Address to the Jury in the Davis Will Case
New York, 1883.

by Robert G. Ingersoll
(1883)

From The Works of Robert G. Ingersoll (Dresden Edition, 1900–1902), Volume 10.
Source: https://thegreatagnostic.com/works/davis-will-case/
Public domain. CC0 / Public Domain Mark 1.0.

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• The matchless eloquence of Ingersoll! Where will one look
    for the like of it? What other man living has the faculty of
    blending wit and humor, pathos and fact and logic with such
    exquisite grace, or with such impressive force? Senator
    Sanders this morning begged the jury to beware of the
    oratory of Ingersoll as it transcended that of Greece.
    Sanders was not far amiss. In fierce and terrible invective
    Ingersoll is not to be compared to Demosthenes. But in no
    other respect is Demosthenes his superior. To a modern
    audience, at least, Demosthenes on the Crown would seem a
    pretty poor sort of affair by the side of Ingersoll on the
    Davis will. It was a great effort, and its chief greatness
    lay in its extreme simplicity.
    Ingersoll stepped up to the jurors as near as he could get
    and kept slowly walking up and down before them. At times he
    would single out a single juryman, stop in front of him,
    gaze steadily into his face and direct his remarks for a
    minute or two to that one man alone. Again he would turn and
    address himself to Senator Sanders, Judge Dixon or somebody
    else of those interested in establishing the will as
    genuine, At times the gravity of the jury and the audience
    was so completely upset that Judge McHatton had to rap for
    order, but presently the Colonel would change his mood and
    the audience would be hushed into deepest silence. If the
    jury could have retired immediately upon the conclusion of
    Ingersoll's argument, there is little doubt as to what the
    verdict would have been.
    If Ingersoll himself is not absolutely convinced that the
    will is a forgery, he certainly had the art of making people
    believe that he was so convinced. He said he hoped he might
    never win a case that he ought not to win as a matter of
    right and justice. The idea which he sought to convey and
    which he did convey was that he believed he was right, no
    matter whether he could make others believe as he did or
    not. In that lies Ingersoll's power.
    Whether by accident or design the will got torn this
    morning. A piece in the form of a triangle was torn from one
    end. Ingersoll made quite a point this afternoon by passing
    the pieces around among the jury, and asking each man of
    them to note that the ink at the torn edges had not sunk
    into, the paper. In doing this he adopted a conversational
    tone and kept pressing the point until the juror he was
    working upon nodded his head in approval.
    Both Judge Dixon and Senator Sanders interrupted Ingersoll
    early in his speech to take exception to certain of his
    remarks, but the Colonel's dangerous repartee and delicate
    art in twisting anything they might say to his own advantage
    soon put a stop to the interruptions and the speaker had
    full sway during the rest of the time at his disposal. The
    crowd—it was as big as circumstances would permit, every
    available inch of space in the room and in the court house
    corridors being occupied—enjoyed Ingersoll' a speech
    immensely, and only respect for the proprieties of the place
    prevented frequent bursts of applause as an accompaniment to
    the frequent bursts of eloquence.—Anaconda Standard, Butte,
    Montana, Sept. 5,1891.

MAY it please the Court and gentlemen of the jury, waiving
congratulations, reminiscences and animadversions, I will proceed to the
business in hand. There are two principal and important questions to be
decided by you: First, is the will sought to be probated, the will of
Andrew J. Davis? Is it genuine? Is it honest?

And second, did Andrew J. Davis make a will after 1866 revoking all
former wills, or were the provisions such that they were inconsistent
with the provisions of the will of 1866?

These are the questions, and as we examine them, other questions arise
that have to be answered. The first question then is: Who wrote the will
of 1866? Whose work is it? When, where and by whom was it done? And I
don't want you, gentlemen, to pay any attention to what I say unless
it appeals to your reason and to your good sense. Don't be afraid of
me because I am a sinner.* I admit that I am. I am not like the other
gentleman who thanked God "that he was not as other men."
  • Col. Ingersoll when speaking of himself as a sinner in
    this address is referring to the remarks made by Senator
    Sanders, who in the preceding address said:
    "In an old book occur the words, 'My son if sinners entice
    thee consent thou not.' I will not apply this to you,
    gentlemen of the jury. But I have a right to demand of you
    that you hold your minds and hearts free from all influences
    calculated to swerve you until you have heard the last words
    in this case." The Senator enjoined them not to be beguiled
    by the eloquence of a man who was famed for his eloquence
    over two continents and in the islands of the sea; a man
    whose eloquence fittingly transcended that of Greece in the
    time of Alexander.

I have the faults and frailties common to the human race, but in spite
of being a sinner I strive to be at least a good-natured one, and I am
such a sinner that if there is any good in any other world I am willing
to share it with all the children of men. To that extent at least I am
a sinner; and I hope, gentlemen, that you will not be prejudiced
against me on that account, or decide for the proponent simply upon the
perfections of Senator Sanders. Now, I say, the question is: Who wrote
this will? The testimony offered by the proponent is that it was written
by Job Davis. We have heard a great deal, gentlemen, of the difference
between fact and opinion. There is a difference between fact and
opinion, but sometimes when we have to establish a fact by persons,
we are hardly as certain that the fact ever existed as we are of the
opinion, and although one swears that he saw a thing or heard a thing
we all know that the accuracy of that statement must be decided by
something besides his word.

There is this beautiful peculiarity in nature—a lie never fits a
fact, never. You only fit a lie with another lie, made for the express
purpose, because you can change a lie but you can't change a fact, and
after a while the time comes when the last lie you tell has to be fitted
to a fact, and right there is a bad joint; consequently you must test
the statements of people who say they saw, not by what they say but by
other facts, by the surroundings, by what are called probabilities; by
the naturalness of the statement. If we only had to hear what witnesses
say, jurymen would need nothing but ears. Their brains could be
dispensed with; but after you hear what they say you call a council in
your brain and make up your mind whether the statement, in view of all
the circumstances, is true or false.

Did Job Davis write the will? I would be willing to risk this entire
case on that one proposition. Did Job Davis write this will? And I
propose to demonstrate to you by the evidence on both sides that Job
Davis did not write that will. Why do I say so?

First: The evidence of all the parties is that Job Davis wrote a very
good hand; that his letters were even. He wrote a good hand; a kind of
schoolmaster, copy-book hand. Is this will written in that kind of hand?
I ask Judge Woolworth to tell you whether that is written in a clerkly
hand; whether it was written by a man who wrote an even hand; whether
it was written by a man who closed his "a's" and "o's"; whether it was
written by one who made his "h's" and "b's" different. Job Davis was a
good scholar.

No good penman ever wrote the body of that will. If there were nothing
else I would be satisfied, and, in my judgment, you would be, that it is
not the writing of Job Davis.

It is the writing; of a poor penman; it is the writing of a careless
penman, who, for that time, endeavored to write a little smaller than
usual, and why? When people forge a will they write the names first on
the blank paper. They will not write the body of the will and then forge
the name to it, because if they are not successful in the forgery of
the name they would have to write the whole business over again; so the
first thing they would do would be to write the name and the next thing
that they would do would be to write the will so as to bring it within
the space that was left, and here they wrote it a little shorter even
than was necessary and quit there [indicating on the will] and made
these six or seven marks and then turned over, and on the other side
they were a little crowded before they got to the name of A. J. Davis.

Now, the next question is, was Job Davis a good speller? Let us be
honest about it. How delighted they would have been to show that he was
an ignorant booby. But their witnesses and our witnesses both swear that
he was the best speller in the neighborhood; and when they brought men
from other communities to a spelling match, after all had fallen on
the field, after the floor was covered with dead and wounded, Job Davis
stood proudly up, not having missed a word. He was the best speller
in that county, and not only so, but at sixteen years of age he wasn't
simply studying arithmetic, he was in algebra; and not only so, after
he had finished what you may call this common school education in
Salt Creek township, he went to the Normal school of Iowa and prepared
himself to be a teacher, and came back and taught a school.

Now, did Job Davis write this will? Senator Sanders says there are three
or four misspelled words in this document, while the fact is there are
twenty words in the document that are clearly and absolutely misspelled.
And what kind of words are misspelled? Some of the easiest and most
common in the English language. Will you say upon your oaths that
Job Davis, having the reputation of the champion speller of the
neighborhood—will you, upon your oaths, say that when he wrote this
will (probably the only document of any importance, if he did write it,
that he ever wrote) he spelled shall "shal" every time it occurs in the
will? Will you say that this champion speller spelled the word whether
with two "r's," and made it "wherther," making two mistakes, first as to
the word itself, and second, as to the spelling? Will you say that
this champion speller could not spell the word dispose, but wrote it
"depose"? And will you say the ordinary word give was spelled by this
educated young man "guive"? And it seems that Colonel Sanders has
ransacked the misspelled world to find somebody idiotic enough to twist
a "u" in the word give, and even in the Century dictionary—I suppose
they call it the Century dictionary because they looked a hundred years
to find that peculiarity of spelling—even there, although give is
spelled four ways, besides the right way, no "u" is there. And will you
say that Job Davis did not know the word administrators?

Now, let us be honest about this matter—let us be fair. It is not
a personal quarrel between lawyers. I never quarrel with anybody; my
philosophy being that everybody does as he must, and if he is in bad
luck and does wrong, why, let us pity him, and if we happen to have good
luck, and take the path where roses bloom, why, let us be joyful. That
is my doctrine; no need of fighting about these little things. They are
all over in a little while anyway. Do you believe that Job Davis spelled
sheet—a sheet of paper—"sheat"? That is the way he spells it in this
document. Now, let us be honor bright with each other, and do not let
the lawyers on the other side treat you as if you were twelve imbeciles.
You would better be misled by a sensible sinner than by the most pious
absurdities that ever floated out from the lips of man. Let us have some
good, hard sense, as we would in ordinary business life. Do you believe
that Job Davis, the educated young man, the school teacher, the one who
attended the Normal school would put periods in the middle of sentences
and none at the end? That he would put a period on one side of an "n"
and then fearing the "n" might get away, put one on the other; and then
when he got the sentence done, be out of periods, so that he could not
put one there, and put so many periods in the writing that it looked as
if it had broken out with some kind of punctuation measles?

Job Davis, an educated man! And you are going to tell this jury that
that man wrote that will! I think your cheeks will get a little red
while you are doing it. This man, when he comes to this little word "is"
in the middle of a sentence, his desire for equality is so great that
he wishes to put that word on a level with others, and starts it with a
capital, so that it will not be ashamed to appear with longer words.

And yet the will was written by Job Davis, and Sconce saw him write it,
and Mrs. Downey saw him write it. If there were one million Sconces, and
a million Mrs. Downeys, and they held their hands up high and swore that
they did, I know that they did not, unless all the witnesses who have
testified to the education of Job Davis have testified lies. There is
where I told you a little while ago that when a lie comes in contact
with a fact it will not fit. These other people in Salt Creek township
that have come here and sworn to that, did not know whether it was
spelled right or wrong. They did not take that into consideration.

It seems to me utterly, absolutely, infinitely impossible that this will
was written by a good speller. I know it was not. So do you. There is
not a man on the jury that does not know it was not written by a good
speller—not a man. And you cannot, upon your oaths, say that you
believe two things—first, that Job Davis was a good speller, and,
secondly, that he wrote this will. Utterly impossible. There is another
word here, "wordly"—"all my wordly goods." "Worldly" it ought to be;
but this Job Davis, this scholar, did not know that there was such
a word as worldly, he left out the "l" and called it wordly, "all
my wordly goods," and they want you to find on your oath that it was
written by a good speller. There are twenty words misspelled in this
short will, and the most common words, some of them, in the English
language. Now, I say that these twenty misspelled words are twenty
witnesses—twenty witnesses that tell the truth without being on their
oath, and that you cannot mix by cross-examination. Twenty witnesses!
Every misspelled word holds up its maimed and mutilated hand and swears
that Job Davis did not write that will—every one. Suppose witnesses had
sworn that Judge Woolworth wrote this will. How many Salt Creekers do
you think it would take to convince you that he was around spelling
sheet "sheat"?

Mr. Woolworth. I have done worse than that a great many times.

Mr. Ingersoll. You have acted worse than that, but you have never
spelled worse than that.

Now, this Job Davis died in 1868. Nobody has seen him write for
twenty-three years, but everybody, their witnesses and ours, positively
swears that he was a good speller. Now, comes another question: Who
wrote this will? Colonel Sanders tells us that it is immaterial whether
Job Davis wrote it or not. To me that is a very strange remark. If Job
Davis did not write it, Mr. Sconce has sworn falsely. If Job Davis did
not write it, then there was no will on the 20th of July, 1866, and all
the Glasgows and Quigleys and Downeys and the rest are mistaken—not one
word of truth in their testimony unless Job Davis wrote that will.

And yet a learned counsel, who says that his object is to assist you in
finding a correct verdict, says it don't make any difference whether Job
Davis wrote the will or not. I don't think it will in this case.

Who wrote the will? I am going to tell you, and I am going to
demonstrate it, so that you need not think anything about it—so that
you will know it; that is to say, it will be a moral certainty.

Who wrote this will? I will tell you who, and I have not the slightest
hesitation in saying it. James R. Eddy wrote this will. And why do I say
it? Many witnesses have sworn that they were well acquainted with Mr.
Eddy's handwriting—many. Several of the witnesses here had the writing
of Eddy with them. That writing was handed to the counsel on the other
side, so that they might frame questions for cross-examination. Those
witnesses founded their answers as to peculiarities upon the writings
given to the other side, and not on the writing in this will—just on
the writings of letters and documents they had in their possession, and
that we handed to the opposite counsel. Now, what do they say? Every
witness who has testified on that subject said that Eddy had this
peculiarity: First, that whenever a word ended with the letter "d," he
made that "d" separate from the rest of the word.

And, gentlemen, there are twenty-eight words in this short will ending
with the letter "d"; clearly, unequivocally, in twenty-seven of the
words ending in "d," the "d" is separate from the rest of the word.

I do not include the twenty-eighth, because there is a little doubt
about it. The testimony is unvarying, except the writing that Eddy has
done since he has been found out to be the forger of that will. Nobody
has sworn that he had a letter from him in which that is not the fact,
unless that letter was written since the institution of this suit.
Twenty-seven of these words end with "d" and the "d" is made separate
from the rest of the word. Will Judge Woolworth please tell the jury
whether any witness testified that Job Davis made these separate
from the rest of the word? Poor Job, dead, and his tombstone is being
ornamented with "guive," and he is now made to appear as an ignorant
nobody.

Twenty-eight words ending with "d." Now, if that were all, I would say
that might be an accident—a coincidence, and that we could not build
upon that as a rock. I would say we must go further, we must find
whether any more peculiarities exist in Eddy's writing that also exist
in this will. We must be honest with him. Now, let us see. He always had
the peculiarity of terminating that "d" abruptly, down just above the
line, or at the line, lifting his pen suddenly, making no mark to the
right. Every one of the "d's" in the will is made exactly that way.
Corroboration number two. These twenty-seven witnesses, the "d's," swear
that Eddy is their father, that they are the children of his hand, that
he made them.

Another peculiarity: They say that Eddy always made a double "l" in a
peculiar manner. The last "l" came down to the line of the up stroke,
and that "l" as a rule stopped there. It did not go on to the right—a
peculiarity. Now, let us see. In this will there are nine words that end
with a double "l" (and I want you to look at that when you go out); each
one is made exactly the same way—each one. Nine more witnesses that
take the stand and swear to the authorship of this will.

Has anybody shown that that was Job Davis's habit? Poor, dead dust
cannot swear; nobody has said that. Another peculiarity is that Eddy
made a "p" without making any loop to the right in the middle of it. Now
and then he makes one with a loop, but his habit is to make one without.
Moses Downey swore that Job Davis made a "p" with three loops, a loop at
the top, a loop at the bottom and a loop in the middle. That is exactly
what he swore, and he was the one who taught Job to write; and he said
he made his letters carefully, he closed his "a's" at the top, he made
his "o's" round, he made his "h's" after the orthodox pattern, he was
all right on the "b's"—your witness.

Now, gentlemen, you remember how that "p" looks, without any loop; and
there are twenty-one "p's" that have no loop to the right—twenty-one in
this will. Twenty-one more witnesses, and every one of them is worth a
hundred Sconces, with his sheep and hogs floating in the air. Twenty-one
witnesses that swear to the paternity of this will. Moses Downey, your
own witness, swears that Job made a "p" with three loops. There is not a
"p" in the will with three loops, and there are twenty-one without any,
and the evidence of all the witnesses on our side was that it was his
habit to make "p's" without any loop, and they were given the papers
that they might cross-examine every one.

Now, do you see, we are getting along on the edge of demonstration.

These things cannot conspire and happen. They may in Omaha, but they
can't in Butte, or even in Salt Creek township. Nature is substantially
the same everywhere and I believe her laws are substantially the same
everywhere, from a grain of sand to the blazing Arcturus; everywhere the
probabilities are the same. Let us take another step.

It is also sworn by intelligent men who have the writing of Eddy in
their possession, (writing shown to the other side) that it was his
habit to use "a's," "o's" and "u's" indiscriminately. For instance,
"thut" that, you all remember in the will. When you go out you will
see it. He often uses an "o" where an "a" should be, an "a" where a "u"
should be, a "u" where an "a" or "o" should be; in other words, he uses
them interchangeably or indiscriminately. How many cases of that occur
in this will? Twenty-two—twenty-two instances in this will in which one
of these vowels is used where another ought to have been used.

Twenty-two more witnesses that James R. Eddy wrote this will. Twenty-two
more. They have taken the stand; they won't have to be sworn, because
they can't lie. It would be splendid if all witnesses were under that
disability—that they had to tell the truth. That cannot be answered by
logwood ink. Eddy made "p's" just the same, whether he used logwood or
nigrosin, and he used his "a's" and "o's" and "u's" indiscriminately, no
matter whether he was writing in ink, red, blue, brown, iron, Carter's,
Arnold's, Stafford's, or anybody else's. Another witness testified that
he used "r" where he ought to use "s," and that he used "s" where he
ought to use "r," or that he made his "r's" and "s's" the same. Many
instances of that kind occur in this will, and every "r" says to Eddy,
"you are the man"—every one. Every "s" swears that your will is a poor,
ignorant, impudent forgery.

That is what it is—the most ignorant forgery ever presented in a court
of justice since the art of writing was invented. It comes in covered
with the ear marks of fraud. And yet I am told that it requires audacity
to say that it is a forgery. What on earth does it require to say that
it is genuine? Audacity, in comparison with what is essential to say
that it is genuine, is rank meekness and cowardice. Words lose their
meaning. All swear that Eddy scattered his periods with a liberal hand,
like a farmer sowing his grain. Now, we will take the twenty-third
line of the will. "To their use (period) and (period) benefit (another
period) forever (another period)"; twenty-fifth line: "Davis (period)
and (another period) Job (another period) Davis (another period) of
(another period) Davis (another period) County (another period)." What
a spendthrift of punctuation this man was! And yet he was well educated,
studying algebra, going to the Normal school in Iowa, champion speller
of the neighborhood. Every period certifies and swears that Job Davis
did not write that will. He had studied grammar. Punctuation is a
part of grammar and no one but the most arrant, blundering, stumbling
ignoramus, would think of putting six or eight periods along in a
sentence, and then leaving the end of that sentence naked without
anything. Another peculiarity is, Mr. Eddy uses "b" and "h"
interchangeably. He makes a "b" exactly like an "h," makes an "h" exactly
like a "b." You can see that all through the will. There are several
instances of it, and each one says that Job Davis did not write it.
Downey says he did not write that way, and each one says that Mr. Eddy
did write it, and nobody else.

I am not through yet. The testimony is that Eddy was a poor speller.

Now, the learned counsel, Mr. Dixon, says that in this case we must
be governed by the probable, by the natural, by the reasonable—three
splendid words, and they should be in the mind of every juror when
examining this testimony. Is it natural, is it probable, is it
reasonable? We have shown that Eddy was the poorest speller in the
business. Whenever they went to a spelling match, at the first fire he
dropped; never outlived, I think, the first volley. And one man by the
name of Sharp distinctly recollects that they gave out a sentence to be
spelled: "Give alms to the poor," and Eddy had to spell the first word,
give; and he lugged in his "u" with both ears—"guive," and he dropped
dead the first fire. The man remembers it because it is such a curious
spelling of give; and if I had heard anybody spell it with a "u" when I
was six years old it would linger in my memory still.

Now, let us take Judge Dixon's test. It is a good one, well stated, and
it is for you to decide whether the misspelled words were misspelled by
a good speller or a poor speller. If you say Job Davis wrote it, then
you are unnatural, unreasonable and improbable.

Isn't it altogether more natural, more reasonable, more probable, to say
that a bad speller misspelled the words than that a good speller did?

Let us stick to his standard, and see if Eddy spelled give "guive"—and,
gentlemen, you cannot find in all the writing of James R. Eddy, written
before he was charged with this forgery, where the word give appears,
that it is not written with a "u"—I defy you to find a line in the
world where "given" is "guivin." Now, let us go another step. Everybody
admits that he was a poor speller, and is it not more reasonable to say
that he wrote the will on the spelling, than that the champion speller
did? We have some more evidence on Mr. Eddy as good as anything I have
stated.

Now, do not be misled because I am a sinner. Let us stick to the
facts. William H. Davis testified to the spelling of Eddy, and while he
testified, held in his hand a will that he had seen James R. Eddy write.
In this will there were twenty words misspelled; shall, "shal" and
in the James Davis will, shall "shal." Good! Whether, in our will
"wherther"; in the other will, "wherther"—just the same; sheet of
paper, "sheat" in our will; "sheat" in the other will; in our will
"guive," in that "guive." Did Job Davis rise from the dead and write
another will? Was one copied from the other, and the copy so slavish
that it was misspelled exactly the same? You cannot say it was entirely
copied, for now and then a word, by accident, is right.

Judge Dixon tells you that Eddy did not disguise his spelling. Good
Lord! How could he disguise his spelling? He spelled as he thought was
right. No man of his education would think of disguising his spelling.
He knows how to spell give; he believes it is with a "u" still There is
a prejudice against "u" since he was charged with forgery, and so he
has dropped it; but he thinks it is right, nevertheless. Now, isn't
it perfectly wonderful, is it not a miracle, that James R. Eddy made
exactly the same mistakes in spelling and writing one will that Job
Davis did in writing another?

Isn't it wonderful beyond the circumference of belief, that a good
speller and bad speller happened to misspell the same words? It won't
do. There is something rotten about this will, and the rotten thing
about it is that James R. Eddy wrote it, and he wrote it about March,
1890. That is when he wrote it, and he let the proponent in this case
have it. We will get to that shortly. So, gentlemen, I tell you that
every misspelled word is a witness in our favor. There is something
more. Eddy uses the character "&" in writing, instead of writing "and."
The will is full of them; and it is stated that sometimes when he
endeavors to write out the word "and" he only gets "an," and that
peculiarity is in this will. "An" for "and"; that you will find in the
seventeenth line in the last word of the line. Colonel Jacques swore
that one of Eddy's misspelled words was the word "judgment"; that he put
in a superfluous "e," and in this case here is "judgement"—"shall give
the annuity that in the judgement of the executors shall be final;"
there is the superfluous "e"—judgement. Now, there is another. Their
witnesses swore that as a rule he turns the bottom of his "y's" and
"g's" to the left. Now, you will find the same peculiarity in this will,
and the amusing peculiarity that he turns the "g's" a little more than
he does the "y's." I don't want these things answered by an essay on
immutable justice. I want them to say how this is. Another thing, how he
makes a "t," with a little pot hook at the top, and that hook has caught
Mr. Eddy. You will find them made in the will, exactly, where the "t"
commences a word—where it is what we call the initial letter. And what
else? When he makes a small "e" commencing a word, he always makes
it like a capital "E," only smaller. That is the testimony, and that
happens in this will and it happens in the papers and letters.

Now, I say, that all these peculiarities taken together, the same words
misspelled, the same letters used interchangeably, the same mistakes in
punctuation, the same mistakes in the words themselves—all these things
amount to an absolute demonstration. So, I told you, he uses the capital
"I" with the word "is" and that he does twice in this will.

Here are hundreds, almost, of witnesses that take the stand and swear
that Eddy is the author of that will. He wrote it—every word of it. He
negotiated with John A. Davis for it, and I will come to that after a
little. And how do they support this will that has in it the internal
evidence that it was written by James R. Eddy? Why do I say it is
impossible that he should have written it, and the will should be
genuine? Because at the date of that will, or the date it purports to
bear, Eddy was only eight years old. And we don't know the real date,
gentlemen, of that will yet. My opinion is that it was dated by mistake,
so that it came on a date that Davis was not there, or came on a day
that was Sunday, and then they folded up that will, and scratched it
and rubbed it until the date is absolutely illegible, and nobody can say
whether it is June, July, or January. There was a purpose. The day may
have been Sunday, or they may have afterward ascertained that he was
not there. It is a suspicious circumstance that the day is left loose
so they can have a month to play on, maybe more. Now, they say, can you
impeach Sconce?

Every misspelled word in the will impeaches Sconce, ever; period
impeaches Sconce, every "a" that is used as "o" impeaches him, and "o"
as "u"; every "b" that is made like an "h" impeaches him, every "h" that
is made like a "b" impeaches him.

In other words, every peculiarity of James R. Eddy that appears in that
will impeaches J. C. Sconce, Sr.—Captain Sconce. There is a thing about
this will which, to my mind, is a demonstration. It may be that it is
because I am a sinner, but I find, and so do you find it in the second
initial of Sconce, in the letter "C." There are two punctures, and you
will find that exactly where the punctures are there is a little spatter
in the ink—a disturbance of the line, in the capital first; in the
small "c" there is another puncture and another disturbance of the line.
Professor Elwell says that these holes were made afterwards. Let's see.
There is a hole, and there is a splatter and a change of the line. There
is another hole and there is another change. There is another hole and
there is another change. What is natural? What is reasonable? What is
probable? It is that the hole being there, interrupted the pen, and
accounts for the diversion of the line, and for the spatter. That is
natural, isn't it? but they take the unnatural side. They say that these
holes were made after the writing. Would it not be a miracle that just
three holes should happen to strike just the three places where there
had been a division of the line and a little spatter of the ink? Take up
your table of logarithms and figure away until you are blind, and such
an accident could not happen in as many thousand, billion, trillion,
quintillion years as you can express by figures.

Three holes by accident hitting just the three places where the pen was
impeded and where the spatters were. Never such a thing in the world.
It might happen once. Nobody could make me believe that it happened
twice—that is, a hole might happen to get where the pen was interrupted
once; as to the second hole, I would bet all I have on earth, as to
the third hole, I know it did not. I just know it did not. And yet Mr.
Elwell says that these holes were made afterwards, and he goes still
further, and says that there is not any trouble in the line. If anybody
will look at it, even with the natural eye, they can see that there is;
and, in a kind of diversion, they called Professor Hagan, when he called
attention to it, Professor Pin-holes and pin-hole expert. He might have
replied that that was a pin-head objection.

Professor Elwell accounts for all the dirt on this will by perspiration,
all on one side and made by the thumb, and although there were four
fingers under it at the same time, the fingers were so contrary they
wouldn't perspire. This left the thumb to do all the sweating. I need
not call him a professor of perspiration, for that throws no light
on the subject; but I say to you, gentlemen, that those marks, those
punctures, were in that paper when Sconce wrote his name. Sconce says
they were not—he remembered. He has got a magnificent memory. I say
that even that shows that he is not telling the facts.

Now, what else? We went around among the neighbors. He was charged with
passing counterfeit money, with stealing sheep, with stealing hogs, with
stealing cattle and with stealing harness.

Mr. Woolworth. It was not proved that this man was accused of
counterfeiting, of passing counterfeit money.

Mr. Ingersoll. I tell you how I prove it. A man by the name of Lanman
was on the stand. He swore he was acquainted with Sconce's reputation.
Colonel Sanders asked him who he had ever heard say anything about it.
He said Lewis Miller and Abraham Miller and a man by the name of Hopkins
and several others. What did they say? I asked them afterwards, and
among other things I recollect he was charged with passing counterfeit
money, stealing hogs, stealing sheep, stealing harness, killing another
man's heifer in the woods. I don't think I am mistaken, but if I am I
will take counterfeit money back. I won't try to pass counterfeit money
myself, although a sinner.

Mr. Woolworth. (Interrupting): He was not charged with killing a heifer.

Mr. Ingersoll. No, no; the heifer was there. I have a very good memory;
I suppose it comes from the habit of taking no notes. Lanman was the
man, and while we are on Sconce there is a thing almost too good to be
passed.

Mr. Jackson was on the stand, Senator Sanders asked him, "Whoever told
you anything against him?" "Well," Jackson answered, "I asked Hopkins—"
"Who else?" "Well," he said, "I had a private conversation, I don't like
to tell." "You have got to tell." Mr. Jackson said to the Court: "Must I
tell; it was a private conversation." "You must tell." "Well," he said,
"it was with Mr. Carruthers, one of the counsel for proponent;" and
he said that what Mr. Carruthers said had more influence upon him than
anything else, because Carruthers was in a position to know.

Mr. Sanders. (Interrupting). Were those his exact words?

Mr. Ingersoll. Yes, that he was an attorney. I tell you that was a
death-blow; that came like thunder out of a clear sky, when you haven't
seen a cloud for a month.

Besides that he was impeached in open court. What else? The witnesses
that came to the rescue of Sconce; how did they rescue him? They lived
down there and never heard anything against him. All these rumors, thick
in the air, the bleating of sheep following him wherever lie went; the
low of cattle and yet these people never heard it. Tried for stealing
harness, they never heard of it They were not acquainted with him. They
said that they had some personal dealings with him and he was all right
and one man endeavored to draw a distinction between truth and honesty.
A man could be a very truthful man and a very dishonest man. Just think
of that distinction, a man of truth but dishonest. That won't do. Even
Senator Sanders said: "Some accusations, probably a dozen," to use his
excellent language—what memories we have! Let me read the exact words:
"Some accusations; probably a dozen or more, of stealing sheep and hogs
lit on Sconce."

Mr. Sanders: I didn't say that.

Mr. Ingersoll. I don't insist; but those are the exact words I
remember. And don't you remember that he went into a kind of homily on
neighborhood gossip, that hardly anybody escaped? I believe a good many
of this jury have escaped and a good many in this audience have escaped.
You can pick out a great many men that a dozen accusations of stealing
hogs and sheep and heifers have not lit on.

Then, there is another thing about Sconce that I don't like, gentlemen.
Sconce, in giving the history of the affair in Arkansas, was asked if he
didn't say, "Did I say that Davis' name was on it when I signed it?" and
right there he skulked and stated under oath that when he said that he
alluded to the photograph. Could he by any possibility have alluded to
the photograph when he said: "Did I say that Davis's name was on it when
I signed it?" Did he ever sign the photograph? No; he never signed the
photograph. Davis never signed the photograph, and if he ever said those
words he said them with reference to the original will, and he knows it.
And yet, in your presence, under oath, he pretended that when he made
that remark he alluded to the photograph. I wish somebody would reply
to that and tell us whether, as a matter of fact, he alluded to the
photograph.

Now, Mr. Sconce, as you know, has the most peculiar memory in the world.
He remembers things that had nothing whatever to do with the subject,
photographed in all details, everywhere; and yet, gentlemen, your
knowledge of human nature is sufficient to tell you that that kind of
memory is not the possession of any human being.

Thousands of people imagine that detail in memory is evidence of truth.
I don't think it; if there is something in the details that is striking,
then there is; but naturalness, and, above all, probability, is the test
of truth. Probability is the torch that every juryman should hold, and
by the light of that torch he should march to his verdict. Probability!
Now, let us take that for a text. Probability is the test of truth. Let
us follow the natural, let us follow the reasonable.

At the time they say this will was made, Andrew J. Davis had removed
from Iowa years before; had settled, I believe, in Gallatin county.
His interests in Iowa were nothing compared with his interests in this
Territory at that time. From the time he left Iowa he began to make
money; I mean money of some account. He began to amass wealth. He was, I
think, a sagacious man.

Judge Dixon says that he was a man of great business sagacity. I am
thankful for that admission. In a little while he became worth several
hundreds of thousands of dollars. Afterwards he acquired millions. Now,
during all that time, from the 20th of July, 1866, up to the day of
his death, he never inquired after the James Davis will. It is a little
curious he never wrote a letter to James Davis and said, "Where is the
will, have you got it?" Not once. They have not shown a letter of that
kind, not a word. Threw it in the waste-basket of forgetfulness and
turned his face to Montana. Years rolled by, he never wrote about it,
never inquired after it.

They have brought no witnesses to show that A. J. Davis ever spoke of
the will; not a word. Gentlemen, let us be controlled by the natural, by
the reasonable, by the probable.

In 1868 one of the executors died—Job Davis. I think Colonel Sanders
said that if a man of Judge Davis's intelligence, knowing what a
difficult thing a will is to write, should have allowed Mr. Knight, a
Kentucky lawyer, to draw his will, who had not had much practice, why,
he is astonished at that, and in the next breath tells you that Andrew
J. Davis employed a twenty-two year old boy who could not spell "give"
to draw up his will in 1866. Isn't it wonderful what strange things
people can swallow and then find fault with others! Now, remember:

In 1868 Job Davis died; then there was only one executor to that will.
A. J. Davis went on piling up his money, thousands on thousands. Greed
grew with age, as it generally does. Gold is spurned by the young and
loved by the old. There is something magnificent after all about the
extravagance of youth, and there is something pitiful about the greed
of old age. But he kept getting money, more and more, and in '85 he had
sold the Lexington mine. He was then a millionaire. In '85, I think.
They say he sold that mine in '81, maybe he was then a millionaire.
There was the will of '66 down in Salt Creek township, used as a model
for other wills, for the purpose of teaching the neighbors spelling
and elocution, to say nothing of punctuation. They got up little will
soirees down there—will parties—and all the neighbors came in and Mrs.
Downey read it aloud and wept when she thought it was the writing of
her brother Job. That accounts for the tear drops, I suppose; the round
spots on the will. 1885; Andrew J. Davis worth millions. Then what
happened? Then James Davis, the other executor, died. Then there was a
will floating around down in Salt Creek township, sometimes in a trunk,
sometimes in a box, other times in an old envelope, other times in a
wrapper, and when I think of the shadowy adventures of that document it
makes me lonesome. James is dead, poor Job nothing but dust; a will down
there with no executors at all; and A. J. Davis did not know in whose
possession it was, and never wrote to find out. Let us be governed
by the natural, gentlemen, by the probable. Never found out, never
inquired, and after James Davis died he lived four years more. I think
James Davis died on the 5th of December, 1885, then he lived a little
more than three years after he knew that both executors were dead and
did not know whether the will existed or not. Judge Dixon tells
us perhaps if he had made a will before he died it would have been
different from this. I think perhaps it would. What makes him think
that it would have been different? If that will existed in Salt Creek
township he knew it, and he knew it in 1885, 6, 7, 8, 9, and when death
touched with his icy finger his heart he knew it then, and if he made
that will in '66, it was his will when he died unless it had been
revoked. He knew what he was doing.

I tell you there was no will down in Salt Creek township at all; there
wasn't any here. There have been a good many since. Now, where is the
evidence that he ever thought of this will, that he ever spoke of it?

What else? He appointed three executors of his will, that is, in '66,
if he made it, and in that he provided that a like maintenance should be
given to Thomas Jefferson, Pet Davis and Miss Bergett, all three of Van
Buren County, State of Iowa. What else did he say? That the executors
should have the right of fixing that amount, and whatever amount in
their judgment should be fixed should be final. What is the legal effect
of that? The legal effect of that is that the estate could not have
passed to John A. Davis until the last who had a life interest was dead.
The proceeds could have been taken, every cent of them, from that estate
and given to the three persons for life maintenance, and the youngest of
those persons was four years old. John A. Davis would have had to wait
seventeen years. And do you think that A. J. Davis ever made a will like
that, putting it into the power of two executors to divert the entire
income to certain persons and that there could be no division until they
were all dead.

Now, another improbability. Recollect, all the time, that we are to be
governed by reason and naturalness. Now, then, it was claimed that Judge
Davis held certain relations with a certain Miss Caroline Bergett. It
was claimed that a daughter known as Pet Davis was his. It was also
claimed that a boy, Thomas Jefferson Davis, was his son. Nobody tells
the truth in this will although it has been alluded to and argued as
well, I think, as could be. There is this trouble in the will that
though the boy Jeff was never in Van Buren County until he was twelve
years old—was never there until six years after the will was dated, yet
his supposed father describes him as of Van Buren County.

Next, Miss Caroline Bergett had married a man by the name of W. V. Smith
in 1853, and in 1858, W. V. Smith took his wife and children and moved
to Texas—eight years before this will was made, and yet A. J. Davis
forgot her name, forgot her residence, forgot the residence of the boy
that was imputed to him; that of itself is enough to show that he was
not present when the will was made. If there is anything on earth that
he would remember this is it, and you know it. Although Mrs. Downey
could not remember when she was married or when her first child was
born, she does remember the time it took her to dust the room where
there was a clothes-press, a table and three or four chairs. She
recollects that.

Another improbability:

John A. Davis, the proponent, had charge of the Davis farm down in Iowa
and stayed there for six years after this alleged will was made, and
although he was acquainted with the Quigleys, the Henshaws, the Sconces,
and all the aristocracy of the neighborhood, he says he never heard of
the existence of this will which so many people of that section talked
about. What a place for keeping secrets!

Senator Sanders says that the reason Judge Davis made his will in Salt
Creek township was because in that township they knew about this woman
or these women and these children, and he didn't want to go into any
other community and make his will.

Any need of publishing his will? Any need of reading any more than the
attesting clause to the attesting witnesses? Any need to divulge a line?
None. Ah, but Senator Sanders said that he wanted to keep the secret.
That is the reason he left the will upon that table and rode away in a
debonnair kind of style on his roan horse with the bobtail, leaving a
congregation of Salt Creek loafers to read his will. He wanted to keep
it secret; hoped that it would never get out. Imagine the scene, Job
Davis writing the will; Mrs. Downey with a duster tucked under her arm
like the soubrette in a theatre. Well, when he was writing the will she
was looking over his shoulder and read the will as fast as he wrote it.
That makes me think of the fellow who was writing a letter and there
was a man looking over his shoulder, so he said: "I would write more
but there is a dirty dog looking over my shoulder," and the fellow said:
"You are a liar."

Everybody read it. Mrs. Downey read it; she read it as Job wrote it;
then he read it aloud; and then he went and got Sconce and read it
again; then in comes Glasgow and he read it. I think Mrs. Downey must
have read this will ten or twelve times.

Mr. Myers. She said twenty-five.

Mr. Ingersoll. Oh, yes; twenty-five, because it was in Job's
handwriting; and whenever the twilight crept around the farm bringing a
little sadness, a little pathetic feeling, she would light a candle and
hunt the will, and read it just to think about Job. She would see the
words "guive" and "wherther" and all that brought back Job, and she used
to wonder "wherther" he was in Paradise or not.

Now, John A. lived down there and knew all these people and never heard
of that will.

What do you think of that? Why is it that John never got any information
from Sconce? Sconce, who saw the will written and who was one of the
attesting witnesses. Why didn't he hear of it from old Downey? Why
didn't he hear of it from the Quigleys or the Dotsons? Why didn't he
hear of it in Salt Creek township, when it was seen and read and read
and read again until I think many of them knew it by heart? And yet
the only person really interested was walking around unconscious of his
great good fortune, and nobody ever told him. There is another thing:
For four months after Andrew J. Davis died nobody told John about the
will. Nearly four months passed away; I think he died on the 11th of
March, 1890, and this will came to John on the first day of July. All
the neighbors knew it. Just as soon as A. J. died, they all said: "John
is coming right into the fortune now" only nobody told John; and the
first man we find with the will is James R. Eddy, and the next man we
find with the will is John A. Davis, the proponent. When John A. Davis
saw this will, leaving him four or five million dollars, it did not take
much to convince him that the signature was genuine. Human nature is
made that way. If it was leaving four or five millions to either of us,
including the sinner who addresses you, the probability is that I would
say, "Well, that looks pretty genuine—pretty genuine." And then if
I could get a few other fellows to swear that it was, I would feel
certain, and say, "That is my money."

Now, another improbability. All the evidence shows that Judge Davis was
a business-like, quiet, methodical, careful, suspicious man, secretive,
keeping his business to himself, keeper of his own counsels; and when he
did make a will it was sealed; it was given to one of his friends to
put away, and to keep. It did not become the common property of the
neighborhood. He did not mount his roan horse and ask the people of the
community to look at it. He was a methodical, business-like man, and I
suppose many of you, gentlemen of the jury, knew him; and I shall rely
somewhat on your knowledge of A. J. Davis, for you to say whether he
made this will, whether in 1866 he left his old father naked to the
world; whether he cared nothing for brothers and sisters; whether he
cared nothing for the children of the sister that raised him. I leave it
for you to say. You probably know something about this matter. Andrew J.
Davis, when he was a child, when all the children were gathered around
the same knee, the children that had been nourished at the same tender
and holy breast, he would not have done this then. If some good fortune
came to one, it was divided.

How beautiful the generosity, the hospitality of childhood! But as they
grow old there comes the love of gold, and the love of gold seems to
have the same effect upon the heart that it does upon the country where
it is found. All the roses fade, the beautiful green trees lose their
leaves, and there is nothing in the heart but sage brush. And so it is
with the land that holds within the miserly grip of rocks what we call
the precious metals.

The next question in the case is the Knight will. Was any such will
made? And I say here to-day, knowing what I am saying, I never saw upon
the witness stand a man who appeared to be more candid, more anxious and
desirous of telling the exact truth than E. W. Knight, and from what I
have heard there is not a man in Montana with a better reputation. He
has no interest in this business, not one penny; and it was months and
months after the death of Judge Davis that we knew such a will ever
existed—that is, on our side. Either Mr. Knight was telling what he
believed to be true, or he was perjuring himself. No ifs and ands about
it. He is a man of intelligence and knows what he is saying. He swears
that A. J. Davis made a will.

And what else does he swear to? That there was also the draft of a will,
which gave away the mine or provided for its working, and then at the
end of that draft, provided that the rest of the property should be
divided in accordance with the statute. Thereupon Mr. Knight told him:
"Your heirs would interfere by injunction, and you had better bequeath
your whole property and fix the amount to be expended in the development
of the mine." Thereupon he made another will, and that will was signed.

Now, Mr. Knight knows whether it was signed or not. The will was signed
or Mr Knight committed perjury knowingly, willfully and corruptly. What
does he say? That it was signed. What else? That it was attested. Then
these gentlemen came forward with Mr. Talbot, who says that Knight said
that when Davis came to the bank to get the will he thought he was going
to execute it. That is, the idea being, it was not signed.

What was it attested for if it was not signed? That is absurd to the
verge of idiocy. But they say that Mr. Knight is not corroborated. Let
us see. He says that Andrew J. Davis made a will. Mr. Keith swears that
A. J. Davis made a will. Knight says that Davis went out and brought
Keith in, and Keith swears that he lived next door and A. J. Davis
did come in there and get him and he knows the time on account of the
sickness of his child. Corroboration number two. Knight swears that
Davis then went for another man. Keith says that he did go and get
Caleb Irvine. Corroboration number three. Knight said one of the men who
signed the will was in his working clothes. Corroboration number four.
Knight swears that Davis read the attesting clause. Keith swears the
same. Keith swears that Davis signed it, that he signed it, and then
Irvine signed it. What more? He swears that Knight wrote it, and he
was writing it when he went in. And yet they have—and I will use an
expression of one of the learned counsel—the audacity to say that Mr.
Knight has not been corroborated.

And they would have you believe that Knight took that will over to
Helena and put it in the safe when it was not signed by A. J. Davis,
and they would make you think besides that, that it was attested by two
witnesses, and that two witnesses had to say that they saw A. J. Davis
sign it, that he signed it in their presence, and that they attested his
signature in his presence and in the presence of each other. They proved
a little too much, gentlemen. They proved that by Talbot. They proved
that by Andrew J. Davis, Jr., who expects to fall heir to all that is
taken, and they proved it also by John A. Davis, the proponent.

Recess.

May it please the Court and gentlemen: When we adjourned I was talking
about the testimony of Mr. Knight, and the making of the Knight will.
The evidence is, the way that will came to be made, or what started
it, is, as follows: A. J. Davis borrowed of the First National Bank of
Helena forty thousand dollars to put in the mines, and Governor Hauser
remarked when he got the money: "Another old man going to fool with
mines until he gets broke." And that it seems piqued A. J. Davis,
touched his vanity a little, and then he said: "That mine shall be
developed whether I live or die. I am satisfied that it is a good mine,
and I am going to make a will and I am going to provide in that will for
the mine being developed." And thereupon he talked with Mr. Knight. And
finally Knight drew up a draft of a will, according to his testimony,
providing for the working of that mine. And what did he say when he
got through with it? "Now as to the balance of the property, let it be
divided according to law. That makes a good will." That is what he said.
Then Mr. Knight said to him: "If you make the will that way it may be
that the heirs will come in and enjoin the working of the mine on the
ground that it is a waste of money. You had better make a full will and
dispose of all your property as you may desire, and fix the amount to be
used in the devolopment of that mine."

Now, this is either true or false. It is true if Mr. Knight can be
believed; and he can be believed if any gentleman can be trusted.

What more? Knight says that A. J. Davis made the memoranda from which to
draw that will, had his manager come, and in that will it told how the
shafts should be run, how much work should be done, and charged his
trustees to do development work up to a certain amount.

Is that all born of the fancy of this gentleman? And can you believe
that a man like Mr. Knight, who has run the largest bank in Montana for
twenty-five years—can you believe that such a man, who is not in any
necessity, who is not in need of money, comes here and swears to what he
knows to be a lie, and makes this all out of his own head, carves it out
of his imagination?

The second will was made, the second will was signed, the second will
was attested, the second will was given Mr. Knight to keep. They say it
was not signed, and yet Mr. Knight swears he told one man about it. He
told Mr. Kleinschmidt, so that if anything happened to him, Knight, he
would know that Knight had in that vault the will of Andrew J. Davis. Do
you think he would have done that if the will had not been signed, if it
were worth only waste paper? And yet they are driven to that absurdity
for the purpose of attacking the evidence of this man. It will not do.

Judge Knowles said that in a conversation at Garrison, he said that in
the will the mine was left to Erwin Davis, and the reason given for it
was that Erwin Davis was a business man. Now, the only way that can be
explained, is one of two ways. One is that Judge Knowles has gotten two
matters mixed; the other is that he is absolutely mistaken.

Judge Knowles, the President of the First National Bank of Butte—Judge
Knowles, who has been the attorney of Andrew J. Davis, Jr.—Judge
Knowles had this conversation, or some conversation, with Knight; and
why would Knight have taken pains to tell him a deliberate falsehood?

There is something more. After all this occurred, Andrew J. Davis, Jr.
went to Mr. Knight and asked him to write out what he remembered about
that will, and Knight dictated it on the spot and sent it to him.

Where is that letter? Here it is. I want to read that letter to this
jury. That was a letter written long ago. A letter written before this
will was filed in this court. A letter written before Mr. Knight knew
that A. J. Davis, Jr. had any will. A letter written before Knight
imagined there could ever be a lawsuit on the subject. Andrew J. Davis
Jr. went to him and asked him to write out what he knew about that will,
and he turned, according to his own testimony, and dictated it, and sent
it to him, like a frank, candid, honest man; and before I get through
I will read that letter, and when it is read I want you to see how
it harmonizes absolutely and perfectly with his testimony here on the
stand.

I will draw another distinction. Mr. Knight gave two depositions in this
case. These depositions have not been suppressed like the deposition
taken of Sconce. Not suppressed. Why? Because we are willing that the
jury should read the two depositions and hear his testimony besides, and
there is not the slightest contradiction in the depositions themselves,
or between the depositions or either one of them and his evidence
that he gave here—except two that they claim; and think what immense
contradictions they are.

In one deposition he says that A. J. Davis left some bequests to some
aunts. Mr. Knight swears on the stand that he never said aunts, he said
sisters, but if he did say aunts he meant sisters, because he
never heard of his having any aunts, and yet that is held up as a
contradiction, and to such an extent that you are to throw away the
testimony of this man.

Now, here is the letter. This will was filed July 24, 1890, and when he
wrote this letter he did not know that A. J. Davis Jr. knew of a will,
or that John A. Davis knew of a will. And this is what he writes:

Helena, Montana, July 22, 1890.

I beg to say that some time in 1877 or 1878, I made a draft of a will
for your uncle Andrew J. Davis, which he duly executed, and left the
same on file with me, as a special deposit for two or three years, when
the same was canceled and destroyed; when I was led to believe and to
conclude that he had made and executed a will to supersede and take the
place of that.

That explains Talbot's testimony. Instead of saying to Talbot that A. J.
Davis came there, as he thought, to execute the will, and destroyed that
will, it not being signed, what he said was that he destroyed the will,
but from the way he acted he thought he was going to make another, that
he was going to execute a will; and this is exactly what Mr. Talbot
said. To execute a will, and it took a re-direct examination to swap the
"a" for "the."

I cannot satisfactorily recall the considerations and provisions of said
will drawn by me, but the main burden and desire was that the work on
the mine known as the Lexington, should be continued to a certain amount
of development, and that the mill should be carried on under a certain
management, and after providing for the payment of his just debts, he
made certain bequests naming certain nephews and nieces, running from
ten thousand to fifteen thousand dollars each, and you are especially
named for the sum of twenty-five thousand dollars, and if the estate
exceeded in value the net sum of five hundred thousand dollars, then
those bequests were to be increased; and if in excess of one million
dollars, the further increase was named and specified.

That is the letter he wrote before he ever knew there would be this
suit; before he knew of the existence of this will.

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 Caesar. 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.
