Part 17 (1/2)
The Rev. H. R. Haweis has defined ”humour as the electric atmosphere, wit as the flash. A situation provides atmospheric humour, and with the culminating point of it comes the flash.” This definition is peculiarly applicable to the humour of the Bench and Bar when the situation invariably provides the atmosphere for the wit. Not less so is this the case in American Courts than in British. Before Chief Justice Parsons was raised to the Bench, and when he was the leading lawyer of America, a client wrote, stating a case, requesting his opinion upon it, and enclosing twenty dollars. After the lapse of some time, receiving no answer, he wrote a second letter, informing him of his first communication. Parsons replied that he had received both letters, had examined the case and formed his opinion, but somehow or other ”it stuck in his throat.” The client understood this hint, sent him one hundred dollars, and received the opinion.
[Ill.u.s.tration: THEOPHILUS PARSONS, CHIEF JUSTICE OF THE SUPREME COURT OF Ma.s.sACHUSETTS.]
He was engaged in a heavy case which gave rise to many encounters between himself and the opposing counsel, Mr. Sullivan. During Parson's speech Sullivan picked up Parson's large black hat and wrote with a piece of chalk upon it: ”This is the hat of a d--d rascal.” The lawyers sitting round began to t.i.tter, which called attention to the hat, and the inscription soon caught the eye of Parsons, who at once said: ”May it please your honour, I crave the protection of the Court, Brother Sullivan has been stealing my hat and writing his own name upon it.”
Parsons was considered a strong judge, and somewhat overbearing in his att.i.tude towards counsel. One day he stopped Dexter, an eminent advocate, in the middle of his address to the jury, on the ground that he was urging a point unsupported by any evidence. Dexter hastily observed, ”Your honour, did you argue your own cases in the way you require us to do?”--”Certainly not,” retorted the judge; ”but that was the judge's fault, not mine.”
Patrick Henry, ”the forest-born Demosthenes,” as Lord Byron called him, was defending an army commissary, who, during the distress of the American army in 1781, had seized some bullocks belonging to John Hook, a wealthy Scottish settler. The seizure was not quite legal, but Henry, defending, painted the hards.h.i.+ps the patriotic army had to endure.
”Where was the man,” he said, ”who had an American heart in his bosom who would not have thrown open his fields, his barbs, his cellars, the doors of his house, the portals of his breast, to have received with open arms the meanest soldier in that little band of famished patriots?
Where is the man? _There_ he stands; and whether the heart of an American beats in his bosom, you gentlemen are to judge.” He then painted the surrender of the British troops, their humiliation and dejection, the triumph of the patriot band, the shouts of victory, the cry of ”Was.h.i.+ngton and liberty,” as it rang and echoed through the American ranks, and was reverberated from vale to hill, and then to heaven. ”But hark! What notes of discord are these which disturb the general joy and silence, the acclamations of victory; they are the notes of _John Hook_, hoa.r.s.ely bawling through the American camp--'Beef! beef!
beef!'”
It is sometimes imagined that eloquent oratory is everything required of a good advocate, and certainly this idea must have been uppermost in the minds of the young American counsel who figure in the following stories.
A Connecticut lawyer had addressed a long and impressive speech to a jury, of which this was his peroration: ”And now the shades of night had wrapped the earth in darkness. All nature lay clothed in solemn thought, when the defendant ruffians came rus.h.i.+ng like a mighty torrent from the mountains down upon the abodes of peace, broke open the plaintiff's house, separated the weeping mother from the screeching infant, and carried off--my client's rifle, gentlemen of the jury, for which we claim fifteen dollars.”
There was good excuse for adopting the ”high-falutin” tone in the second instance, that it was the lawyer's first appearance. He was panting for distinction, and determined to convince the Court and jury that he was ”born to s.h.i.+ne.” So he opened: ”May it please the Court and gentlemen of the jury--while Europe is bathed in blood, while cla.s.sic Greece is struggling for her rights and liberties, and trampling the unhallowed altars of the bearded infidels to dust, while the chosen few of degenerate Italy are waving their burnished swords in the sunlight of liberty, while America s.h.i.+nes forth the brightest orb in the political sky--I, I, with due diffidence, rise to defend the cause of this humble hog thief.”
And this extract from a barrister's address ”out West,” some fifty years ago, surely could not fail to influence the jury in his client's behalf.
”The law expressly declares, gentlemen, in the beautiful language of Shakespeare, that where a doubt of the prisoner exists, it is your duty to fetch him in innocent. If you keep this fact in view, in the case of my client, gentlemen, you will have the honour of making a friend of him and all his relations, and you can allus look upon this occasion and reflect with pleasure that you have done as you would be done by. But if, on the other hand, you disregard the principles of law and bring him in guilty, the silent twitches of conscience will follow you all over every fair cornfield, I reckon, and my injured and down-trodden client will be apt to light on you one of these dark nights as my cat lights on a saucerful of new milk.”
In a rural Justice Court in one of the Southern States the defendant in a case was sentenced to serve thirty days in jail. He had known the judge from boyhood, and addressed him as follows: ”Bill, old boy, you're gwine to send me ter jail, air you?”--”That's so,” replied the judge; ”have you got anything to say agin it?”--”Only this, Bill: G.o.d help you when I git out.”
Daniel Webster was a clever and successful lawyer, who was engaged in many important causes in his day. In a case in one of the Virginian Courts he had for his opponent William Wirt, the biographer of Patrick Henry, a work which was criticised as a brilliant romance. In the progress of the case Webster brought forward a highly respectable witness, whose testimony (unless disproved or impeached) settled the case, and annihilated Wirt's client. After getting through his testimony, Webster informed his opponent, with a significant expression, that he had now closed his evidence, and his witness was at Wirt's service. The counsel for defence rose to cross-examine, but seemed for a moment quite perplexed how to proceed, but quickly a.s.suming a manner expressive of his incredulity as to the facts elicited, and coolly eyeing the witness, said: ”Mr. ----, allow me to ask you whether you have ever read a work called _Baron Munchausen_?” Before the witness had time to answer, Webster rose and said, ”I beg your pardon, Mr. Wirt, for the interruption, but there was one question I forgot to ask my witness, and if you will allow me that favour I promise not to interrupt you again.” Mr. Wirt in the blandest manner replied, ”Yes, most certainly”; when Webster in the most deliberate and solemn manner, said, ”Sir, have you ever read Wirt's _Life of Patrick Henry_?” The effect was so irresistible that even the judge could not control his rigid features.
Wirt himself joined in the momentary laugh, and turning to Webster said: ”Suppose we submit this case to jury without summing up”; which was a.s.sented to, and Mr. Webster's client won the case.
In the year 1785 an Indian murdered a Mr. Evans at Pittsburg. When, after a confinement of several months, his trial was to be brought on, the chiefs of his nation were invited to be present at the proceedings and see how the trial would be conducted, as well as to speak in behalf of the accused, if they chose. These chiefs, however, instead of going as wished for, sent to the civil officers of that place the following laconic answer: ”Brethren! you inform us that ----, who murdered one of your men at Pittsburg, is shortly to be tried by the laws of your country, at which trial you request that some of us may be present.
Brethren! knowing ---- to have been always a very bad man, we do not wish to see him. We therefore advise you to try him by your laws, and to hang him, so that he may never return to us again.”
There are many stories of the smart repartee of white and coloured witnesses and prisoners appearing before American judges, but the most of them bear such strong evidence of newspaper staff manufacture as to be unworthy of more permanent record than the weekly ”fill up” they were designed for. Of the more reputable we select a few.
Judge Emory Speer, of the southern district of Georgia, had before his Court a typical charge of illicit distilling. ”What's your name?”
demanded the eminent judge. ”Joshua, jedge,” drawled the prisoner.
”Joshua who made the sun stand still?” smiled the judge, in amus.e.m.e.nt at the laconic answer. ”No, sir. Joshua who made the moon s.h.i.+ne,” answered the quick-witted mountaineer. And it is needless to say that Judge Speer made the sentence as light as he possibly could, saying to his friends in telling the story that wit like that deserved some recompense.
A newly qualified judge in Tennessee was trying his first criminal case. The accused was an old negro charged with robbing a hen-coop. He had been in Court before on a similar charge, and was then acquitted.
”Well, Tom,” began the judge, ”I see you're in trouble again.”--”Yes, sah,” replied the negro. ”The last time, jedge, you was ma lawyer.”--”Where is your lawyer this time?” asked the judge. ”I ain't got no lawyer this time,” answered Tom. ”I'm going to tell the truth.”