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a clear case of murder had been proved against him, and only his statement and the argument remained.

Slowly the court assembled. The prisoner's counsel had introduced no testimony. A man had been stabbed by his client, had fallen dead, his hand clasped over the wound; and a knife had dropped, which the defendant's wife had seized and concealed. This had been proved by the state's witnesses.

The prisoner took the stand to make his statement. He declared emphatically that the deceased, knife in hand, had assaulted him, and that he had killed him in self-defense; that the knife which fell from the relaxing hand was the dead man's. He told the story simply, and as he began it a tall, thick-set gentleman in a gray suit, walking with the aid of a stout stick, entered the room and stood silently at the door. As the prisoner resumed his seat, the newcomer entered within the rail. He shook hands gravely with a number of the older lawyers, and took the hand the court extended to him across the desk. Then he turned, and, to the astonishment of every one, shook hands with the defendant, into whose face a light had suddenly dawned, which resolved itself into a broad, silent grin. This done, the old gentleman seated himself near the defendant's lawyer, and, leaning heavily on his massive cane, listened attentively to the speech.

The speaker was not verbose. He rapidly summed up, and laid the case before the jury in its best light. Really there was not much to be said, and he soon reached his peroration. He pictured the blasted home of the negro; his wife and babe deprived of his labor; and dwelt long on the good name he had always borne. After summing up, he took his hat and books and retired to a secluded part of the room.

The prosecuting attorney arose, and, with a few cold. words, swept away the cobwebs of the case. "The man had stabbed another wantonly. If the knife were the property of the deceased, why was it not produced in court? The defendant's wife had picked it up."

He passed the case to the jury, and the judge prepared to deliver his charge, when the old gentleman in gray rose to his feet. "If your Honor please, the prisoner is entitled to the closing, and, in absence of other counsel, I beg you to mark my name for the defendant."

"Mr. Clerk," said the court, "mark General Robert Thomas for the defense." The silence was absolute; something new was coming. Only this old man, gray, grim, and majestically defiant, stood between the negro and the grave.

"The knife that was found by the dead man's side was his own. He had drawn it before he was stabbed. Ben Thomas is a brave man, a strong man; he would not have used a weapon upon him unarmed." As he spoke he drew from his bosom a long, keen knife, and rested its point gently on the table.

"It has been asked, 'Where is the dead man's knife?' Let me give you my theory: When Bill Fowler staggered back under the blow of Ben Thomas, clutching his wound, and the knife fell to the ground, the lightning's flash was not quicker than the change born in a moment in the bosom of that erring woman, the unwitting cause of the tragedy. Up to this time she had been weak and yielding; she had turned aside from the little home to gamble with strange men. In the awful moment of that tragedy, when the dancers stood horrified, this woman became, by an inspiration, a wife again. Deceived herself, she caught up the tell-tale knife, and hurled it into the swamp, destroying evidence of her husband's innocence, when she thought to have destroyed one proof of his guilt. This I say is a theory. You remember her cry was, 'Run!'

"But there is another evidence, gentlemen of the jury. Should I be forced to ask for a new trial, it will be developed that this poor woman, repentant now, thank God, walked, in three days, from the scene of that tragedy to my home, seventy miles, to ask my aid and counsel; that eluding me at Macon, though footsore and weary and crazed with grief, she returned to the swamp, and laboring under an excitement that brought the scene so vividly to her mind that she was enabled to find the knife, did find it, and but that an accident to my vehicle delayed me, it would have been produced here in evidence—”

"May it please your Honor, much as I dislike to interrupt the honorable gentleman, I do not think it is proper to introduce with the argument, evidence that has not been given upon trial.”

"If your Honor please, a decision upon such a proposi

tion is not needed. I willingly admit all that is claimed. But, sir, I offer no evidence, not even this knife, with the name of the deceased upon it, though it comes to me direct from the hand of the woman who, it has been proved, snatched from under his hand a weapon when he fell to the ground. I am but arguing a theory to account for the facts that have been proved. But, gentlemen of the jury, not upon this theory, not upon these facts, do I base the assertion that the deceased had a knife in his hand when he made the assault. I speak from a knowledge of men. Ben Thomas would never have stabbed an unarmed man. Why do I say this? Because I know he is as brave a man as ever faced death; a faithful man; a powerful man, and conscious of his power. Such men do not use weapons upon unarmed assailants. I speak to men who reason. True reasoning with such is as strong as proof. A brave man who is full

of strength never draws a weapon to repel a single assailant. The defendant drew when he saw a glittering weapon in the hand of his foe,—not from fear, because he could have fled, but to equalize the combat.

"Why do I say he is brave? Every man on this jury shouldered his musket during the war. Most of you followed the lamented Pickett. Some, perhaps, were at Gettysburg. I was there, too! I, and the only brother God ever gave me! A part of him is there yet-a part of him, but not all; for, praise God, we picked up whatever was left of him and brought it back to Georgia. I well remember that fight. The enemy stood brave and determined, and met our charges with a courage and grit that could not be shaken. Line after line melted away during those days, and at last came Pickett's charge. When that magnificent command went in, a negro man, a captain's body-servant, stood behind it waiting.

"You know the result.

"Out of that vortex of flame and that storm of lead and iron, a handful drifted back. From one to another this man of black skin ran, then returned and followed in the track of the charge. On, on he went, on through the smoke and flame; on up to the flaming cannon themselves. There he bent and lifted a form from the ground. Together they fell and rose, until, meeting them half-way, I took the burden from the hero and myself bore it on in

safety. That burden was the senseless form of my brother; gashed, and bleeding, and mangled, but alive, thank God! And the man who bore him out, who came to me with him in his arms, himself shot with the fragments of a shell until his great heart was nearly dropping from his breast—that man, O my friends, sits here under my hand. See if I speak not the truth. Do you see that scar which marks his breast from left to right? That scar was won by a slave in an hour that tried the souls of freemen, and put to its test the best manhood of the South. No man who wins such wounds can thrust a knife into an unarmed assailant. I have come seventy miles in my old age to say it.”

It may have been contrary to the evidence, but the jury, without leaving the room, returned a verdict of "Not guilty."

H. S. Edwards.

THE REVOLUTIONARY RISING.

Out of the North the wild news came,
Far flashing on its wings of flame,
Swift as the boreal light which flies
At midnight through the startled skies.
And there was tumult in the air,

The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat,
And through the wide land everywhere
The answering tread of hurrying feet;
While the first oath of Freedom's gun
Came on the blast from Lexington;
And Concord roused, no longer tame,
Forgot her old baptismal name,

Made bare her patriot arm of power,
And swelled the discord of the hour.

Within its shade of elm and oak

The church of Berkley Manor stood;
There Sunday found the rural folk,

And some esteemed of gentle blood.
In vain their feet with loitering tread
Passed mid the graves where rank is naught;
All could not read the lesson taught

In that republic of the dead.

How sweet the hour of Sabbath talk,
The vale with peace and sunshine full,
Where all the happy people walk,

Decked in their homespun flax and wool; Where youth's gay hats with blossoms bloom; And every maid, with simple art,

Wears on her breast, like her own heart,
A bud whose depths are all perfume;
While every garment's gentle stir
Is breathing rose and lavender.

The pastor came; his snowy locks
Hallowed his brow of thought and care;
And calmly, as shepherds lead their flocks,
He led into the house of prayer,

Then soon he rose; the prayer was strong;
The Psalm was warrior David's song;
The text, a few short words of might—
"The Lord of Hosts shall arm the right!"

He spoke of wrongs too long endured,
Of sacred rights to be secured;
Then from his patriot tongue of flame
The startling words for freedom came.
The stirring sentences he spake
Compelled the heart to glow or quake,
And, rising on his theme's broad wing,
And grasping in his nervous hand
The imaginary battle-brand,
In face of death he dared to fling
Defiance to a tyrant king.

Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed

In eloquence of attitude,

Rose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher;
Then swept his kindling glance of fire
From startled pew to breathless choir;
When suddenly his mantle wide,
His hands impatient flung aside,
And, lo! he met their wondering eyes
Complete in all a warrior's guise.

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