When I was going to St. Ives I met a man with seven wives. Each wife had seven sacks. Each sack had seven cats. Each cat had seven kits. Kits, cats, sacks and wives – How many were going to St. Ives?

Not cats, wives, bags or St. Ives moved President Wallace Sterling to verse at the Northern California and Nevada Alumni Society meeting on April 28. Rather – the number ‘seven’. For seven letters make up the word ’emeriti’ and the Law School’s seven emeriti made up the roster of honored guests at the Society’s annual dinner. Noting that in ancient times seven pillars were in the temple of wisdom and that in modern times seven is the number revered by crapshooters, President Sterling began a gracious tribute to the seven men. A delighted audience heard the following observations:

Of Joseph Walter Bingham, alias “Smokey Joe,”—He accumulated and dispensed useful and durable knowledge about the law of water rights; about international law as applied to Pacific Coast fisheries and about wills.

I have often wondered if Walter’s knowledge of the law of water rights did not serve him occasionally as a secret weapon. My wondering began more than 30 years ago when I used to see Walter Bingham, Percy Martin (history), Bert Whitaker (economics) and other faculty members at the Encina pool for a midday swim. They swam competitively among themselves. Walter set and held several records. I accept the fact that he was a good swimmer, but those records make me suspect a secret weapon.

I am told that Walter was not always on time for class—or should I say always not on time—and that sometimes he asked to borrow a casebook from a student and inquired what case was to be taken up that particular day. I am also told that, once in action, his gifts for exposition and argument propelled him into periods of brilliance which his students recall with gratitude and awe. But I gather that none of Walter’s attributes contributed more to the climax of the spirited discussions over which he presided than his readiness to cite as authority in the case a learned article which he himself had written.

Of George Edward Osborne—Just as Walter Bingham was known to his students for his reluctance to engage in controversy or to cite himself as an authority, so was George Osborne known for the gentleness of his voice. As a graduate student in history, I actually audited a course on personal property while meditating in the Memorial Church. In the church, George could be more clearly heard from across the inner quad on weekdays than could the preacher from the inner pulpit on Sundays. And at the same time as I audited that personal property course, I got a refresher course in Latin. I had not known theretofore that there were so many cases involving the acquiring of title to wild animals; nor had I learned before the Latin names of so many wild animals. I thought it would be fun to keep score of George’s references to wild animals to see if, by frequency of reference, I could identify his favorite. The identification was easy. His favorite animal is called a fortiori, which means, in colloquial translation, “of course, of course!”, but which, in terms of ferrae naturae, means ‘tiger.’

No wonder, then, that toward the close of his teaching career at Stanford, George’s class proclaimed Tiger Day, and presented him with a scroll and the very long tail of a stuffed tiger. It follows, a fortiori, that this became and remains a treasured possession.

Of William Brownlee Owens—Here, too, is a record of public service in humanitarianism, of service to his profession, and of committee assignments at Stanford. And here, too, I beg leave to single out one particular committee assignment: how many of you know that Bill Owens was Stanford’s Faculty Athletic Representative to the now defunct Pacific Coast Conference for 17 years—1926-43—and president of the N.C.A.A. from 1937-40?

As I reflect on that assignment and on those days, I also reflect on lines from Wordsworth’s sonnet:

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: . . . The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone; …

Bill, may I make a parenthetical personal request: the next time you supplement your Forms and Suggestions for California Practice, would you please extend your coverage to intercollegiate athletics, with particular attention to those Annotations which might serve Stanford best?

Among Bill Owens’ nonlegal interests and attainments I would mention two: a skill with tools applied to wood, and a flair for acting. I’m not sure that he ever played in “East Lynne,” but I do know that he played in Seven – (did I say seven?)—”Seven Keys to Baldpate,” and I believe also in “Arsenic and Old Lace.” But it is for his real-life role as Professor of Law, now Emeritus, that I ask you to join with me in saluting him.

Of Harry John Rathbun – I have a question about Harry’s career. My question may derive from the fact that I was once an historian, hopefully trained to observe chronological sequences and relationships. I note that Harry switched from being a corporate executive to being a professor of law in the year 1929. And, given the academic calendar, that switch must have occurred at least a month before October of that year. Harry, with all possible impertinence, may I ask you, “How big a financial killing did you actually make?” I here and now publicly suggest to Dean Manning that this question deserves an answer as the Stanford School of Law wrestles with present needs and looks to the meeting of future needs.

One more word about Harry—and this not an impertinent but a grateful word. As Stanford has tried in recent years to enhance the quality and character of student life in residence halls, Harry has said yes to my invitation to serve as Master for a group of men’s houses. We all knew of his interest in the ethics and standards of personal conduct. This interest continues to serve Stanford students, and for that and other services the University is grateful.

Of Harold Shepherd—Try as he might, he has never been able to get Stanford out of his system. As evidence, I offer his academic career: from Stanford to Wyoming, then back to Stanford for seven years; then he became really peripatetic: 2 years at Chicago; 4 years at Washington, in Seattle, as Dean; 2 years at Duke, also as Dean; — then home to Stanford in 1949 as Professor. I once tried to bolster my ego by thinking that it was the news late in 1948 of my election to the Stanford Presidency that persuaded Harold to return in 1949, but in what is for him a unique moment of transcending inhumanity, he categorically denied any causal relationship between these two events.

For a variety of reasons, I have long since decided not merely to forgive but also to forget this damage to my pride. In the first place, Harold Shepherd knows much more about contracts than I do, and I didn’t want him probing into mine: “at the pleasure of the Trustees” is tenuous enough. In the second place, I happen to know that Harold had difficulty getting admitted to Stanford. Stanford’s registrar had never heard of his high school in Paris, Idaho—or, for that matter, of the town either. In the third place, he is a gourmet cook and an expert wood carver; to carry a grudge against a gourmet cook is sheer folly; to carry a grudge against an expert wood carver is to court danger. In the fourth place, it is impossible to harbor anything but affection for a person such as Harold, admiration for his professional attainments, and gratitude for his service to Stanford.

Of Lowell Turrentine—Like that of his colleagues, Lowell’s record of public service, of service to his profession and to Stanford, is eminent. One item of his service to Stanford bears particular mention. He was a member of a University committee on the grading system. The committee, and Lowell’s membership on it, had a life of one year. That was just over a decade ago. I doubt that such a short life of such a committee would be practicable today – more’s the pity! In any event, I am going to suggest to Herb Packer, in his capacity as Vice Provost for Academic Programs and Planning, that he get Lowell to divulge his secrets for shortening the lives of committees on grading systems.

We all regret that Lowell could not be present tonight. But I present him to you in absentia.

Of Marion Rice Kirkwood—I am not going to recite the organizations which Marion Kirkwood has served as member and officer – some of them bearing strange names like Order of the Coif-or the range of his consulting and professional work, or the record of his public service to community and nation.

But I am going to indulge in a few observations for the record. When Marion Kirkwood became Dean of the Stanford School of Law in 1922, the law faculty included the following: Professors Whittier, Cathcart, Vernier, Bingham and Osborne. Just a group of namby-pambies. Not a strong personality in the lot. Dean, you say! I say that he was a ruddy orchestra conductor. And a year later he added Harold Shepherd. Imagine! And if ever there was evidence that time mellows, I give you what Harold Shepherd wrote, years later, about that collection of soloists to which he added another voice, and about the man conducting the cacophony: “It was but natural,” Harold wrote, “that sharp differences of opinion … should exist and be expressed with vigor.” It was but natural! Well, if one thing can be natural, so can another. It was but natural that Marion Kirkwood’s own strength, patience and wisdom should have blended those solo voices into a chorus which brought distinction to the School.

A second observation: during the past several years, I have read more than one Stanford University budget, including those of the 1920’s and 1930’s. In those earlier budgets there were line items for salaries, occasionally for library funds, now and then for a secretary or two. Funds for stationery, postage and research were on a catch-as-catch-can basis. On one occasion, when President Wilbur was in Washington as Secretary of the Interior, the Law Faculty recommended to the Acting resident a program of modest cost. The Acting President felt that he could not authorize the requested expenditure, but he did authorize Dean Kirkwood to assure the law faculty that the University would underwrite the cost of a telegram to Washington, D. C., whereby the matter could be referred to Dr. Wilbur. Ah, me! No Dean ever asks me for permission to send a telegram!

A third observation—this one out of personal experience. When I returned to Stanford in 1949, Marion Kirkwood was Chairman of the Faculty’s Advisory Board – a Board which reviews appointments to the University Faculty and is available to consult with the President on University affairs. No new President could have had greater good fortune than to have Marion Kirkwood as counselor-in-chief and, sooner than later, a very good friend. And for this good fortune, Marion, I thank you.

And, concluded the President: “It would please each of us to think that each of them viewed with some favor our efforts to serve the University and its School of Law, and, in so serving, further to advance the purpose of law and learning which they advanced so far and so well.”