Law and Laughter Part 17

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 hardships 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 "Washington 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 rushing 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 shine." 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 shines 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 shine," 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."

Judge M. W. Pinckney tells the story of a coloured man, Sam Jones by name, who was on trial at Dawson City, for felony. The judge asked Sam if he desired the appointment of a lawyer to defend him. "No, sah," Sam replied, "I'se gwine to throw myself on the ignorance of the cote."

A Southern lawyer tells of a case that came to him at the outset of his career, wherein his princ.i.p.al witness was a negro named Jackson, supposed to have knowledge of certain transactions not at all to the credit of his employer, the defendant. "Now, Jackson," said the lawyer, "I want you to understand the importance of telling the truth when you are put on the stand. You know what will happen, don't you, if you don't tell the truth?"--"Yessir," was Jackson's reply; "in dat case I expects our side will win de case."

When Senator Taylor was Governor of Tennessee, he issued a great many pardons to men and women confined in penitentiaries or jails in that State. His reputation as a "pardoning Governor" resulted in his being besieged by everybody who had a relative incarcerated. One morning an old negro woman made her way into the executive offices and asked Taylor to pardon her husband, who was in jail. "What's he in for?" asked the Governor. "Fo' nothin' but stealin' a ham," explained the wife. "You don't want me to pardon him," argued the Governor. "If he got out he would only make trouble for you again."--"'Deed I does want him out ob dat place!" she objected. "I needs dat man."--"Why do you need him?"

inquired Taylor, patiently. "Me an' de chillun," she said, seriously, "needs another ham."

Etiquette in the matter of dress was, in early days, of little or no consequence with American lawyers, especially in the Southern States. In South Carolina this neglect of the rigid observance of English rules on the part of Mr. Petigru, a well-known barrister, gave rise to the following pa.s.sage between the Bench and the Bar.

"Mr. Petigru," said the judge, "you have on a light coat. You can't speak."

"May it please the Bench," said the barrister, "I conform strictly to the law. Let me ill.u.s.trate. The law says the barrister shall wear a black gown and coat, and your honour thinks that means a black coat?"

"Yes," said the judge.

"Well, the law also says the sheriff shall wear a c.o.c.ked hat and sword.

Does your honour hold that the sword must be c.o.c.ked as well as the hat?"

He was permitted to go on.

In the United States, as elsewhere, the average juryman is not very well versed in the fine distinctions of the law. On these it is the judge's duty to instruct him. What guidance the jury got from the explanation of what const.i.tutes murder is not quite clear to the lay mind, however satisfactory it may have appeared to the judge.

"Gentlemen," he stated, with admirable lucidity, "murder is where a man is murderously killed. The killer in such a case is a murderer. Now, murder by poison is just as much murder as murder with a gun, pistol, or knife. It is the simple act of murdering that const.i.tutes murder in the eye of the law. Don't let the idea of murder and manslaughter confound you. Murder is one thing; manslaughter is quite another. Consequently, if there has been a murder, and it is not manslaughter, then it must be murder. Don't let this point escape you."

"Self-murder has nothing to do with this case. According to Blackstone and other legal writers, one man cannot commit _felo-de-se_ upon another; and this is my opinion. Gentlemen, murder is murder. The murder of a brother is called fratricide; the murder of a father is called parricide, but that don't enter into this case. As I have said before, murder is emphatically murder."

"You will consider your verdict, gentlemen, and make up your minds according to the law and the evidence, not forgetting the explanation I have given you."

There is a delightful frankness about the address submitted to the electors by a candidate who solicited their support for the position of sheriff in one of the provinces of the United States, but its honesty cannot be questioned:

"Gentlemen, I offer myself a candidate for sheriff; I have been a revolutionary officer; fought many b.l.o.o.d.y battles, suffered hunger, toil, heat; got honourable scars, but little pay. I will tell you plainly how I shall discharge my duty should I be so happy as to obtain a majority of your suffrages. If writs are put into my hands against any of you, I will take you if I can, and, unless you can get bail, I will deliver you over to the keeper of the gaol. Secondly, if judgments are found against you, and executions directed to me, I will sell your property as the law directs, without favour or affection; if there be any surplus money, I will punctually remit it. Thirdly, if any of you should commit a crime (which G.o.d forbid!) that requires capital punishment, according to law, I will hang you up by the neck till you are dead."

[Ill.u.s.tration: RUFUS CHOATE, LEADER OF THE Ma.s.sACHUSETTS BAR.]

Rufus Choate was designated _the_ leader of the Ma.s.sachusetts Bar--a distinctive t.i.tle which long outlived him and marked the sense of esteem in which he was held by his brother lawyers, as well as indicating his outstanding ability and success.

In 1841 a divorce case was tried in America, and a young woman named Abigail Bell was the chief witness of the adultery of the wife. Sumner, for the defence, cross-examined Abigail. "Are you married?"--"No."--"Any children?"--"No."--"Have you a child?" Here there was a long pause, and then at last the witness feebly replied, "Yes." Sumner sat down with an air of triumph. Rufus Choate was advocate for the husband, who claimed the divorce, and after enlarging on other things, said, "Gentlemen, Abigail Bell's evidence is before you." Raising himself proudly, he continued, "I solemnly a.s.sert there is not the shadow of a shade of doubt or suspicion on that evidence or on her character." Everybody looked surprised, and he went on: "What though in an unguarded moment she may have trusted too much to the young man to whom she had pledged her untried affections; to whom she was to be wedded on the next Lord's Day; and who was suddenly struck dead at her feet by a stroke of lightning out of the heavens!" This was delivered with such tragic effect that Choate, majestically pausing, saw the jury had taken the cue, and he went on triumphantly to the end. He afterwards told his friends that he had a right to make any supposition consistent with the witness's innocence.

A client went to consult him as to the proper redress for an intolerable insult and wrong he had just suffered. He had been in a dispute with a waiter at the hotel, who in a paroxysm of rage and contempt told the client "to go to ----." "Now," said the client, "I ask you, Mr. Choate, as one learned in the law, and as my legal adviser, what course under these circ.u.mstances I ought to take to punish this outrageous insult."

Choate looked grave, and told the client to repeat slowly all the incidents preceding this outburst, telling him to be careful not to omit anything, and when this was done Choate stood for a while as if in deep thought and revolving an abstruse subject; he then gravely said: "I have been running over in my head all the statutes of the United States, and all the statutes of the commonwealth of Ma.s.sachusetts, and all the decisions of all the judges in our Courts therein, and I may say that I am thoroughly satisfied that there is nothing in any of them that will require you to go to the place you have mentioned. And if you will take my advice then I say decidedly--_don't go_."

Choate defended a blacksmith whose creditor had seized some iron that a friend had lent him to a.s.sist in the business after a bankruptcy. The seizure of the iron was said to have been made harshly. Choate thus described it: "He arrested the arm of industry as it fell towards the anvil; he put out the breath of his bellows; he extinguished the fire upon his hearthstone. Like pirates in a gale at sea, his enemies swept everything by the board, leaving, gentlemen of the jury, not so much--not so much as a horseshoe to nail upon the doorpost to keep the witches off." The blacksmith, sitting behind, was seen to have tears in his eyes at this description, and a friend noticing it, said, "Why, Tom, what's the matter with you? What are you blubbering about?"--"I had no idea," said Tom in a whisper, "that I had been so abominably ab-ab-bused."