed murder with their eyes open.  The cause of this is plain.  In France there was no constitutional opposition.  If a man held language offensive to the Government, he was at once sent to the Bastile or to Vincennes.  But in England, at least after the days of the Long Parliament, the King could not, by a mere act of his prerogative, rid himself of a troublesome politician.  He was forced to remove those who thwarted him by means of perjured witnesses, packed juries, and corrupt, hardhearted, browbeating judges.  The Opposition naturally retaliated whenever they had the upper hand.  Every time that the power passed from one party to the other, there was a proscription and a massacre, thinly disguised under the forms of judicial procedure.  The tribunals ought to be sacred places of refuge, where, in all the vicissitudes of public affairs, the innocent of all parties may find shelter.  They were, before the Revolution, an unclean public shambles, to which each party in its turn dragged its opponents, and where each found the same venal and ferocious butchers waiting for its custom.  Papist or Protestant, Tory or Whig, Priest or Alderman, all was one to those greedy and savage natures, provided only there was money to earn, and blood to shed.

Of course, these worthless judges soon created around them, as was natural, a breed of informers more wicked, if possible, than themselves.  The trial by jury afforded little or no protection to the innocent.  The juries were nominated by the sheriffs.  The sheriffs were in most parts of England nominated by the Crown.  In London, the great scene of political contention, those officers were chosen by the people.  The fiercest parliamentary election of our time will give but a faint notion of the storm which raged in the city on the day when two infuriated parties, each bearing its badge, met to select the men in whose hands were to be the issues of life and death for the coming year.  On that day, nobles of the highest descent did not think it beneath them to canvass and marshal the livery, to head the procession, and to watch the poll.  On that day, the great chiefs of parties waited in an agony of suspense for the messenger who was to bring from Guildhall the news whether their lives and estates were, for the next twelve months, to be at the mercy of a friend or of a foe.  In 1681, Whig sheriffs were chosen; and Shaftesbury defied the whole power of the Government.  In 1682 the sheriffs were Tories.  Shaftesbury fled to Holland.  The other chiefs of the party broke up their councils, and retired in haste to their country seats.  Sydney on the scaffold told those sheriffs that his blood was on their heads.  Neither of them could deny the charge; and one of them wept with shame and remorse.