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 amusement 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 principal 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."