University of Virginia Library

16. THE HON. FRANCIS STROTHER.

I nib my pen and impart to it a fine hair-stroke, in order that
I may give the more delicate touches which can alone show
forth the character of this distinguished gentleman. It is
no ordinary character, and yet it is most difficult to draw.
There are no sharp angles, no salient points which it is impossible
to miss, and which serve as handles whereby to hold
up a character to public view. The lines are delicate, the
grain fine, the features regular, the contour full, rounded and
perfectly developed, nowhere feeble or stunted, and nowhere
disproportioned. He is the type of a class, unfortunately of
a small class; more unfortunately of a class rapidly
disappearing in the hurly-burly of this fast age of steam
pressure and railway progress: a gentleman of the Old
School with the energy of the New.

If I hold the pencil in hand in idle reverie, it is because
my mind rests lovingly upon a picture I feel incapable of
transcribing with fidelity to the original: I feel that the
coarse copy I shall make will do no justice to the image on
the mind; and, therefore, I pause a moment, to look once

more at the original before it is obscured by the rude counterpart.

Fifteen years ago—long years crowded with changes and
events—such changes as are only effected in our country
within so short a period,—the savage disappearing—the frontier-man
following on to a further border—that border, like
the horizon, widening and stretching out towards the sinking
sun, as we go on;—then the rude settlement, now the improved
neighborhood, with its school-houses and churches; the
log cabin giving way to the mansion,—the wilderness giving
way to the garden and the farm; fifteen years ago, I first saw
him. He was then, so far as I can remember, what he is
now:—no perceptible change has occurred in any outward or
inner characteristic, except that now a pair of spectacles occasionally
may be found upon his nose, as that unresting pen
sweeps in bold and beautiful chirography across his paper;
a deeper tinge of gray may be seen in his hair, and possibly too,
his slight, but graceful and well-knit form may be a trifle less
active than of old. I put these as possibilities—not as matters
I can note.

The large, well-developed head—the mild, quiet, strong
face—the nose, slightly aquiline—the mouth, firm yet flexible—the
slightly elongated chin—the shape of the head oval,
and protruding largely behind the ears in the region that
supplies the motive powers, would not have conveyed a right
meaning did not the blue eyes, strong yet kind, beaming out
the mingled expression of intelligence and benignity, which,
above all other marks, is the unmistakable, uncounterfeitable

outward sign of a true gentleman, relieve and mellow
the picture. The voice kind, social, gentle—and the whole
manner deferential, simple, natural and winning—self-poised,
modest, friendly, and yet delicate and gracefully dignified.
Dignified is scarcely an apt word in the vulgar meaning attached
to it; for there was no idea of self, much less of pretension
or affectation connected with his manner or bearing.
But there was, towards high and low, rich and poor, a genuine
and unaffected kindness and friendliness, which every
man who approached him felt had something in it peculiarly
sweet towards him; and made the most unfriended outcast
feel there was, at least, one man in the world who felt an interest
in and sympathy for him and his fortunes. Towards
the young especially was this exhibited, and by them was it
appreciated. A child would come to him with the feeling
of familiarity and a sense of affectionate consideration; and
a young man, just coming to the bar, felt that he had found
one who would be glad to aid him in his struggles and encourage
him in difficulty. Were this rare manner a thing of
art and but a manual gone through with—put on for effect—
it could not have been long maintained or long undiscovered.
But it was the same all the time—and the effect the same.
We need scarcely say that the effect was to give the subject
of it a popularity well nigh universal. It was a popularity
which during years of active life in all departments of business
affairs, public and private—all the strifes of rivalry and
collisions of interest never shook. The fiercest oppositions
of party left him uninjured in fame or appreciation: indeed
no party ties were strong enough to resist a popularity so
deep and wide.

He had passed through the strong temptations which
beset a man in a new country, and such a country, unscathed,
unsoiled even by suspicion, and ever maintained a reputation
above question or challenge. It were easy to have accumulated
an immense fortune by an agency for the Indians in
securing their claims under the treaty of 1830; and he was
offered the agency with a compensation which would have
made him a millionnaire; he took the agency but rejected the
fortune.

He was the genius of labor. His unequalled facility in
the dispatch of business surprised all who knew its extent.
Nothing was omitted—nothing flurried over—nothing bore
marks of haste, nothing was done out of time. System—
order—punctuality waited upon him as so many servants to
that patient and indomitable industry. He had a rare tact
in getting at, and in getting through, a thing. He saw at
once the point. He never missed the joint of the argument.
He never went to opening the oyster at the wrong end. He
never turned over and over a subject to find out what to do
with it or how to commence work. He caught the run of
the facts—moulded the scheme of his treatment of them—
saw their right relations, value and dependence, and then
started at once, in ready, fluent and terse English, to put them
on paper or marshal them in speech. His power of statement
was remarkable, especially of written statement. He
could make more out of a fact than most men out of two:

and immaterial matters he could so dove-tail and attach to
other matters, that they left an impression of a great deal of
plausibility and pertinency.

He loved labor for its own sake as some men love ease.
There was no part of office-work drudgery to him. He carried
his writing materials about with him as some men their
canes: and that busy pen, at a moment's notice, was speeding
over the paper, throwing the g's and y's behind at a rapid
rate.

A member of Congress—he was in the House, defending
the Pre-emption System, out of it, attending to some business
before the departments; in again, writing with a pile of
letters before him; in the committee room, busy with its
business: again, before the Secretary of War, arguing some
question about the Dancing Rabbit Treaty, 14th article:—
and then consulting the Attorney General, so that persons
who had no knowledge of his ubiquitous habits, seeing him at
one of these places, would have been willing to have sworn an
alibi for him if charged with being that morning at any other.

Returning to the practice, it was the same thing. The
management and care of his own property—his attention to
a large family and household affairs—these things would
have made some inroads upon another's time, but these and
a large practice, extended over many courts and several of
the wealthiest counties of the State, at a time when every
man was a client, did not seem to press upon him. He
could turn himself from one subject to another with wonderful
ease: the hinges of his mind moved as if oiled, in any direction.

Trying an important case in the Circuit Court, as
the jury retired and the Court was calling some other case,
he would propose to the opposite counsel to go down into the
Orphan's Court, and try a case there, involving a few thousands;
and that dispatched, might be found in the Chancery
office preparing a suit for trial there; which finished, he
would hear the result of the law case, and, by the meeting
of Court, have (if decided adversely) a bill of exceptions
ready, of a sheet or two of foolscap, or a bill for an injunction
to take the case into Chancery. At night, he would be
ready for a reference before the Master of an account of partnership
transactions of vast amount; and, as he walked into
Court next morning, would merely call by to file a score or
two of exceptions; and, in all the time, would carry on his
consultations and prepare the cases coming on for trial, and
be ready to enjoy a little social conversation with his brethren.
In all this, there was no bustle, hurry, parade, fuss,
or excitement. He moved like the Ericsson motor, without
noise, the only evidence that it was moving being the
progress made.

He was never out of temper, never flurried, never excited.
There was a serious, patient expression in the eyes, which
showed a complete mastery of all things that trouble the nervous
system. Even when he complained—as he often did—
it was not a testy, ill-natured, peevish grumbling, but seemingly
the complaint of a good, gentle nature, whose meekness
was a little too sternly tried. He never abused any
body. He had no use for sarcasm or invective. Even when

prosecuting for crime a heinous criminal, he used the language
of civility, if not of kindness. Indeed, he seemed to
seek a conviction from a sheer feeling of consideration for
the prisoner. He would cross-examine a swift or perjured
witness in a tone of kindness which seemed anxious to relieve
him from embarrassment; and plying with great tact question
after question, would, when the witness faltered and
stammered or broke down, seem to feel a lively sentiment
of commiseration for his unfortunate predicament. In commenting
upon his testimony, he would attribute his unhappy
course to any thing but wilful misstatement—to strange hallucination,
prejudice, an excitable temperament, want of
memory, or even to dreaming: but still the right impression
was always left, if in no other way, by the elaborate disclaimers
and apologies, that, with such persistent and pertinacious
over-kindness, he made for the delinquent.

There was business skill in every thing he did. His arguments
were clear, brief, pointed—never wandering, discursive
or episodical—never over-worked, or over-laden, or
over-elaborated. He took all the points—took them clearly,
expressed them neatly and fully—knew when to press a
point and when to glide over it quickly, and above all—what
so few know—he knew when he was done. His tone was
that of animated conversation, his manner courteous, respectful,
impressive and persuasive: never offending good
taste, never hurried away by imprudence or compromising
his case by a point that could be made to reach it; and probably
making as few imprudent admissions as any member
of the bar.

But in many of these points he was equalled; in one he
was not—his tact in drawing papers. In a paper showing
for a continuance or for a change of venue, the skill with
which the facts were marshalled and conclusions insinuated
was remarkable. Like shot-silk the light glanced over and
along the whole statement, though it was often hard to find
precisely where it was or what made it; yet, if admitted, a
little emphasis or a slight connection with extraneous matter
would put his adversary's case in a dangerous position.

A more pliant, facile, complying gentleman than the
Hon. Francis, it was impossible to find on a summer's day,—
so truthful, so credulous, so amiably uncontroverting. It
seemed almost a pity to take advantage of such simplicity,
to impose upon such deferential confidence! Such innocence
deserved to be respected, and like the Virgin in the fable,
sleeping by the lion, one would think that it ought to carry
in its trusting purity a charm against wrong from the most
savage brutality or the most unscrupulous mendacity. This
view of the subject, I am forced to say, does not quite represent
the fact. The Hon. Francis was very limber—but
it was the limberness of whalebone, gum-elastic, steel springs
and gutta percha—limber because tough—easily bowed, but
impossible to be broken or kept down. He had great suavity—but
it was only the suaviter in modo. Substantially
and essentially he was fortiter in re—mechanically he was
suaviter in modo: the suaviter was only the running gear
by which he worked the fortiter. In his own private affairs
no man was more liberal and yielding, or less exacting or

pertinacious; professionally, his concessious took the form
of, and exhausted their energies in beneficent words, benignant
seemings and gracious gestures. But his manner was
inimitably munificent. Though he gave nothing, he went
through the motions of giving most grandly; empty-handed
you felt that you were full; you mistook the filling of your
ears for some substantial benefit to your client; there was
an affluence of words, a lingual and manual generosity which
almost seemed to transpose the figures on the statement
which he proposed as a settlement. With a grand self-abnegation,
he would allow you to continue a cause when his side
was not ready to try it, and would most blandly merely insist
on your paying the costs, magnanimously waiving further
advantage of your situation. He would suffer you to
take a non-suit with an air of kindness calculated to rivet a
sense of eternal obligation. No man revelled in a more
princely generosity than he when he gave away nothing.
And to carry out the self-delusion, he took with the air of
giving a bounty. Before his manner of marvellous concession
all impediments and precedenee vanished. If he had
a case at the end of the docket, he always managed to get it
tried first: if the arrangement of the docket did not suit his
convenience, his convenience changed it by a sort of not-before
understood, but taken-for-granted general consent of
the bar. There was such a matter-of-course about his polite
propositions, that for a good while, no one ever thought of
resisting them; indeed, most lawyers, under the spell of his
infatuating manners, half-recollected some sort of agreement
which was never made. In the trial of a cause he would
slip in testimony on you in such a cozy, easy, insinuating
fashion, that you were ruined before you could rally to oppose
it. Even witnesses could not resist the graciousness
and affectionateness of his manner, the confidence with which
he rested on their presumed knowledge:—they thought they
must know what he evidently knew so well and so authentically.

He lifted great weights as the media do heavy tables
without any show of strength.

The Hon. Francis had no doubts. He had passed from
this world of shadows to a world of perfect light and knowledge.
He had the rare luck of always being on the right
side: and then he had all the points that could be made on
that side clearly in his favor, and all that could be made
against him were clearly wrong. He was never taken off
his guard. If a witness swore him out of court, he could
not swear him out of countenance. He expected it. His
case was better than he feared. In the serene confidence of
unshakable faith in his cause, brickbats fell on his mind
like snowflakes, melting as they fell, and leaving no impression.
If he had but one witness, and you had six against
him, long after the jury had ceased listening and when you
concluded, he would mildly ask you if that was all your
proof, and if you proposed going to the jury on that?

But if the Hon. Francis had no doubts, he had an enormous
development of the organ of wonder. He had a note
of admiration in his eye as large as a ninepin. He wondered

that a party should have brought such a suit; that another
had set up such a defence; that the counsel should have
taken such a point; that the court should have made such a
ruling (with great deference), and he wondered that the Supreme
Court had sustained it. Nil admirari was not his
maxim.

I was a little too fast when I said he was never taken
by surprise. He was once—indeed twice. Casually looking
at some papers Blass held in his hand, as an important case
was being called for trial, he saw what he took to be a release
of the action by one of the nominal plaintiffs: in order to
avoid the effect of this paper, he applied for a continuance,
which it was never difficult for him to obtain. Finding out
afterwards his mistake, he moved to set aside the order of
continuance. It required a lion-like boldness to make and
assign the grounds of the motion: this effort he essayed with
his usual ingenuity. He commenced by speaking of Blass's
high character—that he had been deceived by the real and
implied assurance of B.—that he acquitted B. of all intentional
impropriety: he entered into a most elaborate disclaimer
of all injurious imputation: he spoke only of the effect: he
had only seen hastily a paper endorsed as a release: he should
be surprised if the gentleman would hold him to the order
taken under such circumstances of mistake—a mistake which
had misled him, and which he took the earliest opportunity
of correcting. “In other words,” said B., “you peeped into
my hand and mistook the card, and now you want to renig
because your eyes fooled you.” “Ahem!” said S., “I have

already stated the facts.” “Well,” said B., pulling out the
paper, “I will let you set aside the order if you promise to
go to trial.” “No,” S. answered, “I believe not: on further
reflection, perhaps it might be irregular.”

On another occasion he had been cross-examining an Irishman,
and the Hibernian desiring to come prepared to make
a display in affidavit elocution, had written out his testimony
at length: but having got drunk he had dropped the MS.,
which being found by the client of Mr. S., was put into his
hands. Mr. S. opened the paper and inquired of the witness,
“Mr. McShee, did you ever see this paper before: have the
kindness to look at it?” The witness snatched up the paper
and answered quickly, “Sure, yes—it's mine, Misther Strother,
I lost it meself, and where is the $5 bill I put in it?”

Being pressed for time, one morning, Mr. S. entered a
barber's shop in Mobile, where he saw a brother lawyer of
the Sumter bar, Jemmy O., highly lathered, sitting in much
state in the chair waiting for the barberian to sharpen his
blade. Mr. S. addressed his old acquaintance with great
warmth and cordiality—requested him to keep his seat—
begged him not to be at all uneasy on his account—protested
that he was not in his way—he could wait—not to think of
putting him to trouble—pulled off his cravat—it was no intrusion—not
at all—by no means—politely disclaimed, affirmed
and protested—until J. O., thinking that Mr. S.
somehow had precedence, got up and insisted on Mr. S.
taking the chair, to which Mr. S., like Donna Julia, “vowing
he would ne'er consent, consented”—was duly shaved—

all the while protesting against it—and went out, leaving J.
O. to think he was the politest man he had ever met with.

When J. O. afterwards found out that S. had no precedence,
he said he had been taught a new chapter of law—
the title by disclaimer.

At length the Hon. Mr. Strother got his hands full.
He got at last to the long wished for enjoyment which was
to reward the trials of his earlier years. He was made commissioner
of the State Banks of Alabama. He had it all
to himself. No partner shared with him this luxurious repast.
Such a mass and mess of confusion—such a bundle
of heterogeneous botches; in which blundering stupidity,
reckless inattention, and both intelligent and ignorant rascality
had made their tracks and figures, never before was
seen. He was to bring order out of chaos—reconcile discrepancies—supply
whole pages of ledgers—balance unbalanceable
accounts—understand the unintelligible—collect
debts involved in all mazes of legal defences, or slumbering
cozily in chancery—to bring all sorts of agents to all sorts
of settlements—to compromise bad debts—disencumber
clogged property—to keep up a correspondence like that
of the Pension Bureau—and manage the finances of the
State government. The State trembled on the verge of Repudiation;
if the assets of the banks were lost, the honor
of the State was gone. The road through the Bank operations
was like the road through Hounslow heath, every step
a robbery. To bring the authors to their responsibility—to
hunt up and hunt down absconding debtors and speculators

—to be every where at once—to be in Boston, Mobile, New
Orleans, New-York—and then to keep up his practice in
several counties just for holiday refreshment, were some of
the labors he performed.

He succeeded wonderfully. He kept untarnished the
honor of the State. He restored its solvency, and, clothed
with such vast trusts, greater than were ever before confided,
perhaps, in the South-West to a single man, he discharged
them with a fidelity which can neither be exaggerated nor denied.
He, like Falstaff, “turned diseases to commodity:” the
worthless assets of the Banks were turned into State Bonds;
and the State, relieved of the pressure upon her resources,
rose up at once to her place of honor in the sisterhood of
States, and shone, with a new and fresher lustre, not the
least in that bright galaxy. Relieved of her embarrassments,
in no small degree through the instrumentality of the
distinguished citizen, whose name shines through the nom de
guerre at the head of this article, improvements are going
on, mingling enterprise with patriotism, and giving forth the
most auspicious prospects for the future. It is, therefore,
not out of place to give some passing notice of one more instrumental
than any other in redeeming the State from the
Flush Times, in the course of our hasty articles illustrative
of that hell-carnival