In all that my son has written on the subject of capital punishment--and for writing and publishing which he is now before you on trial--in all that he has written, he has merely proclaimed the sentiments with which, from his infancy, I have inspired him. Gentlemen jurors, the right to criticize a law, and to criticize it severely--especially a penal law--is placed beside the duty of amelioration, like a torch beside the work under the artisian's hand. The right of the journalist is as sacred, as necessary, as imprescriptible, as the right of the legislator.
What are the circumstances? A man, a convict, a sentenced wretch, is dragged, on a certain morning, to one of our public squares. There he finds the scaffold! He shudders, he struggles, he refuses to die. He is young yet--only twenty-nine. Ah! I know what you will say--"He is a murderer!" But hear me. Two officers seize him. His hands, his feet, are tied. He throws off the two officers. A frightful struggle ensues. His feet, bound as they are, become entangled in the ladder. He uses the scaffold against the scaffold! The struggle is prolonged. Horror seizes the crowd. The officers--sweat and shame on their brows--pale, panting, terrified, despairing--despairing with I know not what horrible despair--shrinking under that [p. 195] public reprobation which ought to have visited the penalty, and spared the passive instrument, the executioner--the officers strive savagely. The victim clings to the scaffold and shrieks for pardon. His clothes are torn--his shoulders bloody--still he resists.
At length, after three-quarters of an hour of this monstrous effort, of
this spectacle without a name, of this agony--agony for all, be it understood--agony
for the assembled spectators as well as for the condemned man--after this
age of anguish, gentlemen of the jury, they take back the poor wretch to his
prison. The people breath again. They people, naturally merciful, hope that
the man will be spared. But no--the guillotine, tho vanquished, remains standing.
There it frowns all day in the midst of a sickened population. And at night,
the officers, reinforced, drag forth the wretch again, so bound that he is
but an inert weight, pleading, howling for life--calling upon God, calling
upon his father and mother--for like a very child had this man become in
the prospect of death--they drag him forth to execution. He is hoisted on
to the scaffold, and his head falls! And then through every conscience runs