Library of Congress Trials of a lawyer. Autobiography by James Manahan James Manahan 1914 TRIALS OF A LAWYER LC AUTOBIOGRAPHY by JAMES MANAHAN [1933] KF373 .M27A35 Gift Kathryn Manahan July 11, 1934 LC AD Ny. 20.34 FOREWORD F. B. M. 1934–7–25 Shortly before my father's death, he completed this autobiography. It was my privilege to assist in its preparation and it is now my pleasure to print this volume in honor of his many friends, as well as in defense of his undying principles . May it be dedicated to the lovers of his causes . Kathryn Manahan . CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE Trials of a lawyer. Autobiography by James Manahan http://www.loc.gov/resource/lhbum.14795 Library of Congress I. Awakening 9 II. Investigating and Fighting 41 III. Campaigning 95 IV. Recovering 115 V. Skirmishing 145 VI. Debating 155 VII. Harvesting 183 VIII. Marketing 203 IX. Organizing 219 X. Recuperating 239 ILLUSTRATIONS James Manahan (1914) Frontispiece PAGE Mrs. Joseph Manahan, Mother of James Manahan 25 Mrs. James Manahan, Lincoln, Nebraska 37 James Manahan and George Loftus 73 James Manahan, W. J. Bryan Campaign 111 Trials of a lawyer. Autobiography by James Manahan http://www.loc.gov/resource/lhbum.14795 Library of Congress James Manahan, Minneapolis Law Offices 147 Cartoon—Vote for James Manahan, Republican Nominee, Congressman-at-Large 185 Cartoon—Congressman James Manahan, Attorney-at-Law, “The Original Farm Lad” 201 James Manahan, Congressman and Lawyer 243 CHAPTER I AWAKENING [ 1 ] I WAS born in '66 and woke up in '96 of the 19th Century. During the thirty intervening years I dreamed. My dreams, bordering on the void of infancy, must have reflected protest against an adverse environment. In the morning of the day on which I was born, I was not expected for some time. My father, therefore, without compunction, left mother and drove to Chatfield with some wheat for a grist of flour. He was hardly out of sight down the lane when she felt labor pains and realized that her hour had come. Doctors at childbirth were not expected by the pioneer women of Minnesota and midwives were unknown. The custom was to call in an ever-willing neighbor. Mother sent Christopher, her first born, then eight years of age, to tell Margaret Tuohy, across the hill, to come at once. It was quite a trip for a little boy in mid-March, with snow blustering thru the willows and when no answer came and he did not return within what seemed to her a reasonable time, she grew distracted, repeating over and over to herself, “Christopher is lost, Christopher is lost.” Again and again, she went 10 into an unheated spare room to look thru the window overlooking the path up the hill; it seemed to be growing dark as she peered anxiously until finally in her agony and anxiety she fell down upon the floor in front of her window and I was born. Trials of a lawyer. Autobiography by James Manahan http://www.loc.gov/resource/lhbum.14795 Library of Congress Afterward, recalling the event, Margaret Tuohy said that when she and Christopher arrived I, “lay on the cold floor kicking, red with temper, trying to make a speech.” My dreams as a freckled country boy, going barefoot to school, reflected mostly bashful notions about girls, but the occasional reading of dime novels like “Bowie Knife Bill” and “Calamity Jane” recommended by my chum John Tuohy and “The Lives of the Irish Saints,” urged by my father, stimulated a mixture of fantastic ideals. Secretly, in my dreams, I was in turn, an Indian fighter, a circus performer, a saint frightening myself by my own prayers. But reading of any sort on a new farm, in these early days, was difficult. Even the young boys had to work and the work was heavy and continuous. In summer, when rain drove us from the fields, we were put to grubbing in the Valley so that new fields could be planted; in winter we did chores and chopped wood when not attending the District School. Reading by daylight was considered slothful, by candle light, injurious to the eyes; and we had to make our own candles. Mother taught us candle making, it had to be done with 11 care. The wick was twisted and stretched down the center of each mould and securely tied thru the tapering end. Then the hot melted tallow was poured into the top of the form and ran down around the wick where it hardened into candles as it cooled. There was great excitement when father brot home our first kerosene lamp. It was given the place of honor on the walnut center table in the “other room.” The older members of our family of ten children promptly monopolized the circle of illumination. All that we weaker ones could do was complain to mother in the kitchen with her candles and to forget our troubles as she told us fairly tales of Ireland. My childhood was, however, in spite of its pioneering hardships, happy in its dreams and diligent in its studies. Our teacher for seven winters was my brother Christopher. Then came two years at the Normal School in Winona, with its debating club and juvenile Trials of a lawyer. Autobiography by James Manahan http://www.loc.gov/resource/lhbum.14795 Library of Congress romance which seemed to organize my building of air castles around heroes and heroines, mostly the latter, whose commendation I ardently desired. Still dreaming, I taught school, with indifferent success, at Graceville, saving enough money to pay my way for a year at the law school of the University of Wisconsin. The next year I borrowed from my father to conclude my law course at the University of Minnesota, being the first man to receive from that institution, the degree of Bachelor of Laws. 12 My assets and liabilities, at this time, were easy to list, but an accountant would have found it difficult to strike a balance. I had good health, farm-cured, a million dollars' worth of dreams, a license to practice law and red hair. On the other side of the account, I owed my father over a thousand dollars, payable in Paradise and had largely overdrawn my account in the bank of knowledge. My hands were big and red. I had a timid smile and a never failing habit of hunger. With these resources and liabilities, on my admission to the bar, at the age of twenty-three, a clerkship at forty dollars a month in the office of Frederick G. Ingersoll of St. Paul, was gladly accepted. After a few months experience as law clerk, I rented an office of my own at fifteen dollars a month, bought a desk, two chairs and the Statutes of Minnesota. Clients came, and romance, and with both I did the best I could, all the while building air castles in a wistful way. Eventually I fell in love with a school teacher who did not know much about cooking. In my opinion Minnie Kelly was beautiful. She was good and honest also—she frankly said she could not cook. Nothing daunted, I told her I would do the cooking myself, and to support my statement I actually bought the White House Cook Book and studied it. It was easier than law and quite as exciting. I was truly a dreamer, farmer fashion, but by instinct I was also an advocate. My persuasion, coupled with my 13 willingness to cook, prevailed, and we were married in 1893. Trials of a lawyer. Autobiography by James Manahan http://www.loc.gov/resource/lhbum.14795 Library of Congress My wife was a wise woman. She had a saying of her grandfather, “Have it yourself or be without it,” and introduced me to a rich cousin of hers in Lincoln, Nebraska, whose husband, John Fitzgerald, had lately died with large resources involved in litigation. Without calculation on my part, it came to pass that Mary Fitzgerald, the widow, employed me as attorney for her husband's estate on the salary of four thousand dollars a year. This retainer enabled me to be economically independent in a land of sunshine, wind and warm people. The work involved was not exhausting, and, more than ever, I dreamed—reading some— visiting occasionally—talking politics at the court house or on the street corner loafing—but all without plan or purpose. I did not know what it was all about. My awakening came about one hot July day in 1896. In a vacant store on Eleventh Street a crowd of us, sweltering, tense and excited were listening to the bulletins snapping along the wires from the Democratic National Convention in Chicago. Young Harvey Newbranch, fresh from the University, big-eyed, magnetic with Scandinavian supression, stood on a platform and read the messages. World affairs, we dimly realized, were being brought home to us. A young lawyer, one of our own, was actually capturing the convention in Chicago. His 14 matchless voice, anticipating the radio by over a quarter of a century, seemed to be in the air everywhere. Our neighbor, young Bill Bryan, was actually making history and we were witnessing its creation. As the wires told the story with its climax of protest, “You shall not crucify mankind upon a cross of gold,” we were profoundly moved, and I, at last, woke up. I was thrilled and glad to be alive. The excitement in Lincoln was almost hysterical when the nomination of Bryan for President took place. Old Pat Barton, born a Democrat, cried publicly.