Not long ago a celebrated case of murder was moved for trial after the defendant’s lawyer had urged him in vain to offer a plea of murder in the second degree.  A jury was summoned and, as is the usual custom in such cases, examined separately on the “voir dire” as to their fitness to serve.  The defendant was a German, and the prosecutor succeeded in keeping all Germans off the jury until the eleventh seat was to be filled, when he found his peremptory challenges exhausted.  Then the lawyer for the prisoner managed to slip in a stout old Teuton, who replied, in answer to a question as to his place of nativity, “Schleswig-Holstein.”  The lawyer made a note of it, and, the box filled, the trial proceeded with unwonted expedition.

The defendant was charged with having murdered a woman with whom he had been intimate, and his guilt of murder in the first degree was demonstrated upon the evidence beyond peradventure.  At the conclusion of the case, the defendant not having dared to take the stand, the lawyer arose to address the jury in behalf of what appeared a hopeless cause.  Even the old German in the back row seemed plunged in soporific inattention.  After a few introductory remarks the lawyer raised his voice and in heart-rending tones began: 

“In the beautiful county of Schleswig-Holstein sits a woman old and gray, waiting the message of your verdict from beyond the seas.” (Number 11 opened his eyes and looked at the lawyer as if not quite sure of what he had heard.) “There she sits” (continued the attorney), “in Schleswig-Holstein, by her cottage window, waiting, waiting to learn whether her boy is to be returned to her outstretched arms.” (Number 11 sat up and rubbed his forehead.) “Had the woman, who so unhappily met her death at the hands of my unfortunate client, been like those women of Schleswig-Holstein—­noble, sweet, pure, lovely women of Schleswig-Holstein—­I should have naught to say to you in his behalf.” (Number 11 leaned forward and gazed searchingly into the lawyer’s face.) “But alas, no!  Schleswig-Holstein produces a virtue, a loveliness, a nobility of its own.” (Number 11 sat up and proudly expanded his chest.)

When, after about an hour or more of Schleswig-Holstein the defendant’s counsel surrendered the floor to the district attorney, the latter found it quite impossible to secure the slightest attention from the eleventh juror, who seemed to be spending his time in casting compassionate glances in the direction of the prisoner.  In due course the jury retired, but had no sooner reached their room and closed the door than the old Teuton cried, “Dot man iss not guilty!” The other eleven wrestled with him in vain.  He remained impervious to argument for seventeen hours, declining to discuss the evidence, and muttering at intervals, “Dot man iss not guilty!” The other eleven stood unanimously for murder in the first degree, which was the only logical verdict that could possibly have been returned upon the evidence.