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.

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 titter, 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 attitude 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, hoarsely 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 classic 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: God 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 assuming 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 assented 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 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."

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 passage 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 illustrate. 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 cocked hat and sword. Does your honour hold that the sword must be cocked 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 constitutes 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 constitutes 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 bloody 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 God forbid!) that requires capital punishment, according to law, I will hang you up by the neck till you are dead."

Rufus Choate was designated the leader of the Massachusetts Bar—a distinctive title 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 assert 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 circumstances 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 Massachusetts, 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 assist 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."

A veteran member of the Baltimore Bar tells of an amusing cross-examination in a Court of that city. The witness seemed disposed to dodge the questions of counsel for the defence. "Sir," admonished the counsel sternly, "you need not tell us your impressions. We want facts. We are quite competent to form our own impressions. Now, sir, answer me categorically." From that time on he got little more than "yes" and "no" from the witness. Presently counsel asked: "You say that you live next door to the defendant."—"Yes."—"To the south of him?"—"No."—"To the north?"—"No."—"Well, to the east then?"—"No."—"Ah," exclaimed the counsel sarcastically, "we are likely now to get down to the one real fact. You live to the west of him, do you not?"—"No."—"How is that, sir?" the astounded counsel asked. "You say you live next door to the defendant, yet he lives neither north, south, east, or west of you. What do you mean by that, sir?" Whereupon the witness "came back." "I thought perhaps you were competent to form the impression that we lived in a flat," said the witness calmly; "but I see I must inform you that he lives next door above me."

In the Supreme Court of the United States the President interrupted counsel in the course of a long speech by saying: "Mr. Jones, you must give this Court credit for knowing something."—"That's all very well," replied the advocate (who came from a Western State), "but that's exactly the mistake I made in the Court below."

In a suit for damages against a grasping railway corporation for killing a cow, the attorney for the plaintiff, addressing the twelve Arkansas good men and true who were sitting in judgment, and on their respective shoulder-blades, said: "Gentlemen of the jury, if the train had been running as slow as it should have been ran, if the bell had been rung as it 'ort to have been rang, or the whistle had been blown as it 'ort to have been blew, none of which was did, the cow would not have been injured when she was killed."

Although not strictly a story of either the Bench or the Bar of America, it is so pertinent to the latter that we cannot omit the following told by the Scottish clergyman, the late Dr. Gillespie of Mouswold, in his amusing collection of anecdotes.

A young American lady was his guest at the manse while a young Scottish advocate was spending a holiday in the neighbourhood. He was invited to dine at the manse, and took the young lady in to dinner, and kept teasing her in a lively, good-natured manner about American people and institutions, while it may be guessed his neighbour held her own, as most American girls are well able to do. At length the advocate asked, "Miss ——, have you any lawyers in America?" She knowing what profession he belonged to replied quick as thought, "Oh yes, Mr. ——, lots of lawyers. I've a brother a lawyer. Whenever we've a member of a family a bigger liar than another, we make him a lawyer."

A quaint decision was given by Judge Kimmel, of the Supreme Court at St. Louis, in an application for divorce by Mrs. Quan. The judge directed Patrick J. Egan, a policeman, to supervise the domestic affairs of the couple, and to visit their home daily for thirty days. After questioning the wife closely on her attitude towards her husband and his treatment of her, Egan wrote down for the wife's guidance a long array of precepts. Among these were the following:

"Don't remonstrate with your husband when he has been drinking. Wait until next morning. Then give him a cup of coffee for his headache. Afterwards lead him into the parlour, put your arms about him, and give him a lecture. It will have more weight with him than any number of quarrels.

"If he has to drink, let him have it at home.

"Avoid mothers-in-law. Don't let them live with you or interfere in your affairs.

"If you must have your own way, do not let your husband know you are trying to boss him. Have your own way by letting him think he is having his.

"Dress to suit your husband's taste and income. Husbands usually don't like their wives to wear tight dresses. Consult him on these matters.

"Don't be jealous or give your husband cause for jealousy.

"When your husband is in a bad humour, be in a good humour. It may be difficult, but it will pay."

The policeman-philosopher's precepts were duly printed, framed, and placed against the wall of the family sitting-room. After paying only fifteen of the thirty visits to the house directed by the judge, the results could not have been more gratifying. Mr. and Mrs. Quan were delighted, and presented the guide to martial bliss with a handsome token of their gratitude in the form of a gold watch.

Many of the droll sayings of the American Bench of past years are attributable to the fact that the judges were appointed by popular vote, and the successful candidate was not always a man of high attainments in the practice of his profession at the Bar, or of profound learning in the laws of his country. Too often he was a man of no better education than the mass of litigants upon whose causes he was called to adjudicate. For instance, a Kentuckian judge cut short a tedious and long-winded counsel by suddenly breaking into his speech with: "If the Court is right, and she thinks she air, why, then, you are wrong, and you knows you is. Shut up!"

"What are you reading from?" demanded Judge Dowling, who had in his earlier life been a fireman and later a police officer. "From the statutes of 1876, your honour," was the reply. "Well, you needn't read any more," retorted the judge; "I'm judge in this Court, and my statutes are good enough law for anybody." A codified law and precedent cases were of no account to this "equity" judge.

But these are mild instances of the methods of early American judges compared with the summing up of Judge Rodgers—Old Kye, as he was called—in an action for wrongful dismissal brought before him by an overseer. "The jury," said his honour, "will take notice that this Court is well acquainted with the nature of the case. When this Court first started in the world it followed the business of overseering, and if there is a business which this Court understands, it's hosses, mules, and niggers; though this Court never overseed in its life for less than eight hundred dollars. And this Court in hoss-racing was always naterally gifted; and this Court in running a quarter race whar the hosses was turned could allers turn a hoss so as to gain fifteen feet in a race; and on a certain occasion it was one of the conditions of the race that Kye Rodgers shouldn't turn narry of the hosses." Surely it must have been Old Kye who, upon taking his official seat for the first time, said: "If this Court know her duty, and she thinks she do, justice will walk over this track with her head and tail up."

On a divorce case coming before a Western administrator of the law, Judge A. Smith, he thus addressed the plaintiff's counsel, who was awaiting the arrival of his opponent to open proceedings. "I don't think people ought to be compelled to live together when they don't want to do so. I will decree a divorce in this case." Thereupon they were declared to be no longer man and wife. At this juncture the defendant's counsel entered the Court and expressed surprise that the judge had not at least heard one side of the case, much less both sides, and protested against such over-hasty proceedings. But to all his protestations the judge turned a deaf ear; only informing him that no objections could now be raised after decree had been pronounced. "But," he added, "if you want to argue the case 'right bad,' the Court will marry the couple again, and you can then have your say out."

Breach of promise cases generally afford plenty of amusement to the public, both in the United States and Great Britain, but it is only in early American Courts that we hear of a judge adding to the hilarity by congratulating the successful party to the suit. A young American belle sued her faithless sweetheart, and claimed damages laid at one hundred dollars. The defendant pleaded that after an intimate acquaintance with the family, he found it was impossible to live comfortably with his intended mother-in-law, who was to take up residence with her daughter after the marriage, and he refused to fulfil his promise. "Would you rather live with your mother-in-law, or pay two hundred dollars?" inquired the judge. "Pay two hundred dollars," was the prompt reply. Said the judge: "Young man, let me shake hands with you. There was a time in my life when I was in the same situation as you are in now. Had I possessed your firmness, I should have been spared twenty-five years of trouble. I had the alternative of marrying or paying a hundred and twenty-five dollars. Being poor, I married; and for twenty-five years have I regretted it. I am happy to meet with a man of your stamp. The plaintiff must pay ten dollars and costs for having thought of putting a gentleman under the dominion of a mother-in-law."

The charms of the female sex were more susceptible to the Iowa judge than to his brother of the former story. This worthy refused to fine a man for kissing a young lady against her will, because the complainant was so pretty that "nothing but the Court's overwhelming sense of dignity prevented the Court from kissing her itself."

"A fellow-feeling makes one wondrous kind," wrote Garrick, and something of this nature must have actuated Judge Bela Brown in a case in a Circuit Court of Georgia. The judge was an able lawyer, and right good boon companion among his legal friends. The night before the Court opened he joined the Circuit barristers at a tavern kept by one Sterrit, where the company enjoyed themselves "not wisely, but too well." Next morning the judge was greatly perturbed to find a quantity of silver spoons in his pocket, which had been placed there by a wag of the company as the judge left the tavern the night before. "Was I tipsy when I came home last night?" timidly asked the judge of his wife. "Yes," said she; "you know your habits when you get among your lawyer friends."—"Well," responded the judge, "that fellow keeps the meanest liquor in the States; but I never thought it was so bad as to induce a man to steal."

Before the close of the Court a man was arraigned for larceny, who pleaded guilty, but put forward the extenuating circumstance that he was drunk and didn't know what he was doing. "What is the nature of the charge," asked Judge Brown. "Stealing money from Sterrit's till," replied the clerk. "Are you sure you were tipsy when you took this money?"—"Yes, your honour; when I went out of doors the ground kept coming up and hitting me on the head."—"That will do. Did you get all your liquor at Sterrit's?"—"Every drop, sir." Turning to the prosecuting attorney the judge said, "You will do me the favour of entering a nolle prosequi; that liquor of Sterrit's I have reason to know is enough to make a man do anything dirty. I got tipsy on it myself the other night and stole all his spoons. If Sterrit will sell such abominable stuff he ought not to have the protection of this Court—Mr. Sheriff, you may release the prisoner."

The judge of a Court in Nevada dealt differently with a man who, charged with intoxication, thought to gain acquittal by a whimsical treatment of his offence. On being asked whether he was rightly or wrongly charged he pleaded, "Not guilty, your honour. Sunstroke!"—"Sunstroke?" queried Judge Cox. "Yes, sir; the regular New York variety."—"You've had sunstroke a good deal in your time, I believe?"—"Yes, your honour; but this last attack was most severe."—"Does sunstroke make you rush through the streets offering to fight the town?"—"That's the effect precisely."—"And makes you throw brickbats at people?"—"That's it, judge. I see you understand the symptoms, and agree with the best recognised authorities, who hold it inflames the organs of combativeness and destructiveness. When a man of my temperament gets a good square sunstroke he's liable to do almost anything."—"Yes; you are quite right—liable to go to jail for fifteen days. You'll go down with the policeman at once." With that observation the conversation naturally closed, and the victim of so-called sunstroke "went down."

"Sheriff, remove the prisoner's hat," said a judge in the Court of Keatingville, Montana, when he noticed that the culprit before him had neglected to do so. The sheriff obeyed instructions by knocking off the hat with his rifle. The prisoner picked it up, and clapping it on his head again, shouted, "I am bald, judge." Once more it was "removed" by the sheriff, while the indignant judge rose and said, "I fine you five dollars for contempt of Court—to be committed until the fine is paid." The offender approached the judge, and laying down half a dollar remarked, "Your sentence, judge, is most ungentlemanly; but the law is imperative and I will have to stand it; so here is half a dollar, and the four dollars and a half you owed me when we stopped playing poker this morning makes us square."

The card-playing administrator of law must have felt as small as his brother-judge who priced a cow at an Arkansas cattle-market. Seeing one that took his fancy he asked the farmer what he wanted for her. "Thirty dollars, and she'll give you five quarts of milk if you feed her well," said the farmer. "Why," quoth the judge, "I have cows not much more than half her size which give twenty quarts of milk a day." The farmer eyed the would-be purchaser of the cow very hard, as if trying to remember if he had met him before, and then inquired where he lived. "My home is in Iowa," replied the judge. "Yes, stranger, I don't dispute it. There were heaps of soldiers from Iowa down here during the war, and they were the worst liars in the whole Yankee army. Maybe you were an officer in one of them regiments." Then the judge returned to his Court duties.

Judge Kiah Rodgers already figures in a story, and here we give his address to a delinquent when he presided at a Court in Louisiana. "Prisoner, stand up! Mr. Kettles, this Court is under the painful necessity of passing sentence of the law upon you. This Court has no doubt, Mr. Kettles, but what you were brought into this scrape by the use of intoxicating liquors. The friends of this Court all know that if there is any vice this Court abhors it is intoxication. When this Court was a young man, Mr. Kettles, it was considerably inclined to drink, and the friends of this Court know that this Court has naterally a very high temper; and if this Court had not stopped short off, I have no doubt, sir, but what this Court, sir, would have been in the penitentiary or in its grave."

There was a strong sense of duty to humanity, as well as seeing justice carried out, in the Californian sheriff after an interview with a self-confessed murderer, who desired to be sent to New York to be tried, when he addressed the prisoner: "So your conscience ain't easy, and you want to be hanged?" said the sheriff. "Well, my friend, the county treasury ain't well fixed at present, and I don't want to take any risks, in case you're not the man, and are just fishing for a free ride. Besides, those New York Courts can't be trusted to hang a man. As you say, you deserve to be killed, and your conscience won't be easy till you are killed, and as it can't make any difference to you or to society how you are killed, I guess I'll do the job myself!" and his hand moved to his pocket; but before he could pull out the revolver and level it at the murderer, that conscience-stricken individual was down the road and out of killing distance.

Like the sailor who objected to his captain undertaking the double duty of flogging and preaching, prisoners do not appreciate the judge who delivers sentence upon them and at the same time admonishes them in a long speech. After being sentenced a Californian prisoner was thus reproached by a judge for his lack of ambition:

"Where is it, sir? Where is it? Did you ever hear of Cicero taking free lunches? Did you ever hear that Plato gamboled through the alleys of Athens? Did you ever hear Demosthenes accused of sleeping under a coal-shed? If you would be a Plato, there would be a fire in your eye; your hair would have an intellectual cut; you'd step into a clean shirt; and you'd hire a mowing-machine to pare those finger-nails. You have got to go up for four months!"

In conclusion we return to the jury-box of a New York Court for the story of a well-known character who frequently was called to act along with other good men and true. As soon as they had retired to deliberate on the evidence they had heard, he would button up his coat and "turn in" on a bench, exclaiming, "Gentlemen, I'm for bringing in a verdict for the plaintiff (or the defendant, as he had settled in his mind), and all Creation can't move me. Therefore as soon as you have all agreed with me, wake me up and we'll go in."