A certain boy named Jefferson—claimed to be his son—was given the sum of twenty thousand dollars to be paid to him in yearly sums of five thousand dollars for four years, and the same provision as to a certain girl, claimed to be his child.

Is that not exactly what he swore to on this stand?

Certain executors named E. W. Knight, S. T. Hauser, and W. W. Dixon, each to receive the sum of ten thousand dollars for services.

Yours truly,

E. W. KNIGHT.

Now, gentlemen, they were informed of the existence of that will and of its destruction, and were so informed before John A. Davis filed this will. And when we pleaded this will, John A. Davis pleaded that it had been republished, and yet no evidence was given in of any republication. They knew that under the statute of Montana, when a man makes will number one, and afterwards makes will number two, and afterwards destroys will number two, that will number one is not revived; that the making of the second will kills the first, and the destruction of the second kills that, and leaves the man intestate and without any will. Now, there is the letter of Mr. Knight—full, free, frank, candid, honorable, like the man himself. He says there that he does not remember all the provisions, but he does remember that he provided for some nephews and nieces, and provided for Andrew J. Davis, Jr., twenty-five thousand dollars, for one Jefferson twenty thousand, for the girl about the same, and that he provided also for the executors of the will, and appointed Knight, Hauser, and Dixon as his executors. That is exactly what he says here.

Now, was that will made? Have they impeached Mr. Keith? I tell them now that they cannot impeach him. He has sworn to the making of that will, apart and separate from Mr. Knight. Oh, they say, why didn't they bring Knight in, and prove by him that he then recollected Mr. Keith? What has that to do with it? Mr. Keith recollected Mr. Knight, swore that he wrote the will, and that he was writing it when he came in, and swore that he attested it, that Davis signed it, and Irvine also signed it. What more do we want on that will? I say, gentlemen, that the will of 1880 ends this case. There is not ingenuity enough in the world to get around it, and there was and never will be enough brains crammed into one head to dodge it. That will was made, and every man on the jury knows it. That will was executed by Andrew J. Davis, every man of you knows it, and the will was afterwards destroyed.

Now, the question is, did that second will revoke the first will? Had it a revoking clause in it? E. W. Knight swears it had, and he swears that he copied it from a will made by an uncle of his named John Knight, and he had that will in his possession here and in that will there are two revocation clauses, and Knight swears that he copied those clauses, and right here it may be well enough to make another remark. When he read the will to A. J. Davis, and the passage "hereby revoking all wills," Davis said: "There is no need of putting that in. I never made any other will. This is the first." Knight said to him, "Well, that is the way, that is the form, and I think it is safer to have it that way." And Davis said: "All right; let it go."

How do you fix that? There is no way out of it, that the will was made in 1880, revoking all former wills. What else? The conditions of the will of 1880, with regard to working the mine, with regard to bequests to nephews, with regard to bequests to others, with regard to the twenty thousand dollars given to Jeff Davis, and the twenty thousand dollars given to the girl; these provisions are absolutely inconsistent with the provisions of this will of 1866. So on both grounds the will of 1880 destroys, cancels, and forever renders null and void the will of 1866, even if it had been the genuine will of A. J. Davis, and the Court will instruct you to that effect.

And after Mr. Keith had testified, the proponents in this case subpoenaed Mr. Knight, and if they thought that Knight would swear that Keith was not the man, why did they not put him on the stand? They ran no risk. He is an honest man. He would tell the truth. I never had the slightest fear in bringing an honest man on the stand. Never. I want facts, and I hope as long as I live that I shall never win a case that I ought not to win on the facts. No man should wish or endeavor to win a case that he knows is wrong.

I say there is not a man on this jury but believes in his heart and soul this minute that this will was made. You have to throw aside the testimony of a perfectly good man, and no matter whether what he said about Erwin Davis to Judge Knowles was true or not—and I must say that I never saw a witness on the stand in my life more eager to tell his story than Judge Knowles was. Never. He was bound to get it in or die. He answered questions over objections before the Court was allowed to pass upon the objections. Why? Because he is the President of the First National Bank. Now, without saying that he was dishonest about it, I say he was mistaken. Knight never said one word of that kind to him.

It was impossible that he could have said it. So is Mr. Talbot mistaken. So is Andrew J. Davis, Jr. mistaken, and so is John A. Davis mistaken. Think of the idiotic idea that a will, not signed, was given to Knight to keep, attested by two witnesses, and not signed by the testator. Idiotic! Now, as I understand it, gentlemen, you will have to find that that will was made.

Now, what is the next great question in this case, and the question that will be argued at some length, probably, by the other side? And why? Because it is the first and only point, so far as facts are concerned, that they have won in this case. Just one. And what is that? Our experts said that they thought that the ink was nigrosin ink, and the fact that they wanted a test proves that they were sincere. Their witnesses said they did not think it was nigrosin ink. Mr. Hodges said it had too much lustre, but that there was only one way in which it could be absolutely determined and that was by a chemical test. But, say these gentlemen, or rather said Judge Dixon, "the moment that ink turned red the whole case of the contestants was wrecked." Let us see.

If there had been no logwood ink in existence—not a particle—after the 20th day of July, 1866; if, on the night of the 20th of July, 1866, all the logwood ink on earth had been destroyed and then this ink had turned out to be logwood, why, of course, it would have been a demonstration that this paper was written as far back as the 20th of July, 1866. If it had turned out that it was written in nigrosin ink and that that had only been invented in 1878, it would have been a demonstration that the will was a forgery. But you must recollect the fact that it is written in logwood ink is not only consistent with its genuineness, but consistent with its being a forgery. Why? There was logwood ink in existence in 1890, plenty of it, and if Mr. Eddy wrote this will in 1890, he could have written it in logwood ink; and the fact that it is written in logwood ink does not show that it was written in 1866. Why? Because there was logwood ink in existence every year since 1866, till now.

Suppose I said that the paper was only ten years old and it turned out that it was forty, is that a demonstration in favor of the other side? If it turned out to be ten, it is a demonstration on our side.

But if it turned out to be forty, is not that consistent with the genuineness of the instrument, and also with the spuriousness of the same instrument? You can see that. Nobody's smart enough to fool you on that. Nobody. Take the whole question of ink out and the question is still whether Eddy wrote it or not. Take the ink all out and it is still the question whether Job Davis wrote it or not. Absolutely, and all the test proved was, that our experts—some of them—were mistaken about its being nigrosin ink. Mr. Tolman stated that it was impossible to tell without a chemical test; that it looked like nigrosin ink and from the manner in which it seemed to run he thought it was nigrosin ink, but that it was impossible to tell without a test. Mr. Hodges, their expert, said it looked to him like logwood ink; that it had too much lustre for nigrosin, but he added that it was impossible to tell without a chemical test. That is what he said. Mr. Ames said the same thing, and I appeal to you, gentlemen, if Mr. Ames did not have the appearance of an honest, of a candid, and of a fair man. Professor Hagan said that it was nigrosin ink, but he admitted that the only way to know was to test it. And what else? Their own expert, Mr. Hodges, said that logwood ink penetrates the paper. If this ink has been on here twenty-five years it penetrates the paper.

Sometimes an accident happens in our favor; a piece of that will was torn off this morning. You see the edge there torn off slanting. You see that "o-f"; how much that ink has sunk into that paper. Not the millionth part of a hair. It lies dead upon the top. Just see how the ink went in there—not a particle. It lies right on top. I would call that "float." There is the other edge. There is where the ink stops. It has not entered a particle. And when you go to your room I want you to look at it. That ink has not penetrated a particle. And let us see what this witness Hodges says: "Logwood ink penetrates the paper."

There it is, "to determine the nature of the ink, use hydrochloric acid." What else?

"I think this will was written with Reimal's ink, and that was made in Germany in the neighborhood of 1840. Reimal's ink penetrates the paper." And then they say that we endeavored to draw a distinction between modern and ancient. This is what Mr. Hodges says about it.

On the addition of hydrochloric acid to logwood ink it will turn to a bright red. The old-fashioned ink was manufactured by mixing a decoction of logwood with chromide of potash and formed a blue black solution. Logwood inks as made to-day differ from those, in that the modern logwood inks contain another sort of chrome than chromide of potash; they contain chromium in the form of an acetate or a chlorine.

Hodges was the man that talked about ancient and modern logwood inks; and he, before the test was made, said that the old logwood ink would turn a bright red, modern logwood not so bright. And after the evidence was all in, Professor Elwell came smilingly to the post and said, "they have got it exactly wrong end to; the older the duller and the newer the brighter." And after a moment said, "This was kind of dull." Before the test was made, Mr. Tolman swore, "I agree with Professor Hodges that if it is an old logwood ink it will turn a bright, scarlet red. In the case of modern logwood inks I don't agree with him, but to that extent I think his tests are good," and he drew that distinction before the test was made.

Gentlemen, you saw this will. I want to call your attention to it again. You see that "J" in Sconce's name, that is pretty red. Not so awfully scarlet, though, that it would affect a turkey gobbler. You see it in "Job"; you see it in "James Davis," but there it is brown, and not red, and not scarlet, and no flame in it, and Professor Hodges himself said that although both were logwood inks, he would not swear that Job Davis and James Davis were written with the same ink. Do you see the red in that "Job"?

Now find the red on that "s" of "James." He said he would not swear that they were written in the same ink, but both in logwood ink, that is to say, they might have been different inks. While I would not swear that they were the same inks, I would swear that both inks contained logwood. And that is all he swore to, and I must say that I believe he was a perfectly honest, fair gentleman.

Now, all that the ink test proves on earth is that it is logwood instead of nigrosin, and that does not prove that Eddy did not write the will, because there was plenty of logwood ink when he did write it. That is the kind of ink he used. And it has no more bearing—the fact that it turned out to be logwood—to show that it is a genuine will than though it had turned out to be iron ink. Suppose the experts had been wrong on both sides, and it had turned out to be iron ink, what would have happened then? Is it a genuine will? Nothing can be more absurd than to argue that that test settled the genuineness of this will.

Hodges says another thing; that perhaps the pen went to the bottom of the ink bottle and got a little of the settlings of the ink on it, when he wrote "James Davis," and consequently that has a different color. Well, if the pen had gotten some of this sediment on it, the more sediment the more logwood, and the more logwood the brighter the color. Instead of that, it is dull.

There is another trouble: With regard to the experts, while undoubtedly there are some men who do not swear to the exact truth, whether paid or not, undoubtedly some men swear truthfully who are paid. I do not believe that you doubt the testimony of Hodges simply because you paid him so much a day. I don't. And certainly we have found no men philanthropic enough to go around the country swearing for nothing. I judge of the man's oath, not by what he is paid, but by the manner in which he gives his testimony—by the reason there is behind it. That is the way I judge and yet Senator Sanders judges otherwise, as he told you in a burst of Montana zeal. * * *

I like Montana, too, and I believe the Montana people are big enough and broad enough not to have prejudice against a man because he comes from another State. Every State in this Union is represented in Montana, and the people who left the old settled States and came out to the new Territories, dropped their prejudices on the way—and sometimes I have thought that that is what killed the grass. I like a good, brave, free, candid, chivalric people. I don't care where you come from—I don't care where you were born. We are all men, and we all have our rights; and as long as the old flag floats over me, I have just as many rights in Montana as I have in New York. And when you come to New York I will see that you have as many rights, if you are in my neighborhood, as you have in Montana. That is the kind of nationality I believe in. I hate this little, provincial prejudice; and yet Senator Sanders invoked that prejudice. That insults you. We did not insult you when we asked you when you went on the jury, if you cared whether the money stayed in Butte or not, or whether you were interested or not, or related or not. Those were the questions asked every juror, and we relied absolutely on your answers when you said that you were unprejudiced, and that you would give us a fair trial; and we believe you will.

Now, then, with regard to these experts, you have got to judge each one by his testimony; and it is foolish it seems to me, to call them vipers and pirates, as Senator Sanders did. A very strong expression—"vipers, pirates" living off, he said, the substance of others; and yet he had an expert on the stand, Mr. Dickinson; he had another, Mr. Elwell; he had another, Mr. Hodges; and after that he rises up before this jury and calls them "three vipers" and "three pirates." I never will do that, If I ask a man to swear for me, and he does the best he can, I will leave the "pirate" out.

I will drop the "viper," and I will stand by him, if I think he is telling the truth; and if he is not I won't say much about him; I don't want to hurt his feelings. But I want to call your attention again to the fact that every expert on our side swore, knowing that they had three experts on the other side, and that if we made a mistake they could catch us in it; and we did make a mistake in that ink; and the test showed that we made a mistake, and that is all the test did show; but it did not show that the will is genuine any more than if it had turned out to be carbon ink; then both sides would have been mistaken. And yet after all it did turn out to be modern logwood ink, and it did turn out not to be Reimal's logwood ink, made of the chromate of potassium; did turn out not to be that, and I say on this will that there is an absolute, decided and distinct difference between the color on the name Job Davis and the name James Davis. And right here, I might as well say that that man Jackson, who came here from Butler, Mo.—and when I said Butler was a pretty tough place, rose up in his wrath and said it was as good as New York any day—that man says that when he saw the will he does not remember of seeing the names of James Davis and Sconce in it, but he did remember of seeing the name of Job Davis. I don't think he saw any of it. Now, there is another question here—because I have said enough about ink, at least enough to give you an inkling of my views.

There is another question. Why didn't John A. Davis take the stand? That is a serious question. John A. Davis had sworn, on the 13th of March, 1890, that his brother died without a will. John A. Davis, on the 24th day of July, 1890, filed a will in which he was the legatee. That will came into his possession under suspicious circumstances. What would a perfectly frank and candid man have done? What would you have done? You would not have allowed yourself to remain under suspicion one moment. You would have said, "I got that will so and so." You would have let in the light, "I obtained it in such a place, it is an honest, genuine will, and here it is, and here are the witnesses to that will." But instead of that, John A. Davis never opened his mouth, except to file a petition swearing that it came into his possession on the first day of July. He knew that he was suspected, didn't he? He knew that the men in whose veins his blood flowed believed that the will was a forgery—knew that good men and women believed that he was a robber, and that he was endeavoring to steal their portion. He knew that, and any man that loves his own reputation and any man that ever felt the glow of honor in his heart one moment, would not have been willing to rest under such a suspicion or under such an imputation. He would have said: "Here is its history, here is where I got it, it is not a forged will. It is genuine. Here are the witnesses that know all about it. Here is how I came into possession of it."

No, sir. Not a word. Speechless—tongueless. And he comes into this court and comes on to this stand to be a witness, and is asked about a conversation he had with Burchett, and then we asked him, "How did you come into the possession of that will?" All his lawyers leaped between him and the answer to that question. They objected. If he came by that will honestly he would have said, "I am going to tell the whole story." He wants you to believe that he came by it honestly, doesn't he? He wants you to believe it. He not only wants you to believe it, gentlemen, but he asks twelve men—you—to swear that he came by it honestly, doesn't he? If you give your verdict that that is a genuine will, then you give your oath that John A. Davis came by it honestly; and he wants you twelve men to swear it. And yet he dare not swear it himself. He wants you to do his swearing. He is afraid to stand in your presence and tell the history of that will. He is afraid to tell the name of the man from whom he received it. He is afraid to tell how much he gave for it; afraid to tell how much he promised. He is afraid to tell how they obtained witnesses to substantiate it in the way they have. Well, now, ought not you to let him tell his own story, ought not you, gentlemen, to be clever enough to let him do his own swearing?

Now, I will ask you again if he came by that will honestly, fairly, above board, would he not be glad to tell you the story? Would he not be glad to make it plain to you? If that was a perfectly honest will and came to him through perfectly pure channels, would he not want you to know it? Would he not want every man and woman in this city to know it? Would he not want all his neighbors to know it? And yet, he is willing, when this case is being tried, and when he is on the stand, and asked how he got the will—he is willing to close his mouth—willing to admit that he is afraid to tell; and I tell you to-day, gentlemen, that the silence of John A. Davis is a confession of guilt, and he knows it, and his attorneys know it. A client afraid to swear that he did not forge a will, or have it forged, and then want to hire a man to defend him and call him honest! Well, he would have to hire him; he would not get anybody for nothing. And yet he is asking you to do it. If John A. Davis came properly by it, let him say so under oath. Don't you swear to it for him, not one of you.

Now, there is another question. Why did not James R. Eddy take the stand? We charged him with forging the will. We made an affidavit setting forth that he did forge the will, and in this very court Mr. Dixon arose and said he was glad that the charge had been fixed, and the man had been designated. Judge Dixon said here, before this jury, when this case was opened, "the man who was charged with forging this will will be here. He will stand before this jury face to face; and he will explain his connections with the will to your satisfaction." That is what Judge Dixon said. Where is your witness? Where is James R. Eddy? Why did you not bring him forward? I know he is here now—delighted with the notoriety that this charge of forgery gives him—with a moral nature that is an abyss of shallowness,—delighted to be charged with it, and he will probably be my friend as long as he lives, because I have added to his notoriety by saying he is a forger. Why did they not bring him on the stand? Mr. Dixon gives one reason. Because the jury would not believe him. And that is the man who is first found in possession of this will. That is the man in whose hands it is, and it is from that man that John A. Davis received it. And the reason that he is not put on the stand is that it is the deliberate opinion of the learned counsel in this case that no jury would believe him.

How does that work with you? James R. Eddy here—his deposition here—and they could not read his deposition because he was here—and they had him here and kept him here, so that we could not read his deposition. They were bound that he should not go on the stand. Why? Because the moment he got there he could be asked, Where did you find the will? Who was present when you found it? When did you first tell anybody about it? When did you first show it to John A. Davis? How much did he agree to give you for it? What witnesses have you talked to in this case? What witnesses have you written to in this case? What work have you done in this case? What affidavits have you made in this case? And what have you done with the other three wills that you have in this case?

Such questions might be asked him, and they were afraid to put him on the stand. Every letter that he had written would have been identified by him if he had been put on the stand. Maybe he would have been compelled to write in the presence of the jury, to see whether he would spell words correctly.

They knew that the moment he went on the stand their case was as dead as Julius Cæsar. They knew it and kept him off.

Now, there is only one way for them to win this case. And that is to keep out the evidence. Only one way to win the case—suppress John A. Davis. Keep your mouth closed or defeat will leap out of it. Eddy, keep still. Don't let anything be seen that will throw any light upon this. I ask you, gentlemen of the jury, to take cognizance of what has been done in this case. Who is it that has tried to get the light? Who is it that has tried to get the evidence? Who is it that has objected? Who is it that wants you to try this case in the dark? Who is it that wants you to guess on your oaths? The failure of Eddy to testify is a confession of guilt. They dare not put him on the stand—dare not.

Now, gentlemen, there is a little more evidence in this case to which I am going to call your attention. Something has been said about a conversation in March, 1891. Sconce had his deposition taken in Bloomfield, Iowa. That deposition has been suppressed. John A. Davis was there at the time it was taken. John A. Davis and Sconce went into the passage leading up to the office of Carruthers. Mr. Burchett, sheriff of the county, a man having no possible earthly or heavenly interest in this business, happened to stop at the corner to read his paper—looked at it as he opened it—and he then and there heard John A. Davis say, "Stick to that story and I will see that you get all the money you have been promised," and thereupon Sconce replied, "All right I'll do it." Sconce denies it, and that denial is not worth the breath that he wasted in forming the denial. John A. Davis denies it. Of course he denies it. But he dare not tell where he got that will. He dare not do it. He wants you to do that for him. He wants you to lift him out of the gutter and wash the mud off him. He is afraid to do it himself.

I want to call your attention to that conversation, and that of itself is enough to impeach Sconce. That is enough of itself to show that John A. Davis was entering into a conspiracy or rather had entered into one with Mr. Sconce. Now, gentlemen, there is another thing, and we must not forget it. Curious people down in Salt Creek township, on the other side; of course there are plenty of good men there or the township could not exist, and we had a good many of them here—good, straight, honest, intelligent looking men. But the other side had some—all in the family—all of them.

Swaim, he was not in the family, but he is a clerk in Trimble's bank, where Wallace is the cashier, where they suppress depositions; say they are not finished when they are signed by the person who swears to them.

John C. Sconce, the only living witness, whose "ancient but ignoble blood has crept through rascals ever since the flood," cousin to James Davis, cousin to Job Davis, cousin to Mrs. Downey, cousin to Eddy, cousin to Dr. Downey by marriage, brother to T. J. Sconce, Jr., brother-in-law to Abe Wilkinson, cousin to Tom Glasgow and Sam, cousin to Moses Davis, cousin to Alex. Davis, uncle to Henshaw's daughter, and father-in-law of George Quigley. Every one of them united. Blood is thicker than water. Eddy stuck to his family.

James R. Eddy—cousin to Sconce, son of Mrs. Downey, (Mrs. Downey, the duster lady, who remembers that Davis asked her to remain, but didn't ask her advice, didn't have her sign the will, didn't give her any bequest, but there she was with her duster), grandson of James Davis, nephew of Job Davis, and related by blood or marriage to both the Glasgows, Moses and Alexander Davis, to T. J. Scotice and J. C. Sconce, Jr., Abe Wilkinson, George Quigley, S M. Henshaw, (the celebrated lawyer). J. L. Hughes, and Eli Dye, brother-in-law to C. O. Hughes, and foster brother to John Lisle, and Mrs. A. S. Bishop. And it is just lovely about John Lisle.

John Lisle is one of the fellows that saw this will. "How did you come to see it, John?" "James Davis," he says, "was my guardian and he had to give a bond, and so one day when James Davis was away from home, I thought I would go and see the bond."

Of course he thought James Davis kept the bond that he gave to somebody else—to the county judge; but Mr. Lisle pretends that he thought the bond would be in the possession of the man who gave it. And so he sneaked in to look among the papers. Now, do you believe such a story—that he thought that man had the bond? Didn't he know that the bond was given to somebody else? Foolish! Bishop swears the same thing; James Davis was guardian for his wife, and he was looking to see if James had the bond; and another fellow by the name of Sconce, was looking for a note, and when he opened this double sheet of paper folded four times and happened to see Sconce's name he said: "Here it is—a promissory note."

Mary Ann Davis—that is to say, Mrs. Eddy, that is to say, Mrs. Downey, is the mother of J. R. Eddy, daughter of James Davis, sister to Job, second cousin to Sconce, wife of Downey, and related by blood or marriage to Tom and Sam Glasgow, Moses and Alexander Davis, Abe Wilkinson, S. M. Henshaw, J. C. Sconce, Jr., T. J. Sconce, George Quigley and C. O. Hughes. All right in there, woven together.

E. H. Downey—son-in-law of James Davis, brother-in-law of Job, husband of Mary Ann Davis-Eddy-Downey, and step-father of Mr. Eddy.

J. C. Sconce. Jr.—cousin to Eddy, nephew of J. C. Sconce, Sr., cousin to Mrs. Downey, cousin of E. H. Downey, son-in-law of Henshaw, cousin to George Quigley, related to Tom and Sam Glasgow, Abe Wilkinson and Moses and Alex. Davis.

George Quigley—son-in-law of Sconce.

Sam Glasgow—cousin of Sconce, son-in-law of Dye, brother to Tom Glasgow, brother-in-law to Moses and Alex. Davis, cousin to Abe Wilkinson, and related by marriage to J. R. Eddy. Here they are, same blood. All have the same kind of memory; runs in the blood.

Henshaw—father-in-law to J. C. Sconce, Jr. Lisle—adopted son of James Davis, and his ward, and foster brother to Eddy. A. S. Bishop—married to Allie Lisle, ward of James Davis, foster sister of James R. Eddy.

T. J. Sconce—Eddy's cousin, J. R. Sconce's brother, brother-in-law and cousin to the Glasgows, cousin to Alex, and Moses Davis, brother-in-law to Abe Wilkinson and uncle to J. C. Sconce, Jr.

Moses Davis—cousin of Sconce, brother-in-law to the Glasgows, cousin to Abe Wilkinson, brother of Alex. Davis, and related to Eddy and Arthur Quigley.

Alexander Davis—cousin to Sconce, brother of Moses Davis, brother-in-law to the Glasgows, cousin to Wilkinson and related by marriage to Arthur Quigley.

Abe Wilkinson—brother-in-law to Sconce, cousin to Alex, and Moses Davis, and cousin to the Glasgows.

Tom Glasgow—cousin to Sconce, and Abe Wilkinson, and a brother-in-law of Moses Davis, and a brother to Sam Glasgow, and related by marriage to Eddy.

Arthur Quigley—brother-in-law to Alex. Davis, and brother to George Quigley, who is a son-in-law of Sconce. John L. Hughes—his nephew married Eddy's wife's sister. Eli Dye—father-in-law of Sam Glasgow.

There they are, all of them related except Swaim and Duckworth and Taylor; and Duckworth, he is in the tie business along with Eddy. There is the family tree. All growing on the same tree, and there is a wonderful likeness in the fruit. Why, that Glasgow has as good a memory as Sconce. He remembers that this is the same will he saw—paper like that, and he swears—I think it is Sam Glasgow—that he did not read the contents or see a signature. And yet he comes here, twenty-five years afterwards, and swears it is the same paper. And then the paper was clean and now it is covered with all kinds and sorts of stains.

Now, gentlemen, take the signature of A. J. Davis, and I want you all to look at it. I say it is made of pieces. I say it is a patchwork. It is a dead signature. It has no personality—no vitality in it, and I want you to look at it, and look at it carefully. I say it is made of pieces. Of course every counterfeit that is worth anything, looks like the original, and the nearer it looks like the original the better the counterfeit. All the witnesses on the side of the proponent who have sworn that it is his signature, also swear that he wrote a rapid, firm hand—nervous, bold, free, and that he scarcely ever took his pen from the paper from the time he commenced his name until he finished; and I want you to look at that name. I will risk your sense; I will risk your judgment—honest, fair and free—whether that is a made signature, or whether it is the honest signature of any human being.

And now, gentlemen, one word more. I contend, first, that the evidence shows beyond all doubt that Job Davis did not write this will. Second, that it is shown beyond all doubt, that James R. Eddy did write this will, and that that evidence amounts to a demonstration. I claim that the will of 1880 was made precisely as E. W. Knight and Mr. Keith swear; that that will was utterly inconsistent with the will of 1866, even if that had been genuine; that it revokes that will, that its provisions were inconsistent, and that afterwards that will was destroyed, and that there is not one particle of evidence beneath the canopy of heaven to show that it was not made and to show that it was not destroyed.

And the Court will instruct you that the will of 1866, even if genuine, is not revived.

This is the end of the case. So I claim that the probabilities, the reason, the naturalness, are all on the side of the contestants in this case—all. And I tell you, that if the evidence can be depended on at all, A. J. Davis went to his grave with the idea that the law made a will good enough for him. Do you believe, if he were here, if he had a voice, that he would take this property and give it to John A. Davis; that he would leave out the children of the very woman who raised him; that he would leave out his other sisters, that he would leave out the children of his sisters and brothers? Do you believe it? I know that not one man on that jury believes it.

This case is in your hands. That property is in your hands. All the millions, however many there may be, are in your hands; they are to be disposed of by you under instructions from the Court as to the law. You are to do it. And, do you know, there is no prouder position in the world, there is no more splendid thing, than to be in a place where you can do justice. Above everybody and above everything should be the idea of justice; and whenever a man happens to sit on a jury in a case like this, or in any other important case, he ought to congratulate himself that he has the opportunity of showing, first, that he is a man, and second, of doing what in his judgment ought to be done, and there will never be a prouder recollection come to you hereafter than that you did your honest duty in this case. Say to this proponent: "If you wanted to show us that you got this will honestly, why didn't you swear it; if you wanted us to believe it was a genuine will, why didn't you have the nerve to take your oath that it is a genuine will?"

Now, you have the opportunity, gentlemen, of doing what is right. Your prejudice has been appealed to, but I say that you have the manhood, that you have the intelligence, and that you have the honesty to do exactly what you believe to be right; and whether you agree with me or not, I shall not call in question your integrity or your manhood. I am generous enough to allow for differences of opinion. But when you come to make up your verdict, I implore you to demand of yourselves the reasons; to be guided by what is natural; to be guided by what is reasonable. I want you to find that this will was found in the possession of Eddy in April or March, next in the hands of John A. Davis; and that John A. Davis dare not tell how he came in possession of it. John A. Davis, on the edge of the grave—for this world but a few days, and according to the law without that will he could have had an income of over fifty thousand a year. He was not satisfied with that. He wanted to take from his own brothers and sisters, wanted to leave his own blood in beggary.

He never saw the time in his life that he could earn five thousand a year—never. And he was not satisfied with fifty thousand—he wanted four and a half millions for himself. .

Gentlemen, I want you to do justice between all these heirs. I want you to show to the United States that you have the manhood, that you are free from prejudice, that you are influenced only by the facts, only by the evidence, and that being so influenced, you give a perfectly fair verdict—a verdict that you will be proud of as long as you live. How would you feel, to find a verdict here that this is a good will, and afterwards have it turn out to be what it is—an impudent, ignorant forgery?

Now, all I ask of you is to take this evidence into consideration. Don't be misled even by a Christian, or by a sinner, for that matter. Let us be absolutely honest with each other. We have been together for several weeks. We have gotten tolerably well acquainted. I have tried to treat everybody fairly and kindly, and I have tried to do so in this address.

I have had hard work to keep within certain limits. There would words get into my mouth and insist on coming out, but I said: "go away; go away." I don't want to hurt people's feelings if I can help it. I don't want anyone unnecessarily humiliated, but I say whatever stands between you and justice must give way; and if you have to walk over reputations—and if they become pavement you cannot help it. You must do exactly what is right, and let those who have done wrong bear the consequences.

Now, gentlemen, I have confidence in you. I have confidence in this verdict. I think I know what it will be. It will be that the will is spurious, and that the will of 1880 revoked it, whether spurious or not. That is my judgment, and I don't think there is any man in the world smart enough or ingenious enough to get any other verdict from you as long as John A. Davis was afraid to swear that it was an honest will; as long as James R. Eddy, the forger, dare not take the stand; and they will never get a verdict in this world without taking the stand, and if they do take it, that is the end. There is where they are.

Now, all I ask in the world, as I said, is a fair, honest, impartial verdict at your hands. That I expect. More than that I do not ask. And now, gentlemen, I may never see you again after this trial is over—separated we may be forever—but I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for the attention you have paid to the evidence in this case and for the patient hearing you have given me.

Note: The Jury disagreed and the case was compromised.